What unholy trespass, this?
Ruth steadies her breath, and Hannah’s description of the moon time taunts: “You bloat and weep and ache beyond the woman hole, and nasty drips splooge into your pants.”
Alas, this deluge likely signals Ruth’s inevitable womanly anguish, not death by disease. She daren’t ask Hannah—the only thread keeping their kinship is Ruth’s child status. And Susan is impossible. Only Rebekah, humane and meek, might reveal this terrible mystery.
Ruth balls up the ruined undergarment and wipes herself as best she can. Blood has seeped through her trousers, staining them. The floor is mottled with it. Now her fingers are red-tipped. Everything she touches, she taints. Just like her future, which unfolds before her: bride rites, birthing, mothering. Hard-worked, just to be charred for the eventual sacred pouch. Ruth folds the bloody garment and lines the crotch of her trousers with it to sop up the mess. She re-buttons the fly, closes her belt. She wipes her hands on the leg of her pants. Is there a worse fate? She’d rather martyr herself topside, armed to the teeth, hurling grenades of glory at the wicked. She’d fight them one by one, raving from the Doctrine until they whimpered and confessed their heinous burdens: baby killers, homosexuals, communists. Melt them with Godly convictions; make the Family proud.
Anything is better than taking up the motherdress.
Once, when she glorified the Martyrs, Paul said, “Shut up, Ruth. They weren’t brave. They were locked out of the bunker.”
“Blasphemer.”
“It’s the truth,” he hissed. “You won’t hear it from no one else.”
“Martyrs make the noble brethren sacrifice.”
“Not one left to disagree,” he said. Paul’s voice was choked with feeling.
Paul. Waging his own war, he’s got more to worry about than Ruth’s woman body betraying her at last. Him, digging tubers from earth littered with mines. Shaking the branches of mutilated fruit trees, bomb survivors from the old orchard. Trailing tracks, dowsering water. Picking mushrooms, wild greens, and healing mosses from the shrinking forest, hiking desert sands. All whilst hiding from government spies and wandering maniac tribes, heretics who propagate the unclean masses.
Ruth could cry. She has one hope: Paul returns bearing signs and portents for their imminent Ascension before anyone learns her female pronouncement—this dread body truth. If Father Ernst can be convinced to leave the bunker, mayhap she will not have to marry him. Then she and Paul could be united topside, as in her dreams. They could rebuild the old cabin. She could keep him clean and cared for. Give herself to that. She wouldn’t mind.
A jangling at the gate: keys in Father Ernst’s hands, his heavy tang hovering like an unkind fog. “How is your sleep, Cousin?”
Ruth sits on her hands to hide their stain. “Fine, Father.” She blushes. “I mean I didn’t at all, to state the truth strictly.”
A small movement about his mouth—is it a smile? Ruth can’t tell because the moustache and beard obscure.
“Have you given over to Contemplations, Cousin?”
“Yes, Father. I summed up my many faults. I made a list.”
Father Ernst’s calloused hand turns the key in the gate lock. “A list is not necessary. It’s more important to understand what is required of a woman. That is what I wish to speak about.” He opens the gate and enters.
Ruth’s throat heats. Tickle becomes rumble and she coughs.
Father Ernst sits close beside her on the bench. Can he smell the blood on her? Ruth’s coughing persists, and she covers her mouth with a sleeve. She leans away from him. His large hand rests on the back of her neck. He rubs the muscles, the tendons. He strokes her back and that does not help the coughing, but he does not stop either. His other hand warms her thigh. Through her watering eyes she sees grey tufts sprouted from his knuckles. Blood spotted faintly on the fabric beside it. God in Heaven.
Ruth prays for cousin shadows, for rustling skirts, for any intrusion at all.
“Do you know what you need, Cousin?”
Ruth croaks, “Water. A sip.” She pulls her hands up inside her long sleeves to hide her fingers. She crosses her sleeved arms in front.
Father Ernst says, “Not yet. First we need to talk about the Family, our Holy tribe. As you know, our pledge is to defend God in these uncertain times. We are his earth army. And each soldier has a role. Yours will be to bear children and to raise them, strong and pure, in my service to God’s Holy name. Maintaining my pure lineage: this is the single most important job. Without children, there is no future. Without a future, we are nothing and God is lost, forever.”
