by Erin Lorence
Positioned at my back, Gilead wouldn’t smile, but he’d hum. Like a cat purring, Gilead hummed when content. And not only because he loved me and was glad I was home—but because he’d be satisfied he’d done his part well. All that time spent drilling me on surviving in anti-Christian territory had paid off since I lived.
Well done, Gilead.
My mom would hover with her arms extended. Would her clear hazels be red rimmed? Those tears would be allowed, unlike the sad tears that weren’t permitted at my departure—the ones that never happened.
After watching me a while, and touching me a thousand times to make sure I was really home, she’d slip out with my aunt. Together they’d prepare my most favorite meal in the universe: crow pie and honey roasted squash.
I gulped putrid air. My mom never had any problem catching crows. Or pigeons or doves. Even in the winter months they flocked to her as soon as she pursed her lips. A bird whisperer.
Then everyone, even my littlest cousins, would have to hush up for the next few hours. Because then I’d belong to my grandma.
She’d demand I regurgitate every detail of my journey for her, guided along by her abrupt, prompting questions. Some would pertain to the spiritual aspect—did I depend on the Lord for this and that? But a fair amount would be directed at filling her in on the world she missed and secretly mourned. I’d figured that out about her.
Drowsily, I shifted down on my cardboard. Would I tell her about the little girl in pink—her pinecone attack? And her weird sticky bandages?
Or about her brother? Would I say anything about his quick laughter? Or how he thought nothing of tackling someone, lying his head off, and whistling at his world’s sin?
Funny. I didn’t shrink from thinking about these two godless ones. The nightmarish feelings didn’t crop up the way I’d have expected. There was no mental trauma in remembering.
But I wouldn’t tell Gran about them.
15
I awoke to the excited clamor of magpies and crows—the same screeches and caws that had started my every morning since forever. But then I breathed through my nose. I wasn’t home.
Sunlight filtered through cracks, illuminating Melody, slouched, upright, and unconscious against a broken bag.
I yawned, gagged, and touched the taut tape cord still wrapping the chair leg. I picked at the knot until it fell away, then reached up and pushed the lid. A bright shaft of light fell across Melody’s dark brow.
“What’s out there, Dove? What do you see?”
I squinted through the two-inch crack I’d created and let my eyes adjust to the brilliant morning. Evaporating puddles dotted dry concrete covered in white paint lines marching in parallels. Dense pine forest ran the perimeter of the flat clearing. The highest piece of land was the wall of exposed mud we’d slid down last night.
At the opposite end of the space were the two dark structures I’d noticed last night, although now in the morning light neither was dark.
The smaller one drew my attention first, for an obvious reason: it was supposed to. So shiny it reflected like a mini sun, burning my retinas.
A spherical, golden piece of...artwork?
I couldn’t see details from here, but it had layers. The smallest, inner-most layer sparkled and tossed out rainbows the way broken glass does.
I forced my gaze to the left of it, to the massive walls of white and tan stones interrupted by vertically slit windows. A sturdy, orangey-red arch marked the building’s entrance where masses of green vines scaled halfway up the sides.
“What is this place, Dove?”
I squinted at the scrolling, golden words. “The United Church of America. Spiritual Well Being Center.”
The last half I gleaned from a smallish upright rectangle in front of the ivy. My lips continued to twitch, but no sounds came out.
A church. Here. In front of me.
I’d read about churches and had heard my grandparents describe them from their own childhoods. But the only church experiences I knew were the two-family gatherings in our tree home when the Joyners visited us on Sundays for worship and scriptures, before Mrs. Joyner swelled too pregnant to make the zip line journey over. Mr. William Joyner still flew over when he could.
But before me loomed a real church—a building big enough for hundreds of Christians to gather in.
Yet, how could it be so public? So open? Wasn’t this anti-Christian territory?
Maybe this place was more hidden than I assumed. And only those led by God—like Melody and me—could find it.
