Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Thessia
Her breaths are steady. The Fallen One thrashes in the bed, and many times I’ve had to calm her. She settles when I cup her cheek, singing the song of the Fallen. Her jaw unclenches. She cries the same words again and again: mutah and ookie.
I want to know what they mean. I wish I could do more than hum lullabies.
It’s been a week, I’ve kept her clean, hydrated.
I adjust her pillows, shift her head. Wrap her freshly clean locs with a silk covering to protect her hair.
Hours it had taken me to rinse the mud from the coils; it took me even longer to dry them, so she won’t catch a head cold.
She is so beautiful, and my heart aches for her to see her well.
There’s a loose loc I missed, dangling behind on her shoulder.
I reach for it. The Fallen’s hand shoots up, capturing mine in an unwavering grip. I tense, suck in breaths.
Her eyes stay closed. She gently places my hand on her cheek. Her body eases. She is calm again. And I continue to rest my palm there.
I’ve never visited the temple this often.
But since the burning, I can’t stay away.
The village feels like an open grave. I’m six feet deep, looking up to azure skies while earth rains down on me.
Dirt fills my mouth, mud clogs my throat, and I scream for air.
For help. I’m still alive. But I’m dying, slowly inside. Soundlessly.
Each day, my lies multiply. I find new ways to disappear for longer periods of time. I must pray with this family or with that wayward child. No one bats an eye because I’ve never given them a reason before. The Obedient Daughter.
Heat burns within my chest, and it’s desperate to escape. But I’m too afraid to let it out. I know if I do, it'll scorch everything in its wake. My soul aches to be free of constraints. I rip off my veil, throw it to the floor, remove my right hand from her cheek; her eyebrows crease.
“It’s okay, love. I’m here,” I say, never wanting to leave her side.
I study the murals on the walls. Women dancing in wild abandon around fire.
Flames stretch skyward, licking the moon.
Some dance in thin gowns, reds, golds, indigos.
Their hair is unbound, of every texture and length.
Some women are braless, and others completely naked.
Yet, none of them is ashamed. I stroke my black tunic, and wonder how it feels to choose what to wear and not be damned for it.
My legs bounce, causing the chair to creak. They’ve become restless, so has my mind. I try to think of righteous things. Turn my eyes toward the heavens, and to our Savior, but I hate seeing a man there. Always telling me what I can and cannot desire, and who I can and cannot be.
I am only a woman, they say, and women can not be Gods.
I slump in my chair. The candle is almost out.
I make a mental note to bring more next time.
On the dresser sits a bone-curved dagger and three cowry necklaces.
One rainbow, one egg white, and the third is golden brown.
She—I ran my eyes over the Fallen’s full lips—wore the golden brown necklace.
I lightly touch it and wonder, how many days does it take to create such an art piece?
The Daughters of the Covenant are forbidden to wear jewelry.
To be vain is to be sinful. That’s why none of our rooms had mirrors.
Neither did the bathrooms. And whenever I did steal a reflection of myself, it was in muddy puddles, or a stolen glance in someone’s home, and always behind a veil.
“Ookie!” the Fallen mutters.
She is thrashing again, ripping away the linen.
Her hands claw at her belly until I pin her arms down.
That first day I returned to the temple, I was scared she was a figment of my imagination.
A confirmation I was going completely mad.
That God, in His fury, knew the true intentions of my heart, and even though I hadn’t deserted, He was punishing me by making me see a woman who never existed, just like he made me see a woman growing golden wings, flying out of fire, and into the heavens, or watching sacred marks glow gold.
I had started to believe that God loves our pain more than He loves our devotion. Why else would He make us suffer?
But when I found her, the Fallen One, face down on the stone instead of on the bed, I was relieved. She isn’t a dream. Not an illusion. She is here. Flesh beneath my palms.
“Mutah!” The Fallen cries out.
I focus my attention on her. Make sure her nails aren’t ripping at her skin.
She is stronger now than she was a week ago.
I lay my body across hers, careful of her wound.
Cup her face, allow the heat of my body to warm the coldness of hers, and sing the words that have been rattling in my head for days.
“Yu hohm ey. Ay ce’ yu, Reh’em ma’ voy. Kuhm t’ ey. Kuhm t’ ey.”
Her body stills.
“That’s right, you’re going to be okay,” I say, humming the tune.
I tighten my grip to give her pressure, but not to harm.
“Ookie?” she says in a tone that is different from her cries. The symbols on her skin shimmer to life. I freeze, mesmerized as the shapes swirl and shift, hypnotizing me. When I lift myself up from her side, brown eyes meet mine.
My heart skips.
Steely set brows and baring teeth, she shoves me off the bed and onto the floor. She is quick. I shrink into myself as she stands over me. Muscled thighs, a sculpted core, and sacred marks glowing. She is a Goddess.
Panic climbs. “So-rr-y,” I attempt to speak.
“Yu, da kohm fro’?” she demands, searching me.
Does she not remember? If she doesn’t remember our touch—our kiss …
My eyes drift to the bone dagger on the dresser.
She follows my gaze. Turns back to me and slowly shakes her head.
My heart hammers. I scramble to my feet, my shoes catch on the hem of my tunic.
I crash to my knees, stone biting skin. She seizes my ankle, drags me toward her, then flips me onto my back.
“Please, don’t hurt me!” I beg. “Please. I swear. I tried to help you. I promise. I’m so sorry.” I recoil and show her I mean no harm. I willingly submit. I throw my arms over my face, squeezing my eyes shut. She takes my wrist, shoves back my sleeve.
