Chapter 8 #2
But then, I discovered the hidden temple.
I learned there was more than heavy robes, cobwebbed sanctuary halls, and stuffy old worship rooms. There has to be more to life than this.
I don’t care how sinful my thoughts are.
I want to decide myself, not have God, the Savior, men, or even Sacred Mother make decisions for me.
Even so, I think, all those years ago, if Penelope would have kissed me in the baths, taken me into the waters, had her way with me, would things be different?
Would we have become the Fallen?
“Penelope,” I whisper, wanting to apologize, but instead another question rises. “Do you ever wonder about the Fallen Ones, and if they’re truly bad?”
She stops. Her shoulders lift higher. “No.” She doesn’t glance behind. “They’re witches who allowed evil to corrupt their covenant.”
“But what if they aren’t? What if they only wanted a life outside these walls?”
Penelope whirls, her hazel eyes piercing mine through my veil. “You’re a Daughter of the Sacred Covenant, Thessia. These thoughts are poisonous and wicked. To even think such pervertedness is to sin against God. Must I remind you of the commandments?”
I press my lips hard together. “I know the commandments. Where does it prohibit asking questions?”
Her answer is swift. “Second commandment. Be obedient for thy God is all-knowing. He knows what’s best.”
“I just want to know more. Do you ever stop to think that maybe, there’s more knowledge than the bible?”
Hands strike fast, clamping over my mouth, the sting biting my lips.
She leans close, voice low, teeth gritted.
“A Daughter doesn’t question. She obeys.
She trusts those who know better for her good.
Repent, Thessia. Repent, and never let these words leave your tongue again. ” Her palm lifts from my lips.
I’ve overstepped, pushed past her limit. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
She tilts her head, studying me.
“I–” I scramble for the words. “I think with the battle, and me spending the entire night in prayer with a terrified family,” I lie.
“It made me think of our lost Daughters. How many we might still have, if only they’d stayed.
I mean, just recently we’ve lost three. Their families mourn them because we don’t know where they are.
I think, maybe if I believe hard enough, the war would end, the sea creatures slain, and maybe we won’t have to be in service.
We can just…” I huff, shake my head. “You’re right, Penelope. I know God knows best.”
“Daughters.” A deep voice cut through our conversation. Xexes, followed by Kwell, rounds the corner.
Penelope and I bow our heads.
“Headed to watch the burning?” Kwell asks.
My head jerks up. “A burning, today? When did that happen?”
Kwell’s eyes soften at my confusion. “Late last night, one of our comrades captured a Fallen.”
My heart drops. Which one isn’t? Which Daughter? Or did they find the woman at the temple? Did she wander through the forest deliriously? I should have gone to her this morning. I never should have waited.
“And they’re burning so early?” Penelope says, “Usually they wait until night.”
Xexes glances at Kwell, then back to us. “The Savior thinks it’s best to remind the people what we’re fighting for.”
“We’ve had burnings almost every other day this month. Must there be another?” I say louder than I should.
Xexes’ brows arch, his jaw tightens.
Penelope nods, her elbow hits the back of my arm. “We know the Savior knows best. A good burn will restore our commitment.” Her head slightly tilts my way. “We should get going then. Our prayers will be needed.”
I grimace. No matter how faithful I am, I’ll never grow used to burnings.
Kwell lowers his eyes, for a brief moment, sadness flickers across his face, until he straightens, adjusts his rifle shoulder strap, and says, “We can escort you, if you wish.”
“That would be lovely,” Penelope replies, stepping aside so the men could lead.
I follow.
Penelope clears her throat. “You might want to drop off your pack,” she says, voice cool, but with an undercurrent of warning.
I grip the satchel. “Yes, you’re right, Daughter. Thank you.”
The Fallen—
witches.
Daughters who had broken
their covenant,
and abandoned
the sacred order.
Outside in the square, the sun beats down on the back of my neck, causing me to turn to face the heavens. In the distance, high upon the mountain ridge, a dragon-shaped rock rests, its maw open to the sun, drinking its rays.
I marvel at the sight. Sunrays poke holes through the clouds and spill to the town below, where the people gather in clusters, awaiting the burning. The square is silent. It is always silent. Never heard a child’s laughter, never a baby’s cry.