But there couldn’t be that many believers stumbling around these woods. A smaller structure camouflaged with the trees, and without all this pavement, would be way smarter.
My eyes scanned the woods before sliding back to the church, snagging on the glittery orb thing.
“What’s your take on it, Melody? If it’s safe, I’m going to check if any believer inside will give us food. And directions.”
In our blind running last night, I had no idea where we’d ended up or which way to shoot. I saw no peak or horizon to help me. Only trees.
She shook her head, her nose scrunched. “I think it’s OK, but...I don’t know for sure. It’s impossible to get a good read on the place. Garbage overload’s messing me up. Sorry.”
I pulled myself over the warm metal side. “Keep the top cracked open to see if it helps. And in case I need to hide fast.”
Jogging around puddles, I glanced side to side. No one raced out to get me. The morning air was heavy with pine. I almost felt bad for Melody, knee deep in trash.
I moved in the wrong direction, not toward the church’s glass doors like I’d planned, but I approached the golden spherical orb as if overpowered by its magnetic pull.
I stopped a few feet short. Up close, I recognized the orb. A mammoth statue of the world. At least twice as tall as me, the globe rested inside a bunch of complicated outer layers.
Don’t stand in the open like this. Keep moving. Go!
I located the United States. In the world of bronzes, silvers, and coppers our country glittered green.
I couldn’t tear myself away from the translucent green glass, so intense in the sunlight. My fingers skimmed the bumpy, strangely cool surface.
“Emeralds!” I clapped my hand over my lips and scanned the still empty clearing.
I’d never seen any stone more valuable than lava rock. But when I was five or six, I’d watched my Grandma Sarah dig out a green glass bottle from the junk pile. Her eyes had gone all shiny. “Your great grandma’s wedding ring had a stone this color, Dove child.”
I’d stopped sniggering.
“This, but greener. And more beautiful than maple leaves in June. An ‘emerald,’ she called it. If you ever meet clear green prettier than maple leaves, Dove child, you’ll know it’s an emerald.”
My Grandma Sarah—my dad’s mom—didn’t live hidden in the trees when she was my age. Neither did my grandpa. So they knew a lot more about the world than the rest of us.
Back when they were kids, Satan hadn’t dominated our nation yet. Christ’s followers had been able to live—at odds, but for the most part OK—amongst nonbelievers.
That’s how I knew about things like emeralds. And strange electronic devices you talked into so others could hear you far away. Phones. A couple broken ones had come through the dump piles. My grandpa had even driven something called a “bug” when he was Gilead’s age, something I couldn’t picture.
Would my grandparents know what this golden globe meant? Why did it have so many clenched arms? Why were they entwined in a loose, braided layer around its middle like the fat center of an unfurling daisy flower?
I inched my way around, forgetting the garbage bin at the end of the clearing.
Each arm’s hand grasped another’s. A gesture that symbolized two things—strength and unity. At regular intervals, a free hand stretched out as if offering a gift from its open palm.
I saw fancy star offerings, flowers, and co
mplicated lines with squiggles that made no sense.
I leaned in closer and recognized one of these, taught to me long ago by my grandma so I wouldn’t be ignorant—the symbol for Hinduism.
So each symbol represented...
My mouth went dry while I circled the sphere faster. Searching. Searching for the one I had to find.
The cross.
My hands clasped while my eyes devoured not only the cross, but also a tiny replica of Jesus Christ balancing in that palm. The representation of the love of my life.
I reached out trembling fingers.
Except...
I let them drop and leaned in. Nose-to-nose.
Instead of a gaunt, sacrificial Christ wearing a crown of thorns, this one was more than well fed. Unblemished and jolly. My stomach lurched.
Jesus lounged with the too-small cross in front of him, his arms draped around the symbol of torture as if they were old friends. As if his life and death was some big happy hoo-ha.
I backed away, stumbling over a stone in my hurry. Unity in Diversity curved across its rectangular surface. I caught an impression of a slot, some buttons, some words about payment.