“Father,” she whispers, “I would offer the most noble brethren sacrifice, Martyr for the Family. For you and for God. Please.”
Father Ernst pulls her closer and keeps his arm around her. He pets her hair, ruffles it, and leans his prickly beard against her. “My girl,” he says, “let me tell you something. We must choose to do as God says, not as we like. Otherwise we do not serve anyone but ourselves.”
Ruth sighs.
“Soon you will be a woman. Very soon.”
Now is the time to tell him. Ruth opens her mouth. She closes it.
Father Ernst pulls a Martyr card from his robe pocket and holds it where she can see. It’s Ruth, companion to the weary, she who saved others from evil. Memaw Ruth’s portrait is edged with flowers, ropey vines, and two bluebirds sing above her head. The card is faded from handling. Everyone’s favourite.
“My first wife, gentle and wise. She was lovely. Like our only child, our daughter, also named Ruth. Your birth mother.”
Ruth says nothing. Her limbs grow stiff. Here comes the past, shrieking.
“You never knew her, of course, but you have her eyes. Their eyes. Their mannerisms. Reminds me of a golden time.”
Ruth counts silently to stay calm. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three ...
“That is why I have great faith in you. You shall bear me many babes. Our tribe will swell in numbers and only then shall we rise, unstoppable in God’s name.”
“But—the Ascension—”
“Will wait for our progeny. Your children. I have seen this in a dream.”
“It can’t be.” Ruth cannot get enough air into her lungs.
“It can be. It must. I have seen you lead the children up the ladder. I have seen you carry them, swaddled, at your breast.”
A chasm tears open Ruth’s chest. Sharp pains squeeze, squeeze her heart, crushing it.
“Memaw understood her role. Queen of the mothers. Morally impeccable, loving, kind. Some see it as weakness, but that is hateful liberal thinking. That is a lie. Woman’s natural strength is her innate goodness. When woman conquers temptation, she is beyond reproach. She is an angel walking the earth. This is what God wants, what you must accept. Not firing guns or giving sermons to heathens. That is men’s work, Ruth. And you must leave these childish whims behind, once and for all, your trousers, rat traps, this play at hunting. It is unbecoming of my future bride, of a cousin mother.”
Ruth’s whole body thrums with a panic she cannot name. She thinks of Hannah, who shimmies with pride to be offered as a Holy Vessel unto Father Ernst. Not Ruth. If Father Ernst sees the blood trace on her clothes or in the bucket, he’d take her in a heartbeat. Here in the cold cell, on the filthy cement.
“Do you understand?”
Ruth nods although she does not know what he is saying, exactly.
“Do you have any questions about the bridal rite?” Father Ernst squeezes her thigh.
Ruth stares. Why must she do it at all?
“You may ask anything. About that or about motherhood.”
“Well. Couldn’t I do things I’m good at, in God’s service? I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”
“You have been given a child’s leeway, allowed to do as you like. You have not put your mind to learning these more important tasks,” he says. Father Ernst removes the ties from her hair as he talks. He tugs the braids loose, freeing sections
of Ruth’s oily locks. “You will become good at them. That is your job. We’ve no room for those who don’t earn their keep.”
Ruth steadies herself on the pallet.
“Mother Susan and I will be watching you closely. Is that understood?”
Ruth nods.
“I’ve brought you something to quicken your blood tide.”
Now again would be the right time to share this truth: that it has already come upon her like a thief.
He procures a small white cube from his pocket and holds it between thumb and first finger. Sugar.
The Family ran out of sugar during the fourth winter below after a long rationing that meant fewer pies and loaves, and no surplus grains to balance the bitter swallow of roasted chicory root tea.
“How do you still have sugar?” She is lost in a reverie of beloved lemon pastries, raisin bread, jams, and current tarts. She remembers tiny doughnuts that Memaw fried and sprinkled with cinnamon.
