Chapter 2
two
. . .
Thessia
Men are Gods, and Gods are made to be worshipped.
Men have always been Gods, our fathers, our brothers, our protectors, our rulers. And I, a Daughter of the Sacred Covenant, have been made to honor and submit to their will. These lessons have been drilled into my core since I was delivered to Sacred Mother when I was no older than three days old.
I exist as God commands and as men allow. This I know.
I kneel in the sanctuary’s white chamber, and eternal blue flames line the wall.
The ever-blazing light burns the edges of my vision, even through my veil.
The light scatters across ivory floors highlighting the feet of God's statue, its granite face carved in the image of the first man, the great dragon slayer. The one who had slain Z’ouchee Minoo two hundred years ago and, from the beast’s belly, formed Dragon Island.
The stone beneath me is merciless, but its coldness grants a fleeting relief to my knees.
I bow forward, pressing a kiss against granite toes polished with a thousand kisses from the Daughters of the Sacred Covenant.
Around me, other Daughters kneel in rows of seven across and three back.
There are twenty-one of us now. Three more Daughters have vanished, and I assume they have joined the Fallen Ones.
Wild women, I have heard Sacred Mother call them witches who must be burned.
The whispering prayers of the Daughters weave into one soft hum. Beyond the safety of the sanctuary, another battle rages at the shore. Faint tremors ripple through the floor. This has been the longest battle yet, and I wonder how many soldiers will make it home.
“Oh God,” I pray, “we thank you for the strength you have given us. We thank you for the bounty of this land, carved by your hands. We are but your humble daughters. We wait for your guidance. May your will be done.”
The tiles shudder, the walls shift, the torchlight trembles, causing the eternal flames to dim in bursts.
Bombs blast in the distance, and the Daughters’ whispers rise to high whines.
At the head of the sanctuary, a few feet behind the statue, sat Sacred Mother, seated towards the base of the throne made for our Savior, the descendant of the dragon slayer.
Her red robes spill down twelve steps like a waterfall of blood.
She is covered head to toe, like all the Daughters, but instead of the black veil I wear, she hides behind a glittering golden mesh mask.
When it catches the light, the mask fractures into a thousand tiny gleaming spider eyes.
I never know when, what, or who she’s looking at. But I know she’s always watching.
I gather up the hems of my meager tunic into my gloved hands.
The next Daughter quickly takes my place at our God’s feet for worship.
By bedtime, each Daughter will have kissed his feet in supplication.
My fingers itch within my gloves, and I want to finally take them off and let my skin breathe, but Sacred Mother holds us captive in the worship room.
I’m suffocating.
The walls seem to have been closing in at every hour for the past twelve hours. We haven’t eaten or drunk. My tongue is dry from praying to God, asking him to have mercy on us, his people, on an island that refuses to give nourishment.
The Savior said, God wants us to finally defeat the creatures in the sea, paint our lands with their blood, and use their flesh for fertilizer. And God will restore his people and the land back to one of plenty.
I don’t believe it.
In my bones, I know the island is dying.
I hear it sing to me when I’m in my cell.
Through concrete walls, my ears pressed up against my door.
The earth calls to me, and I try not to answer.
I want to be obedient. I want to have faith in the Savior, but the trees, the bushes, the lakes that run dry, the bite of the wind, all tell me the end is coming.
I can’t bring concern to Sacred Mother or the Savior.
The last Daughter who did was burned on the pyre.
It’s my lack of faith. I must believe harder.
Live God’s commands, and He will bless me with what my heart desires.
I glance at Penelope, fourth row down on the right, and I curse my lustful heart.
This is why we veil ourselves, why we hide our faces, so no man or woman may look upon us with desire.
Yet, even through her shroud, I see hazel eyes fixed on me, and my heart flutters.
I walk slowly toward my seat, stationed near the entrance of the sanctuary. I want to gaze upon her a little longer before I pass—before all I have left to see is the back of her veil.
If she were God, I would be elated to kiss her feet.
I wonder, if I had been born without the sacred marks on my skin, God’s stamp that names us His chosen, what type of life would I have known? A husband. A child. Fields tilled side by side.
His wife.
I pause on that thought. His wife.
I shudder, taste turning sour on my tongue.
It’s already enough that I am God’s Daughter.
My body belongs to Him, and He tells me how it should — or should not — be used.
I squeeze the rope cinched at my waist, the knot biting into my palm, a reminder to remain chaste.
My thoughts mustn’t stray to a life never meant for me, nor to the curve of Penelope’s lips.