I bolted. My feet thudded on the smashed cardboard.
The hum of a vehicle’s approach caught my attention.
“Where? Who’s coming?” Melody released the lid over us with a bang.
The questions hung in the warm, putrid air around me. I wedged my shaking hands between my knees.
“But, Dove? It might not be someone wicked. Coming. I can’t get a good read in here. So maybe you don’t have to worry so bad?”
Who cared about a car? I didn’t, not now.
That lie, that blasphemous image of a Jesus, made it clear—this place was wrong. Evil.
But yet...there was a Jesus here. And this was a church, according to the sign.
I gripped my hair. Would the Spirit whisper anything in my ear?
But I gave up fast.
And this car?
Even if I had a flea’s chance that the occupant loved Christ and would help us, would I wimp out more than Melody-mouse and miss a possible blessing?
“Scoot over.” I kneeled, letting her grip my cold fingers.
A road must run, hidden, on the far side of the church because the squashed egg vehicle rested by last night’s working lantern. I squinted at the two women climbing out.
Christians?
None like any I’ve ever seen.
Their hair swung immodestly free in big swoops like curly willow leaves. And way too much arm and leg showed. The stick-heeled shoes weren’t only impossible to climb in, but loud. They’d never slip past an enemy.
Melody breathed protest when my hand spasmed into a fist.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
They reached the arch I’d failed to get to, and the one with fiery hair tugged the handle on the frosted glass.
“No way.” She yanked at the door again and then turned to her friend. The way the yellow-haired one threw her head back reminded me of Wolfe.
“I love it.” She dabbed her huge eye. “With all you claim to give, and they’re not even open. Talk about throwing your money away. And our time. Now what’re you trying?”
“C’mon. You grab a mat too.” The redhead reemerged from under the shadowed arch. “That’s what they’re here for.”
The blonde backed away with her hands up. “Gross. I can smell the wet dog stink from here. Caroline. I’m not touching—let alone kneeling on that thing.”
“It’s your daughter’s wedding. After that storm, I wouldn’t leave your weather to chance. Come pray.”
“Your prayers will be enough, I’m sure.”
“Fine.” The lady, Caroline, flopped her maroon mat down next to the Unity in Diversity rectangle at the globe. Gingerly she kneeled, and her hands came together, red-tipped nails skywards.
“You. Look. Ridiculous.”
The air in front of the kneeler wavered until it solidified into an opaque bald head. “Greetings. And welcome to the United Church of America Spiritual Well Being Center. Where unity is founded in diversity. And may you receive the peace you are searching for. Please listen to your options, make your selection, and follow the prompts for maximum fulfillment.”
The sun inched higher in the sky while the disembodied head droned on, guiding the kneeling woman through a bunch of brainless activities.
Breathing. Visualization. Chanting.
I felt as relieved as the redhead looked when she at last blurted out her request for sunshine tomorrow.
There’d been a lot of giggling during the chanting. But the bald guy had kept unbreakable serenity when he’d reaffirmed the organization was spiritual and not religious. Although he’d almost broken his monotone when he’d declared the American Church’s non-tolerance to those who were non-tolerant of others’ beliefs.
In other words, this church was non-tolerant of me. Someone who believed in one way to Heaven and one Savior.
Bald Guy vanished and the birds sounded back up.
My nose wrinkled in disgust. Praying? These people deserved what was coming to them in the end. Fire and fury.
All of a sudden, a familiar girl’s face wavered before me. Then her brother’s. Both morphed back into the shimmering pavement.
I glanced toward the obscured road. Did those two ever come here? Since this wasn’t some hidden, sacred refuge after all, did Wolfe and Jezebel ever come and kneel before this glittering globe and ask the bogus forces of the universe for electric power? And indoor showers?
What might life be like for someone like them? A pagan. Someone who didn’t know the true God.
