Sins of the Mother

by August Norman

  He pounded on his chest. “At this, my heart beat pure and I knew she spoke a divine message of light, but there was something else, a slight shadow. ‘Like before,’ my sweet Daya said, ‘there is a cost to this step in the voyage.’ ”

  Desmond dropped to his knees. “She didn’t need to say the words, my daughters, this woman I have known from step one of the path. She kissed me, our lips met in a mix of tears and laughter, and we both knew what it meant. ‘Listen for your name, my darling,’ she said, and touched my forehead again.”

  Desmond wiped away a new set of tears, then looked up to face the gathering. “I closed my eyes, seconds only, wiped away tears as I’m doing now.” He nodded, smiled, then sniffed. “And when I opened my eyes, Daya was gone.”

  An uproar spread through the crowd.

  Desmond stood and raised his hands to the fire. “That’s right, my daughters. To save Magda, Daya has ascended.”

  Caitlin watched the message spread from face to face. She saw the Mouse whisper to the woman at her side, Lily, the medical examiner’s daughter, who smiled ear to ear. Gwendolyn Sunrise herself stood and started jumping up and down. In a few seconds, all the women joined her.

  “Assholes,” Caitlin muttered to herself.

  He just said one of you got murdered and the other disappeared and you’re giving him a standing ovation.

  She backed away from the rocks and had started down the path when the singing began.

  The fire is dying, so come let me build …

  So many voices, and so happy, and so fucking out of their minds.

  Caitlin didn’t know what to do anymore. She didn’t want to be caught there in the open, but the idea of being locked up again was just as daunting.

  Screw it. I’ll look for Desmond’s records.

  She took the steps quickly, returning to the main building’s side door and slipping inside. The sound of singing from the nighttime revelers, loud and close, froze her in place. She looked left and saw the monitor of the unmanned security station broadcasting the hilltop scene. Her body let a huge shudder escape in relief. She moved another five feet down the hall before a thought occurred—the Mouse had turned off the set before abandoning her post. Not only was it on again, but the volume was turned up to the point of distortion. Something else—the hallway’s lights were off.

  Shit. Someone else must be here.

  Caitlin slowed to a stop, debating which would be better: voluntarily readmitting herself to the locked room as if she’d never left, or playing dumb to whoever she might run into in the hall, claiming that whatever turned off the lights had opened her door.

  She took two half steps in the direction of her former detention cell, then stopped when a door at the far end of the hall popped open and a shaft of bright light splashed into the dark corridor.

  New debate: turn around, open the side door, and risk running into the hillside partygoers, or sprint forward to the middle of the hall and take the left turn, heading out the main doors?

  The singing from the monitor behind her turned into random conversations. The meeting had ended. So far, no one had come through the open door. She jogged forward, as soft footed as possible. When she was ten feet from the intersection with the main-entrance corridor, the light at the end of the hall darkened, and someone backed into the hallway holding a box of paper work. Caitlin’s jog became a sprint. As the far door swung shut, the silhouette of a woman with long hair and an assault rifle slung around her shoulder turned Caitlin’s way. Caitlin took the corner and surged forward, aiming for the double doors to the outside.

  “Caitlin Bergman, wait,” the woman called.

  Too late. Caitlin burst through the double doors and sprinted through the now-dark compound toward the motor pool.

  I’m screwed were the only conscious words that came to mind, everything else on autopilot. You’ve seen too much and they know you got out, which means they know you’ve seen too much.

  She’d find a car; if not, hide in the woods, get back to town. It was more a lizard-brain survival formula than a plan, but it was all she had.

  Just past the cottages, the squawk of a walkie-talkie sounded somewhere behind her. She doubled down on her speed, despite someone’s excited voice yelling words like “Inside the perimeter,” “Stop them,” and “Shoot if you have to.”

  She took a hard right into one of the four fields, diving behind tomato plants held up by trellises. She crawled toward the dark tree line at the side of the field, aware of the sounds of more than one person running, but not in her direction. She froze, sure anyone within a hundred feet would hear her heart thumping away like a marching band’s drum line.

  So far, so good, lizard brain—or at least, not so bad.

  More voices came, both across the air and out of a radio.

  “… possibly more than one … up the southern entrance, near the Climb …”

  She didn’t remember everything about her tour, but the southern entrance and the Climb were both beyond the buildings where Eve had parked the town car, and downhill.

  Whoever the guards are chasing isn’t me.

  She peeked above the tomato plants and saw two women in red run past the buildings at the end of the fields. She looked back toward the main house and cottages, saw no one else.

  That meant her path to the motor pool was open.

  She started that way again.

  Somewhere between the rows of spinach and a crop of beets, the concussion of an explosion blew her off her feet. Her head rang like a tenth-round bell and her eyes streamed tears. The sheet-metal building that had housed the fleet of red town cars erupted into a ball of flame.

  Seconds later, she rolled onto her knees, faced away from the wall of heat, and tried to stand.

  Didn’t work the first time.

  She tried again, got a leg up, then the other.

  Shouts came from the direction of the hill.

  She listened for another lizard-brain instruction. No basic survival guidance this time.

  She turned back toward the fire.

