Tarry This Night

by Kristyn Dunnion

  “Now?” says Ruth.

  “Tonight you shall become my wife,” he says.

  “I’m not ready, Father,” says Ruth. Her throat works and her cheeks flush. She looks to either side, but no one speaks.

  “Cousin Hannah will help you, and we will all rejoice,” he says.

  Hannah opens her mouth, snaps it shut. She wheels toward Ruth.

  “Must it really be tonight?” Ruth’s voice is almost lost, it is so small.

  Father Ernst steps closer. He lifts her hands to kiss her fingers. “This is God’s Word. It shall be done.”

  “Amen.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The old goat. Susan slaps a wet cloth and wipes the table with a violence that turns the children skittish. “Go on,” she hisses. “Find Silas and do as he says.”

  The twins help Leah and Abel off the bench, and the whole lot hustles away.

  For once Susan slept soundly, resting in preparation for this terrible new task—dispatching the children to God’s garden. And now Father Ernst announces another wedding. This is the limit. Surely Memaw would not approve.

  “Guide him, Mother Ruth,” she whispers to the ceiling. “He has truly lost his way.”

  The doorknob rattles, and Father Ernst’s door swings open. “Mother Susan, come.” He waves. “Leave that, the others can do it.”

  “What others?” she mutters. But she abandons the rag. She has her own call of duty now, and it will take every bit of her strength to see it through.

  He is flushed with excitement, eyes darting. He claps his hands once she passes in. Susan is wary but not frightened—which is something, given her last visit. She is in no mood for his tricky talks or his shifting temper. For the first time in all these years, she sees him as he really is: misguided and infantile. Ludicrous. Susan’s lip curls in disgust. A familiar voice—Memaw Ruth’s?—urges caution: He’s dangerous, still.

  Father Ernst strides past, saying something about the feast.

  “What feast? There’s only what’s left of your daughter.”

  Father Ernst lunges. There is a tinkling sound. Now she sees the broken glass. He’s standing in it, oblivious.

  “Father, come away from that mess. Let me sweep it.”

  “What did you say?” His voice is hoarse. He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair until it stands on end. His beard glitters with more slivers of glass.

  “Unless you mean to wait for the Provider,” she adds. “Mayhap he’ll bring root vegetables and some greens. That could make a good meal.” Stay calm, says the voice—she could swear it is her old friend.

  “It’s only a thought, Father,” she says. “Start your bath. I’ll be back with the broom.” She shuts the door behind her firmly.

  If only there were a bolt on the outside. She’d close him in and tend to her greater task. It must be God’s bidding. She’d never be bold enough to think that up on her own. Imagine, after all this time, God choosing to speak to her, a limping wreck of woman, overlooked most of her life. Despised, more like. To her, and not to the great Father Ernst.

  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. So Memaw repeated often enough, and she would lock eyes with Susan as she said it. There was something in that, something hidden in the plainness of the statement pushing Susan to wonder. Shall they really? In this lifetime, the earth is lorded over by politicians, military men, lawyers, and priests. Rich, violent men—not one of them could be called meek, unless that word meant something very different in the time of Christ.

  Father Ernst, as far from meek as they come.

  Think, Susan. Memaw’s voice, again. Susan feels the cool press of Memaw’s hand on her sleeve.

  Father Ernst promises they will inherit God’s Garden, not the earth. Are they the same thing? Thorns and thistles, this is a slippery path she is on. Her mind churns and spits and worries like an old engine. No one else is in the Great Hall, just Susan, alone. She can almost see a filmy shift of Memaw herself. Memory? Susan reaches, and her hand goes right through the shimmering image.

  Of course. She shakes her head. She’s malnourished, dehydrated. Seeing things—it happens to them all. But the light pressure on her forearm persists. Now there is a small crowd waiting. Memaw, Deborah, Mary, and Rebekah. Susan extends her hand once more. Who is more long-suffering than these women? Christ—maybe. But as far as Susan knows, He was not defiled nightly nor forced into endless pregnancies, birthing in conditions worse than the animals they tended above ground. He was born suchly. He did not do the bearing.