Silence is safety.
There were fewer townfolks than usual. Those who came seem restless.
I sweep my gaze across the crowd and catch a family with strawberry-red hair, the same texture as mine, and deep brown skin.
My mother. My father. My two brothers. Many of the Daughters know who their parents are.
Some choose not to know. Because knowing breeds possibilities.
Distractions. What-ifs. And Daughters do not doubt.
My mother whispers into my father’s ear. His deep brown eyes swivel to me. I bow my head at once, stare down at my shoes. Pretend I do not see that I’m her image, only with my father’s wide, round eyes.
A bile of questions rises, thick in my throat, hard to swallow.
Why didn’t she flee to the woods, hide me among the great beasts, away from this village and those who came to take me?
Why was I born with the sacred marks? What would it have been like to be held by the woman who bore me?
What would my father have taught me? Would my little brothers love me?
Do they love me now? Do they even know me?
They look about twelve and ten. I told myself I would not learn their names.
But I remember. Y’lalen and Be’folo.
Sacred Mother once shouted at my mother, demanding she change the boys’ names. Said the names were heathen names. Evil names. That the boys needed good, God-fearing names. Soldier names.
My mother refused.
Why did she not refuse when it came to me?
I know why. I’ve seen it over and over. The mothers who refuse to give up their daughters to the covenant, to the Savior, to God, burn.
The Daughters stand in a semicircle around the pyre. I count twenty-one. We are all here veiled in black, hands clasped, tongues muttering prayers. I follow suit, but my tongue prays only that the Fallen One is not the woman hidden in the temple.
Our Savior, along with his disciples, his chosen soldiers that never leave his side, cuts through the crowd.
The Savior’s hair is shorn close, his red and black uniform pressed crisp and clean.
The colors enhance his sun-tanned skin. His brows knit together into Vs.
At his hip, a sword rests in its sheath.
His hawk eyes scan the crowd, lips pressed thin until Sacred Mother glides forward.
She bows low, her red gown pooling at his boots.
For a moment, I think she kisses his boots, but before her head could go any lower, she slowly rises.
The Savior’s eyes never left her. He rewards Sacred Mother with a faint grin.
His chin points, hand tightens his belt, and nods, pleased with Sacred Mother’s display of deep, righteous respect and honor.
Now that he is satisfied, she steps aside, taking her place at his right.
More boots beat dirt. A guttural scream tears through the silence. Growls, howls, and a woman speaking in the Fallen One’s mad tongue. It sounds like clicks and piercing syllables.
Sacred Mother once said their madness comes because God has cursed them for turning away from their duty.
If a Daughter ignores God, He ignores her, and sanity is snatched from her mind as punishment.
But once, I overheard the doctor tell a soldier that all women go mad; some just hide it better.
The men laughed and said it was the hysteria that made them good ruts.
A soldier drags a woman into the circle.
Her hair is blonde, but caked with dirt.
She wears a coat of furs and feathers, she’s barefoot, and I can barely make out her sacred marks lining her legs and arms. The soldiers drop her at the Savior’s feet.
She stands with lightning speed and spits into his face.
The Savior did not flinch. He grips her chin, hard.
Thumb pressing deep into her cheek, snarling.
He holds her that way for what feels like hours before seizing her throat and throwing her to the ground.
“I have seen it,” she says in jumbled words. She hasn’t gone completely mad.
“Your death.” She growls at the Savior. “I’ve seen your head being sliced right off your shoulders,” she screams.
Two of the Savior’s disciples rush in, slap her around, kick her while she’s on the ground.
I turn away, hating them for using this much force.
Hating that no one, not even myself, will do anything, say anything.
I hate the way, when I glance at Sacred Mother, through her glittering golden mesh mask, she smiles with pride at the Savior.
These are God’s Daughters. How can anyone smile during their mistreatment?
The Savior turns, addressing the crowd as the woman is tossed like a toy between the disciples until she lies bloody in dirt.
“This is why we fight!” he points to the woman.
The more I examine her, the more she looks to be fifty-five, plus.
“Two hundred and ten years, we have fought on your behalf. To keep you safe from what lurks beyond the walls. And all that God asks in return is love and obedience. Put Him first, and He will shelter us beneath His wings.”