A second boom thunders, this one louder than the last. The entire sanctuary rocks, knocking me off my feet.
I fall on top of Penelope’s lap. Her arms clamp around me, pulling me tight.
Her breath blows across my neck. Her teeth could sink into my sinful flesh, and I would let her.
My heart skips. To be this close is against the commandments.
We are meant to keep distance, to remain virtuous women.
Her fingers brush against the rope around my waist, and I heat. Sweat beads my forehead. A throbbing ache coils between my legs.
Get up, get up, get up! Whore!
Whore.
My whoring heart. And yet, yes, touch me.
I ache for release. And there’s one place I can go where watchful eyes can’t find me.
More debris rains from the high ceiling, causing the eternal flames, lining the walls, to flicker.
For a second, I think one of the blazing fires will be snuffed out.
However, the dust settles, and the Daughters’ prayers go silent.
Coughs. Sneezes. Coughs. The air grows taut, strung so tight that one sound might snap it in two.
Daughters fidget on their knees, some twisting ropes at their waist, others tugging their veils lower.
But I’m not afraid. Even with battle at our walls, I feel calm. Grateful, even.
This means once we leave the worship room, Sacred Mother will not visit our cells.
No soldiers will stand guard outside the sanctuary.
It means I’ll finally be able to slip away and release the tension burning inside me these past three months.
If I must wait even one day longer, I will go mad like the Fallen Ones.
And no one wants that.
Sacred Mother rises. She descends the steps, and I marvel at how her tunic pools around her feet. She never stops, never stumbles. She glides, never peering down once. She halts beside the statue. The sanctuary steadies, not because the battle has ended, but because Sacred Mother wills it so.
Here, within these walls, when the Savior is not present to guide us, we bend our ears to Sacred Mother.
“Daughters,” she says, sweeping her gaze over the room, and landing on me in the lap of Penelope.
“Sorry.” I quickly beg for forgiveness. I wrench myself free from Penelope and bow to the floor. The rest of the Daughters follow in obedient unison.
“In these dark times, our God is testing us,” she says, once foreheads meet ivory floors.
“Yes, Mother,” we chorus.
“But do not fear, for God has spoken to me. He has already delivered us.”
“Yes, Mother.” I breathe in sawdust.
“Have faith. Believe. Our island, our home, will be restored in our lifetime. Let your devotion be unwavering. Your obedience, sacred. And your virtue, continually pure. You are the Daughters of the Covenant. God’s beloved. He will not forsake us.”
“Yes, Mother.”
My forehead taps the cold floor, waiting for her signal to rise. Though I can’t see her, the weight of her gaze is bricks piled upon my back. Her voice lingers in my ears long after her speech is complete.
I know what’s coming. I calm myself. Waiting. My lips crack from thirst. My thighs tingle. My big toe itches to escape the confines of my shoes.
“Which one of my daughters will be brave and take God’s message to the people? To remind them not to fear, we will be delivered.”
There, that’s it. The excuse I’ve prayed for. I bit my tongue to keep from sounding too eager. I didn’t hear anyone else volunteer. Good.
“I will, Mother.” My legs tremble with excitement that I attempt to press down, but fail. “I will carry the word to the people.”
“Rise, Daughter.”
I obey, keeping my eyes lowered to the hem of her crimson robes.
Stay humble. Stay meek. Stay dutiful.
“Our God and Savior, thank you. Go. Carry His word.”
I’m happy my veil covers my face. She can’t see how joy pumps blood into my cheeks.
How I have to push excitement out of my bones, so I won’t skip out of this stuffy old worship room.
I bow. Rise, bow meagerly again to show my appreciation, then turn.
I glance at Penelope, whose face is kissing the floor.
And I wish I could share my secret with her.
So, we can be together, but I know it will never happen.
I’ve always loved her from afar. And that is how it will always be.
The Daughters part for me. Some dare to peek up through the veil, their eyes shining with admiration.
They think me brave to leave the comfort of the sanctuary to go door to door to deliver the word to the people.
If only they knew. If only they could feel what I feel.
I’m not brave. No missionary. I’m the most traitorous of them all, my faith on the brink of collapse.
Outside, the night air ruffles through my robes, pinching me like ice-cold water.
The island is quiet; its people are held up in their homes until the battle is over.
I begin the ritual path, knocking at doors where torchlight glows, reciting the message, repeating Sacred Mother’s words.
But as the road winds away from the sanctuary, away from the town square and watchful eyes, I slip down an overgrown path, onto the beaten trail that leads to the hidden temple.