  “Susan!” Father Ernst bellows from the doorway. “The water’s down. Get the kettle!”

  Deborah rolls her eyes and Mary giggles. Memaw keeps her poise.

  Susan whispers, “Please, let me come with you.” How she misses them.

  Soon. You still have work to do. Memaw points to Father’s chamber, nodding.

  Susan lights the stove and puts on a large pot of grey water to heat. An oil slick ripples on its surface, and slivers of lard soap slosh and float when she adjusts the pot on the element. It’s not remotely clean, but even this water will improve Father Ernst. He has not washed in a very long time.

  They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light upon them, nor any heat. Susan taps her fingers on the counter. She will wait one more day for God’s new plan. Let the children have a Union feast, a song or two. Ruth will suffer tonight, but haven’t they all? It seems to be God’s design for women. Susan herself has done more than her share of lying down, spreading legs, being sexed upon command. It isn’t what she’d want for a young girl, but this is the way of God’s cruel world.

  CHAPTER 31

  Paul rests against rough bark, knees bent, feet fitted between gnarled roots that vein the dirt beneath the massive oak. Branches twist out of reach, like black arms stabbing the night. In every opening, the spackle of stars. A full and pitiless moon shines through foliage, lighting Thomas’s handsome face and shaggy hair. Astounding, still, to look upon him. To hear his breath going in and out—Thomas’s lungs, Thomas’s hands and feet. His thumping chest, also full of hope and lies. A breeze drafts over Paul’s skin, raising tiny hairs. It brings the scent of pine and campfire smoke and the rich musk of the earth. Under that, the tang of Thomas’s humans—a hint of sweat and urine, their bodies now tucked beside the fire, resting. They are less strange to him already. Although Paul was shocked when Diego crept over to kiss Thomas goodnight. On the lips. Right in front of him. The kinship of lovers—bonds so deep Paul has never observed and only recently began to feel with Rebekah—unite the two men.

  “Surprised?” Thomas’s smirk unsettles him.

  “No,” Paul lies. “Yes. Actually.” His mind reels. He tries to focus on the bigger situation, which is somehow less confusing. Paul is a hostage, after all. He shakes his tied wrists. “Cousin, is this really necessary?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Moonlight drips along the barrel of Paul’s Ruger, which lies across Thomas’s lap. “We both know you can work that loose, but rope will at least slow you down. What if you make a move for the gun and shoot me? Kill Diego and Sondra? Maybe you’d get back to the bunker in time to open the gun vault and arm the Family. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Shoot Thomas? Paul would sooner slit his own throat. “Don’t know where the vault is.”

  “You never looked?”

  Paul shakes his head “Must be inside Father Ernst’s chamber. Never been in there. Door’s always locked.” A far-off call splits the night. Wild dog or coyote. Maybe a wolf. “Thomas, I’m not a believer.”

  “Good. You’re still not one of us.”

  “Us, huh? How’d you meet them? Were you a prisoner, too?”

  “Better. Took me for a lover.” Thomas smiles, toothy and free. Full of mystery.

  Rebekah took Paul, surely. Set her mind to it, came to him in the night. She unlocked a secret window, one that let in a gentle gust that touched every part o
f him inside and taught him how to feel again. Everything Paul learns about love contradicts Father Ernst’s pronouncements. As far as Paul knows, it’s the woman who decides what she wants, when, and with whom. Now he is seeing for himself that love does not even require a man and a woman. This simple truth makes room for itself inside his mind and inside his body, somewhere near his guts—how could Father Ernst, so worldly and learned, how could the whole world not know it, too?

  This kind of thing he couldn’t talk about with anyone, except maybe Thomas in the old days. After going to ground, that’s who he’d looked to, not Jeremiah, Ernst’s Second. Jeremiah established a pecking order amongst the boys putting Thomas at the bottom—some twisted sibling rivalry. Jeremiah had the best bunk, the warmest corner. He made Thomas, who never pushed for attention, hang curtains to mark his territory, make his bed, complete all his chores. Jeremiah was the most like Father Ernst of them all, and had been set apart and mentored. It was a great loss when he died.