Father Ernst says, “This is kept in my Vestal cabinet, along with all my sacred tools. All my precious treats. As a wife, a mother, you will sometimes share them.”
Ruth reaches but he shakes his head. He fluffs her dark hair around her shoulders. “You look like her. Darker, but still ...”
Father Ernst places it on Ruth’s tongue. Hard, sharp-cornered, it takes a moment for her mouth to respond. Saliva pools and begins to soften the cube. Then comes sweetness, a wet mouthful. Ruth sucks and the cube clatters against her molars. She nibbles; more hits of the sugary rush. Teeth jangle, blood livens, a siren wails inside her. Father Ernst leans close. His fingers wind loose strands of her hair. His wiry beard scratches her chin and neck, dances on her collarbones. Ruth leans back against the damp wall. Her lungs hold to bursting and then she has no choice; she must inhale his rank breath. Her hand floats to the knife at her belt. His body presses closer. His hands, strong on her arms, push them to the wall, trapping her. Then the stifling kiss: her first. It quashes everything nesting inside.
“Husband.” The voice is shrill. Hannah skulks at the gate, arms crossed.
Father Ernst strokes Ruth’s face. His calloused finger presses her lips. “Mother Susan shall come for you anon.” He hoists himself from the bench, shuts the gate behind him. He grabs a surprised Hannah and pulls her close.
Hannah’s face is white fury. Ruth is glad for the strong gate, the metal bars, between them.
Father Ernst says, “The bridal role is vital. Mothers extoll grace, patience, and chastity. Envy is one of the seven deadly sins, Cousin Hannah, and you shall no longer indulge it.”
“But I’m the bride, not Ruth,” she says.
“You are my sixth, and soon I shall take my seventh,” says Father. “God has spoken. You must settle this now, Cousin Hannah. We are one Holy tribe. You are one mother, together.”
Ruth’s sugar cube clinks against her teeth. Her tongue dabs cracked lips, wetting them.
Hannah lunges, shrieking an animal sound, but Father holds her tight. He pushes her to kneeling, frowns. He looks tired, grey-faced. “God have mercy upon you,” he says. He reopens the gate with one hand and waves Ruth out. When he shoves Hannah inside, the girls bump shoulders, hard.
Ruth cradles the spot where the bruise will come up. The gate locks behind her, and though she should feel glad of an early release, the foaming hiss from Hannah’s curled lip worries her. She ducks her head when Father Ernst speaks.
“Until the rage shall pass and the Holy spirit amass, await His Contemplations, Amen.”
CHAPTER 14
Morning bowls hold grey water, two spoons each. The soft fast. Tomorrow, the hard fast. Father Ernst scans the table: dismal, drawn faces. Silence. Mother Susan hunches at the kitchen alcove, swinging the empty ladle. She claims Mother Rebekah will not get up. Hannah stews in the Chamber of Contemplation. Ruth sits on the bench, trembling and coy. She’s hiding something. What?
Women are not as they used to be. They slip through his fingers, confounding him. Turning away from God’s Doctrine to some introspective puzzle he cannot fathom. It’s eating them from the inside. They used to sit transfixed for hours while he spun story and sermon and Bible verse. They laughed and gasped and clutched at one another as soup simmered on the stovetop, bread baked in the oven. Cousin mothers were always at the heart of his joy, nursing infants while toddlers careened about. Rounded wombs: promises guarded by apron shields. The mothers loved him. Their scheduled visits to his chamber were electric.
Father Ernst clears his throat. His fingers comb wild hair. Once it was neat and cut short. Memaw regularly trimmed his beard. He feels for wiry ends that stretch along his flowing robe. Over the years he has changed too. But not his convictions. Not about the Doctrine and not about the Family’s purpose.
Many pairs of watery blue eyes behold him now. One rebel set blinks darkly.
He begins. “The low-calorie diet is a blessing, and fasting is vital to the Doctrine.”
“Praise be,” they say. The children clasp hands to pray.
He says, “So shall we soft fast the sixth day. Let us prepare our bodies for God. Swallow His water and prepare for His gifts on the morrow. Then shall we hard fast the seventh. Neither water nor grain nor any sustenance shall pass our lips, for that day we give ourselves over to Him. That day we sit mindfully, lest He share a morsel of spiritual nourishment in the form of Holy visions.”