What was their point in getting up each morning? How’d they fall asleep at night without screaming in terror about their future?
But then, what were they supposed to do other than keep breathing and going through the motions of life? Give up and die? For them, death would be no better. It’d be much worse.
No way. I would not gnaw my nails over their eternity. Getting to my Council, preventing some unknown massive bloodshed, and keeping Melody alive. Those tasks were enough.
“Carol? What...where are you going?”
I jerked myself back to attention. I’d let it slide when the women reentered their smooth vehicle, but now Caroline poised on the pavement with a blank face, laughter gone. Under my stare, an ugly, focused expression solidified.
“To the dumpster over there...” She drifted off as if listening. “Hand me my purse. I want my self-defense knife/hairbrush Cain gave me. I need it.”
I eased the lid down. In the gloom, Melody and I gaped at each other.
“What are you talking about, Carol? I don’t see anything. Get back in the car.”
“But—”
“If, no joking, you think a creep’s hanging around over there, then get in and let’s go. C’mon. Quick.”
The engine started. I decided the woman who’d received a nudge from Satan had returned inside the vehicle. I took a breath. Melody copied.
Tires screeched, and a muffled voice cried, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Carol! Now where are you going?”
“Dumpster.” Through the sides of the bin, Caroline’s voice resonated low and angry. “Unlock my door and let me out—”
Her friend’s laugh wavered, unsure. “And if you try for the window, I’m rolling it up.” Her humor died. “Caroline? What’s wrong with you? Put away your brush—I mean your knife. You’re scaring me.”
The engine revved. Over the sound of the tires rolling away, the redhead’s reply was no longer angry but panicked and hysterical. “Stop, stop, stop! I’ve got to go. Let me out! I’ve got to. I’ve got to. I’ve got to.”
The chant faded when the scream began. Caroline’s scream.
16
The blood-curdling sound crippled me, reminded me of the day my dad had died while my mom watched from her platform—unable to get to him.
The high-pitched, vocal-chord-ripping noise of Caroline’s agony
grew.
I fell forward, away from Melody who curled over with her ears between her knees. Suffering and wickedness wrapped around my skull so tight I couldn’t think. Evil surged through the air. Satan’s anger. His punishment.
It pulsated and sparked around me like static, tugging at my skin, hungry.
I gripped my legs harder and tried to anchor myself to something substantial—anything—while swallowing the bile in my throat.
Hold on. Hold on. Hold on to His promises.
My lips mouthed the words.
They meant nothing.
Nothing existed. Nothing was real. Nothing except that never-ending scream of the Heathen being punished by her master for failing to stop me.
I’ve got you. Dwell on me. In me.
Yes. No...I can’t.
I riffled through my crippled brain, trying to stumble on a promise I could cling to. One to keep me from falling apart and going crazy from the demonic energy that pressed down.
But the evil trapped me in a place where nothing good could exist.
In my mind’s eye, I fell to the forest floor. Dogs descended. And Melody disappeared, lost. The pine needles back home welled up red while my mom cried—not for my dad. But for her son. For her parents. For me.
A million years later, the scream subsided, and the excited crackling in the air dissipated.
With a groan, I opened my eyes. Melody lay motionless. Unconscious, but breathing.
I rocked back and forth, clutching my head.
The sound of suffering had stopped. Had that lady obeyed her master? Escaped the car? Was she outside right now, standing on the other side of this wall, inches away, with her knife?
I dropped my hands and balled them up. Then I cracked open the lid a millimeter.
My breath came out in a gush.
The clearing was empty. No women and no car—as if I’d imagined everything. Only Melody’s state affirmed it’d been real. And the unnatural silence. The birds, like me, seemed to sense something off about the air. A prickly heaviness about the place.
I sank back onto my cardboard.
I—Dove Strong—was a big, fat, stinking failure.
I thought I was strong in God. But I wasn’t. How had I gotten so weak that Satan could overpower me? I’d cowered under his assault. Cracked.