  “What do you really know about them, Thomas?”

  “Sondra was a student before. She’s read a forest of books and lived through a lot too. Diego worked with undocumented farm workers, fighting for their rights.”

  Of all the stars in the sky, the one Paul wishes on must be the least significant. He can’t even fathom a world of book reading and writing, of life saving.

  “When did you stop believing?”

  Paul supposes Thomas won’t answer, the way he squirms, but a moment later he speaks. “When you’re little, you don’t know any better. Father Ernst is like God. Everybody listening, wanting to be like him. My brothers worshipped him, and look what happened—he sent them to their deaths, other than Jeremiah. I couldn’t stand hearing those sermons any more. Inside, I knew I was different.” Thomas’s voice is softer, his words more considered than when his friends are present.

  Paul leans forward. “Why didn’t you stay and challenge him?”

  “I argued with him. His wrath was unbelievable. If I’d stayed, he would’ve gotten rid of me somehow. What good would I be dead?”

  Paul’s chest tightens when he whispers, “You abandoned us.”

  “Who could I trust? Jeremiah turned me over to Ernst every chance he got. I was whipped for a week straight. Still got the scars. You were young, busy playing soldier.”

  Paul nods. He’s had his own problems, trying to reason with Ruth. She’d sooner give him a Curing, let Father literally cut open his gullet and pluck out the black seed of doubt, than turn against the Family.

  Thomas stretches his legs, tilts his head back to look up. “Rest. We’re heading out soon, and we want to get there before noon. You’ll go in first, I’ll follow. They’ll cover the entrance and the tunnel. We won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t fight.”

  “All they know down there is the Devil that Father speaks of. They fear everyone, everything. They’re bound to fight from sheer terror.”

  “That’s why you’ll talk to them first, calm them down. We’ll protect any who join us. I’ll go straight for Ernst. We need him alive—got it?”

  Paul nods.

  “We could have driven right up to the door, days ago,” Thomas is saying. “But we were taking precautions. Wanted to scout out the forest. Had no idea what to expect from the locals.”

  If they had driven directly to the compound, Paul might have never met them. Or might not have even left yet on his mission. He says, “Military station came down about four months ago. Probably gave up on us by now. Neighbours are scattered, who knows where.”

  “How many men in the bunker?”

  “Father, of course. There’s Cousin Silas, younger’n me. And wee Abel. He’s two, I think. Three.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Jeremiah got gruesome ill soon after we thought you’d died.”

  “There must be babies. Other toddlers?”

  Paul stares at Thomas. Says nothing. Finally, Thomas looks away. He shudders.

  But Paul worries about the women, other than Rebekah. Ruth is more a fighter than all the boys combined. Always glorifying the Martyrs and quick with her knife. Mother Susan—who knows what she’s capable of.

  Thomas says, “You might think it was easy, but leaving was terrifying. I was on the run a long time. Left the state, hoped no one would recognize me. Had a hard time fitting in. I was avoiding people, stealing or foraging food, sleeping rough. Didn’t trust anyone. The only people who talked to me were as bad or worse than Ernst. They claim to be all kinds of Christian, but so many are full of hate, Paul. They wanted me to fight on their side but didn’t want to know the real me. I’m through with those lies. I tried to block out all the garbage we learned, you know, but it’s hard. A hymn comes whistling out, or something from the Doctrine, when I least expect it.”

  “Why’d you come back here?”

  “Oh. When I met Diego, I really fell for him. I didn’t know he was part of the resistance. Sondra thought I was undercover, trying to infiltrate. I had to tell them the truth, who I was. Took a long time for them to trust me. But Diego kept thinking about the bunker, kept asking questions. I figured the Family’d be dead by now.” Thomas looks down and traces the length of the Ruger with a finger. “I guess part of me needed to know what happened to everyone.” He looks at Paul carefully. “And I want Diego to know all of me, who I used to be, and where I grew up. They might seem scary, but these are good people, Paul. More family than I had on the Farm. They want justice and, eventually, peace. Ernst’s weapons could help make that happen. Capturing Ernst is an added bonus.”