  Plenty of room on the left of the fire to get to the road.

  She started that way, but stopped.

  A figure dressed in green camouflage was sprinting her direction, backlit by the wall of flames.

  Caitlin spun around and started running through a field of cabbage.

  Lights from the hill danced her way through the trees. She looked back, saw her opponent still in pursuit, but not nearly as fast as her.

  Caitlin didn’t care if the Dayans found her now. They’d see whoever had blown up their garage right behind her.

  She dug in, bursting into a sprint, but her foot landed the wrong way on a cabbage, and she hit the ground hard.

  Again, she forced herself up, getting in two weak steps before a tackle from behind knocked her back onto the ground.

  Pain overrode her awareness, and she flailed her arms, making contact but not changing the dynamic. Someone was dragging her backward, despite the shouts of the approaching Dayans and the earsplitting thunder of a semiautomatic rifle firing round after round over her head.

  CHAPTER

  33

  THREE OF THE Guardians surrounded Desmond in a close formation, clearing the halls of the main house and ushering him into the living room of his suite.

  One of the well-armed women remained by his side; the other two stood in the hall, ready to die protecting his life.

  Desmond paced, nervous not about his survival, for the early reports said the attack had been resolved, but because the foundation of everything he’d built was crumbling.

  His guard handed him a walkie-talkie. “Gwendolyn.”

  Desmond took the radio to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Sunrise, go secure.”

  He switched the radio’s channel setting and waited.

  Gwendolyn chimed in. “Desmond, are you safe?”

  He ignored the question. “Who attacked us? Is it Larsen?”

  “We don’t know.
Whoever it was only hit the motor pool, then left.”

  Desmond ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing a bit and yanking. “But the lights. Why did we lose half the lights?”

  “Some circuit breakers tripped. They’re back up now.”

  He let go of his hair, then tapped his fingertips against the side of his head.

  Think, damn it. Control this situation or you lose it all.

  “What about the fire?” he said, trying to sound collected.

  “Contained, but we lost most of the town cars, and the water it took to put the fire down drained tank number two.”

  Desmond threw the radio against his bed and let every swear he’d been holding back for the last two decades escape in a torrent, then picked up the walkie again.

  “Is the Jeep okay?”

  “Which one?”

  “The only Jeep we have, darling.”

  “Desmond, I know very well we have two white Jeep Wranglers. I purchased both last year—”

  “Were the Jeeps harmed in the fire, Gwendolyn?”

  “No,” she answered. Then, “Wait. I’ve been told there’s only one on-site. Where could the other have gone?”

  Desmond’s hand covered his mouth and the response that wanted to come out. The other vehicle, Daya’s Jeep, had been gone as long as she had.

  He took a breath and started again. “Gwendolyn, is there still one Jeep in working order on the hill? Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and two of the tractors were untouched. Do you think the attacker took the other Jeep?”

  He rolled his neck from side to side. “Belongings are unimportant. The safety of the Daughters is paramount. Double the number of Guardians.”

  “Already done.”

  “Of course it is. True to your name, Sunrise, you bring the good news of rebirth once again.”

  Gwendolyn didn’t have Daya’s unflinching steel or Magda’s sexual energy, but she lived to serve.

  “One more thing,” she added, “and I’m sad to say it isn’t good news—”

  “Just say it.”

  “Caitlin Bergman is gone.”

  “As in, she ran away?”

  Desmond let up on the radio’s send button and heard the sound of Gwendolyn’s wooden beads clacking together.

  “Sorry, Desmond. We just don’t know.”

  He let the radio drop onto his bed. The plastic receiver bounced once, flipped over, then rolled off the side of the comforter, hitting the carpet.

  “Fuck me,” he said, heading toward his bathroom. He undid the sash around his waist, dropped his sarong, and sat on the toilet with his eyes closed, waiting for any type of relief.

  They’d been attacked before. Estranged family members, jealous husbands, outfighting with townspeople, infighting with each other, a horrible case of the clap. All of those problems had been solved with cash, manipulation of the legal system, or a round of antibiotics. But he’d had Daya by his side for every battle.

  Where the hell are you, Fireball? This is no fun without you.

  He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her standing there, laughing and pulling him to bed—the other half expecting to find her holding a knife to his throat. What he saw in the mirror was an old man on a toilet who didn’t want to play the game anymore.

  He also saw light coming from under the door to the adjoining suite. He jumped to his feet, kicked his sarong away, and opened the door to Daya’s room. A single lamp lit the far corner, away from the closet and the safe, close to Daya’s desk. Naked, he moved close enough to see that the top drawer of her filing cabinet was open and a large block of files was gone.

  CHAPTER

  34

  LAKSHMI STARED AT the menu, swore under her breath, then ordered the Huntington Rose Garden Tea Room’s traditional service for thirty-seven dollars. After the twenty-five she’d dropped on admission to get into the botanical gardens, her unpaid adventure was adding up and she hadn’t heard from Caitlin, other than a one-line text this morning:

  Okay, back in town.