“Amen, amen.”
Father Ernst nods. Small hands grasp spoons, spoons rise to mouths, eyes shut to swallow. He counts blond heads along the bench. He loses track and starts over. Never mind the precise number, the main thing is there are so many empty spots. His tribe is shrinking
One: Silas, son of Mary, with thinning hair and turned-up nose, full lips, and the ghost of a double chin. He was plump once. Like he had a winter coat of his own flesh, and during the last years it had been unbuttoned, rolled up, put to storage someplace else. Silas had been gelded and set to task studying and preserving the Doctrine. He was useless in every other capacity, and besides, someone needed to take notes. He is no replacement for Jeremiah, groomed as Ernst’s Second. Still, he kept track of Ernst’s Holy revelations. He tried to please. Now the visions come so infrequently, the boy is basically redundant.
Two: Paul. Despite being topside on mission, the dark one still mocks him from his empty place on the bench, as though his brooding essence remains trapped below with the Family. Silas’s opposite, Paul is argumentative. Rebellious. Yet he is an able hunter with strong foraging skills and so was spared his manhood, the two things being intrinsically connected.
Three. Father Ernst’s eyes flit to the ventilation shaft above, follow the wavering line of a crack in the cement all the way over to the corner. Dark tendrils of movement. What watches him from the shadows? Who goes there?
A small sound to his left draws him back to table. He had been counting. Counting what?
Silas catches Father Ernst’s eye and flashes a furtive smile, spoon held mid-air. Father nods. “Stand tall, Cousin.”
The boy pales. He looks about the table, fearful, but gets to his feet. He says, “Reflections?”
“No, Cousin.” Father Ernst strides close and runs a hand along his shoulders, down his back, tapping limbs like Silas is a beast of burden. “You are coming on to manhood,” he says, and Silas beams. “You are strong enough to patch pipes and reinforce the cistern, I think.”
Silas says, “Yes, Father. With your blessing.”
“Wonderful,” says Father Ernst. Let him pump the generator a few more days. Get the heavy work done while he can.
Ernst squints: steak flanks, fatty back rib strips, ham hock thighs and calves. Cousin Martyr, what the prophet Jesus gave unto his people, feeding them from his flesh, slaking thirst with his own blood: the ultimate, most noble sacrifice.
“Sit,” he says, and the boy resumes drinking.
Father Ernst is tired but he must lead. Still standing above Silas, he booms, “In the beginning!”
�
��In the beginning,” they say.
“In the beginning there was darkness, and there was the light.”
Their mouths open for song:
“Yea, darkness fell upon the land
Yea, darkness fell upon His hand
The Devil flew in blackened skies
The people, they succumbed to Lies
Lust and Greed and Gluttony
Sloth, Wrath, Pride, Envy
Idolatry and Fornication
Brought demise to our great nation
Smite the wicked, set them bound,
And burn the heathens to the ground!
Burn the heathens to the ground!”
Father Ernst conducts the boys’ bench to begin again, this time singing in rounds. He sings with Silas and little Abel. He motions the girls to join in after the first verse. Their thin voices bring warmth to the room, and although it’s not the glory of the former Family gatherings, it is something. He walks back to the head of the table and sits, waves his hand in time until the last notes sound. He locks eyes with Ruth and her hands grip the table edge. “Burn the heathens to the ground!”
He pauses. “You may finish,” he says. And while their heads duck and they slurp the watery gruel, Father Ernst’s mind wanders back to their first season below.
They had plenty of food in store—cobs stacked, kernels to pop or grind into grits and flour, wheat, nuts, grains, dehydrated fruit, sugar, canned fruit and vegetables, jams. Even fresh eggs from a few brown hens. He loved to spoon honey from the jar onto a slice of Mother Deborah’s warm bread. He’d pull her yellow apron strings like horse reins and steer her onto his lap while he ate. Memaw Ruth, God rest her, sat beside him at the table head. All three pink and happy.
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