  Paul bites his lip hard. How can Thomas battle topside with strangers but not help his own kin in the bunker? “Why’d you get mixed up in their fight?”

  “Paul, it’s not their fight. It’s all of ours. Ernst started a war, whether he meant to or not. Right-wingers mobilized fast—End of Dayers, militiamen, survivalists. We think the Family was just some isolated thing, but Ernst had connections all over. America was a time bomb, and he lit that fuse.”

  “Hard to imagine. I barely left the Farm, let alone the county.” Paul pauses and looks at Thomas. “Do you think Father Ernst knew what would happen?”

  “Who knows? It’s not our fault, what he did. But it’s our responsibility to help make it right. You going soft for him now?”

  “Thomas, he murdered my father and called him a traitor. He lies and hurts us for no reason. Keeps us down there to control us. What he does to the girls, the women? I hate him. I hate him. You have no idea.” Paul clenches his tied fists, rubs his face with the knotted rope.

  “And that’s how he treats his relations. Imagine what he’s done to his enemies,” says Thomas.

  “I never seen him outside the Family.”

  “We don’t have to live his lies anymore, but we’ve got to help undo the damage he caused.”

  An owl hoots, startling them. In the eerie silence after its call, Paul notices a thousand tiny hacksaws grinding. “Crickets?”

  “Cicadas,” Thomas says. “They go below ground for years at a time. Then one day, they crawl out of the dirt to lay eggs, unfurl their wings, and fly away.”

  Paul says, “Like us.”

  “Yes. Like us.” Thomas points up. “Look at the moon. See how fast it walks? Time to wake them. Time to move out.”

  Paul cranes his neck and squints, but the fat moon doesn’t appear to move, not even an inch. It hangs in the purple magic of that midnight sky, lighting the path before them.

  CHAPTER 32

  A memory: women pulling nightshirts over their heads, letting white cotton fall about their shoulders. Struggling, heads effaced, wings flapping for sleeve holes, dark, thatched armpits winking, pale torsos marked by wiry bush above dimpled legs. Susan’s humped back, always distinctive. Cotton smoothed, bodies erased, they knelt for prayer. Murmurs of goodnight. The room felt full and safe at bedtime. After the last one dropped, Memaw would put out the light.

  Ruth stares at the mattress airing against the wall, covered by a
sheet, and at Rebekah’s empty bedframe. The other cots are made up, covered in grey blankets. She wishes to be folded and stacked neatly with the linens, weighed down by rough wool, ignored at the foot of an iron-framed bed.

  “Haul yourself,” says Hannah.

  Ruth collapses on her mattress in silence. Why did she think she could escape this fate? No one else had.

  “It’s not so bad,” says Hannah. “You get extras. Father is a lot nicer when you’re a wife. Mostly.”

  Ruth can hardly swallow for the sticking in her throat.

  “What’re you worried about? I’m the one who’ll have to work now. I haven’t even produced.” Hannah’s voice falters. Ruth looks up at her cousin. Hannah is rarely without a confident sneer—bossing the younger girls, snubbing the mothers, flirting behind Father Ernst’s back with the boys. She whispers, “I failed.”

  “It’s not your fault, Hannah. We’re too skinny, Susan said so. She hasn’t carried a baby to term since the twins.”

  “Why does Father think you’ll be fertile? Whatever gave him that idea?”

  “God’s truth, I don’t know.” He spoke of their great renaissance, of Memaw’s legacy passing through Ruth to the next generation. It sounded like wild talk to Ruth, like wishful thinking.

  The girls face one another. Hannah’s always been prettiest, but even she is sallow, gaunt. Eyes peer from dark circles, teeth are loose and yellowed. Her hair is listless and greasy but, unlike the others, not thinning as much along the part. She’s had more to eat.

  “What must I do?” Ruth’s finger traces a seam on her bedcover.

  “In the ritual? Say the pledge, say ‘I do.’ Father does most of the talking.”

  Ruth shakes her head. “After. In the chamber.”

  Hannah laughs abruptly. “Whatever he says. If you’re smart, you try things.”