  On the other hand, her view into the herb garden’s clumps of green bushes and lavender sprigs divided by red brick paths reminded her just how little time she’d spent enjoying Southern California’s beauty. That plus a genuine peacock strut through the grounds, as if that happened every day—which, she’d learned from her server, totally did. Judging from the more than twenty glorious birds she’d passed roaming the camellia garden on her way in, peacocks owned the place.

  The other plus: she’d be able to hear every word Beverly Chandler and her companions shared at the table behind her. The ladies of the Pasadena Botanical Society had been in a closed-door session in the nearby Virginia Steele Scott Art Gallery since two o’clock, but their website’s event plan included high tea at four.

  By the time Lakshmi had slathered her first scone in clotted cream and raspberry jam, the well-dressed ladies who lunched had filled the eight-top behind her with the buzz of afternoon rosé and the reflected light flashes of enough diamonds to fund a small army. Rather than risking a look back, Lakshmi snapped a series of photos with her phone, then scrolled through the results. Sure enough, Beverly Chandler sat at the head of the table, facing the rest of the women and the wall to Lakshmi’s left.

  Having failed so miserably in her previous attempt, Lakshmi wasn’t there to corner the woman. Instead, she’d reveal herself in time and see if Beverly came to her. She put in a pair of earbuds for show, spread her version of Maya Aronson’s journal on the table in front of her, and reached for a truffle egg salad phyllo cup.

  Salty, flaky, delicious. For a second, she disappeared into one of the few happy memories of her childhood. Her mother, both a first-generation immigrant to England and the wife of a surgeon, had gone out of her way to learn to prepare any and every variation of English tea service treats, and Lakshmi had been her taste tester, scone after cucumber sandwich after biscuit. She chased the delightful bite with a sip of the loveliest cup of tea she’d had since moving to America, closed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother’s smile. The image came, but Lakshmi knew it was more amalgam than memory, pieced together from photos in albums rather than snapshots from her ten-year-old mind. She often wondered what their adult relationship would have become. As great as her mother had been, would she have supported her lesbian daughter? Not just gay, unmarried and gay?

  She sighed, reached for a tiny quiche, and got back to work. Since the majority of Beverly and co.’s conversation dealt with botanical gossip, Lakshmi planned to spend the time with Caitlin’s mother on top of God’s Hill.

  * * *

  January 1, 1997

  What an amazing new year. Last night, we lit the flame on God’s Hill. Not just another fire, but the Eternal Flame, a fire that won’t go out until February 17, 2016. Obviously, I haven’t written since Linda’s ascension back in February. We’ve all been so busy.

  Following that night, our move was put on pause so the miracle could be communicated to those not present. Desmond and I went from Dayan house to house, city to city. I met voyagers that I’d recruited, and even ones that my recruits had recruited. All the while, Daya led a team to Oregon and oversaw construction.

  * * *

  Lakshmi skipped ahead through the construction phase. While it was impressive, she doubted Caitlin cared about their water filtration system or windmills. She stopped when she found a reference to the woman behind her.

  * * *

  Daytimes brought the hardest physical labor I’ve ever performed, but the nights were wild times of joy. Music, dancing, laughter, sex—something about the daytime exertion made the evenings that much sweeter. We all grew closer to each other and the Spirit.

  Well, not Bevvie. I mentioned our numbers were around a thousand when we were in Los Angeles. Roughly one hundred didn’t make the move. Another hundred made the move, but either found the work too hard, or their faith too weak, and they left as well.

  My Beverly, the reason I’d found th
e Dayans in the first place, was one of those.

  It started after Linda ascended.

  When I was touring with the story, Bev had followed Daya up north with Tanner, one of her recruits. Tanner seemed nice enough, and devoted to the Light, but once I arrived, I realized he and Bev had been pulling away from the others, mostly pairing off.

  One night, during Desmond’s ceremony, Bev started crying.

  “We honor Linda,” Desmond was saying, “by forging this place of her dreams, this tower of her vision, so that she might call us on the final day.”

  It wasn’t unusual for one of us to cry through Desmond’s messages, but Bev sobbed out loud, enough for all of us to look her way.

  Desmond continued, “Even then, on that final day—”

  “February seventeenth,” we answered.

  “Linda will see those who made it to the top, through purity, simplicity, and honesty, and she will call our names.”

  Again, Bev cried loud enough to draw attention, and Daya got up and took her aside. After five minutes, Daya returned, but Bev didn’t, so I went to the barracks and found her facedown on a bed. She pulled away like an abused dog but relaxed when she saw it was me. “Bevvie, come back. You’ll miss the message.”

  “I know the damned message,” she said. “The world’s going to end and we’ll be okay, as long as we follow the Light.”

  I’d seen other voyagers break down. I’d broken down.

  The weight of the world is a lot to carry.

  I rubbed her shoulders. “The voyage for the ultimate reward is perilous—”

  “Don’t spout Light Paths to me, Maya. Not you, of all people.”

  I pulled back at hearing my before-name. “It’s Magda—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s Maya-fucking-Aronson, or Sharon Sugar if someone needs a blow job.”

  “It’s Magda,” I repeated. “Desmond named me.”

  “Because of a dream I had, dumbass.”

  Her words hurt, but I knew the need to wound others was often part of the breakdown.