“Yu, da kohm fro’?” she repeats.
I shake my head. Her tongue sounds like the Fallen when they descend to their late stage of madness. When the Savior says they are too far gone, too wicked to be saved.
“Da kohm fro’!” she screams.
“I–I–, I don’t know. I–” My tongue tangles. Words stumble. I try to explain, to say I tended to her for a week, but nothing makes sense.
She straddles my hips, pinning me. I press flat against the floor, relenting. Her fingers weave into my hair, soft at first. She brings it to her nose. Breathes me in. Then fumbles with my tunic as if searching for something. She tugs at the fabric, scoffs, tosses it aside like filth.
“Sister?” she says, my language. “Moon?”
I want to stretch out, calm her by cupping her cheek, but I keep my hand clutched to my chest. The Fallen gaze darts around the room, eyes widening.
“Dragon,” she gasps, shaking her head in confusion, shock, anger? I don’t know. I can’t tell. She strides to the dresser in two steps and grabs the dagger.
My scream catches in my throat.
She whips around, one, two, she’s on me, lifting me to my feet. Throwing me against a wall. My cheek presses against the cool stone.
“What are you doing? Let me go, please.”
She pushes my hair aside.
“I promise. I’ll leave this place. I’ll never come back.
I promise I won’t tell anyone about you.
You can continue to live in the forest with the other Fallen,” I say.
How many others are out there? Women undocumented?
Maybe she belongs to a group? The Savior believes these witches are insane and live alone.
No community, somewhere deep in the woods, past the t’ku’nuks, beyond the kykyos territory, deep, deep in the barren mountainous terrain called dragon bones.
My mind snaps to the present when I hear my tunic rip.
“Oh, God!” I pray. I push off the wall, but she pins me. I regret not wearing my sacred garments. They’re made to protect me, keep me from harm. If I wore them, would this be happening to me right now?
More threads rip, cool air caresses my exposed skin.
The Fallen gasps. Says a word I don’t understand.
“I’m sorry if I caused you harm.” I squeak. “Please, don’t hurt me.” I plead.
“Never,” her voice is the right amount of gruffness that tickles my inner ears, and sends my brain into sinful thoughts. Curse my damn body.
I suck in air. The dagger’s blade traces down my spine, over my sacred marks that line from the base of my neck to the end of my spine. Slow, painstaking drags of a weapon that could cut open my skin incites excitement instead of fear. My thighs tighten. I lean into the blade.
I want to see what she would do with that dagger.
I find out when she brings it to my neck, slides it to the base of my throat. I swallow. The apple of my cheek is pressed hard against the surface of the temple wall.
She kisses my shoulders.
Want.
Need.
“Heart song,” she repeats over and over again between light pecks on my skin.
This quickens my pulse. The Fallen’s soft lips press against the creases of my neck.
I shudder, whimpering for more like the pathetic whore.
This is unnatural. Evil. She’s touching me in places I shouldn’t be touched, shouldn’t want to be touched.
And yet, her body aligns against mine. I lay my head back until my cheek rests against her cheek.
Her lips are so close. I can almost taste the salt. The smell is not forest, but sea.
The Fallen One sings a familiar tune. One I know by heart. “Yu hohm ey. Ay ce’ yu, Reh’em ma’ voy. Kuhm t’ ey. Kuhm t’ ey.”
We sway to music curated from our own bones. She removes the dagger and throws it to the floor. Her hands grip my waist.
She sings louder. “Yu hohm ey. Ay ce’ yu, Reh’em ma’ voy. Kuhm t’ ey. Kuhm t’ ey.”
My skin heats. I’m boiling from within. I no longer want this tunic on me.
The fabric is suffocating. The Fallen One must have sensed this in me.
She tugs off my dress, throws it across the room.
Her hands are cool, and I ease into hands that are exploring my breasts, my stomach, my thighs.
My first time being fully naked in the temple.
This feels right. This feels sacred. Like true worship.
Her deep alto stirs lust from my belly. I can no longer hold it in.
I sing. The words burst from my mouth, and the universe opens up.
I’m flying, soaring through the cosmos, past planets and universes, heading to someone who needs me, every piece of me.
Someone who’ll let me burn and embrace my flames.
“Kuhm t’ ey. Kuhm t’ ey.”
She sucks my words down, lapping them up with her tongue.
“Touch me, touch me, please, don’t stop touching me,” I cry when her lips separate from mine.
And she does, touching me in places I have only touched myself.
Is God watching? The Goddess?
Yes, the Goddess. She’s watching. High above, past the ceiling, the stars, the filament.
Are you proud of me? I glance skyward as the woman’s fingers separate my folds.
She grunts into my ear. That excites me more.
Knowing that I’m causing her this much satisfaction.
My body, my breasts, my starving cunt, squeezing her fingers.
I can see the Goddess's pride swelling. She wants me to dance for her. I hear her singing. Calling my name. “Thessia.”
The Fallen flips me to face her. Both our marks are glowing. She really is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. She slides fingers inside me, filling me up, my thighs quiver.
“Sing,” she says, maintaining eye contact.
I close my eyes, she takes her free hand, wraps it around my throat, squeezes until I open my eyes and meet hers.
“Sing, for me,” she commands. Her fingers go deeper inside of me, more than I ever did for myself.
And I sing.
I sing like the Mo’kures, like no one is listening, like a burst of lava exploding from dragon’s peak. Like the Goddess is spilling secrets upon my skin.