by Celia Aaron
She straightens up and laces her hands together on the table. “I will be blessed soon. The Prophet has told me so.”
So many replies dart across my mind—most of them involving the words “lying monster”—but I keep my thoughts to myself. None of this is her fault, and there’s no point railing against the Prophet to a true believer. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to shake the wives free of their delusions, or if they’ll be like birds that have been caged for far too long—once you let them out, they can fly, but they don’t know it and never try.
Still, even if they refuse to believe the truth, I’m going to show it to them. Bringing this place down physically is one part, but breaking down the myth of the Prophet is the other. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ve resolved myself that I will die trying. Hearing Adam’s anguished cries from the cross cemented that future for me.
Adam. I close my eyes and see him again, hanging there helpless, a pinned butterfly in a display case. My heartbeat moves to my throat and thunders there, making it hard for me to breathe. The Prophet has to have let him down by now. He wouldn’t leave his eldest son there to die. It’s the only reassurance I can give myself.
“I heard it was lunchtime!” The Prophet strides in, his arms open wide as several children rush to him. Wearing a white button-down and khaki pants, you’d think he was just a normal middle-aged man, one that doted on his grandchildren and fell asleep watching football on lazy weekend afternoons. The illusion almost holds, shimmers, then shatters. That’s not who he is at all.
The children don’t yell “Daddy” but there can be no mistaking their lineage. He scoops up one little girl with blonde braids and kisses her on the cheek. “And how’s my Mary doing today?”
She giggles and throws her arms around his neck, hugging the monster tightly. His camouflage works perfectly on the children, all of them exuding happiness at nothing more than his presence.
Grace walks in behind him, her dark habit at odds with the pervasive baby blue of the walls and the sunlight streaming in through the high, barred windows just under the eaves. Head bowed, she still shoots her gaze around the room. When she catches me in her sights, she stops, her attention a laser beam.
He picks up another child and swings him in the air, the little boy squealing with delight as the rest of the children follow the Prophet to the center dining table. “I’m so glad to see you all on this Lord’s day.” He sits the little boy in his lap and pats the nearest child on the head. “So many blessings all in one place.”
Grace sits to his right, her back stiff.
Flicking his eyes up, he casts me a glance, then lets his gaze rove over the rest of the women, a king purveying his harem.
The women seem to hold their collective breath.
“Esther, Anna, Eve, and Judith.” He rattles off a list, and the handful of women respond, standing and walking to his table. They seem to have a jaunt to their steps, and one of them casts a smug look to some of the other women as she goes.
Disappointment flows in a river through the rest of the room, the other wives instantly deflated. The double doors to the kitchen open and Spinners march in with trays of food and drink. I can’t stop my mouth from watering.
“Father,” one of the wives calls out.
The room stills, all eyes turning to the woman who spoke. Her round face reddens, but she continues, “Father, there’s one more seat at your table. Who—”
“Leah.” The Prophet holds up a hand. “The Bible says that ‘a person’s wisdom yields patience.’” His tone is like a shallow stream running over hard, sharp rocks. “Were you aware of that passage in the Psalms?”
She swallows. “No, Father.”
“Do you find that you are exhibiting patience?”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “No, Father.”
“Do you need correction so that you may learn the ways of patience?”
Her wince telegraphs through the room, and my palms begin to sweat.
“I …” She blinks hard.
Say no, say no, say no. Nobody moves, everyone’s concentration hanging from her lips.
After another moment’s hesitation, she says, “Yes, Father.”
His mouth turns up in a smile, the cold kind that never really warms anyone or anything. “You shall have it. Come.”
She rises, her cheeks even redder than before, her steps steady though her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.
The Prophet scoots his chair back, and Leah bends over him, her movements awkward as she settles across his thighs. No one speaks or makes a move as he lifts her long denim skirt and drapes it across her back, then rips her white panties down to her ankles.
The urge to grab the children and run snakes through me, but they watch along with everyone else. When one of the girls tries to speak to another child nearby, her mother hushes her and turns her attention to the Prophet.
The Prophet lifts his hand. “‘Prudence is a fountain of life to the prudent, but folly brings punishment to fools,’ so sayeth the Lord.” He brings his palm down hard on her ass. She barely moves as he strikes her again and again, the loud slaps echoing around the room as everyone watches Leah’s humiliation.
My hands turn to fists, every bit of rage inside me crystallizing into a hate so real that it’s almost corporeal, a ghost of my anger that I can see and touch.
She doesn’t yell, doesn’t do anything but take the recurring hits until the Prophet’s face is tinged with pink, his front locks of hair falling across his forehead, and his breath coming in gulps. He gets off on this. And the way all the women stare—maybe they do, too.
He finally stays his hand and yanks her panties back into place, then shoves her skirt down. “Now go in the light of my love, and with the wisdom to be patient.” His voice is breathless, the hellish light in his eyes still bright.
She turns, tears streaking down her blotchy face, and retreats to her seat. I can feel her shame like a punch in my gut. And the scornful looks of the other women heap more of it on her head. The children seem unfazed, their little minds already full of abuse and torment—their mothers nothing more than objects for the Prophet to play with and set aside as he sees fit. I tell myself they’re salvageable, that time away from here will reverse whatever damage has been done. Children are resilient; adults are the ones who can’t change.
“Now.” He waves at the Spinners who begin serving plates of food as if the brief interlude was nothing more than someone pressing pause on a movie, inconsequential and temporary. So callous to the abuse, they would likely stand still and watch even if the Prophet murdered Leah before their eyes. After all, they did just that when Sarah—no. I can’t think about Sarah right now. Letting grief derail my rage isn’t an option.
The Prophet scoots to the table as a Spinner places his plate before him and drapes his napkin across his lap. With a sharp glare, he turns his eyes on me. “Delilah, would you please join me?”
Ice shoots down my spine, and openly envious gazes turn toward me from every corner of the room. The woman next to me elbows my side.
I rise and sidestep the nearest Spinner, her sharp eyes watching me as I ease toward the center table. Throwing a glance to the door, I find a guard there. Not that I’d have any chance of escaping this place. The Prophet keeps a tightly closed fist around the Cathedral, an even tighter hold than he has on the Cloister. Lowering myself into the seat next to him, I keep my eyes down, examining the plate of food before me—roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a small roll. My stomach gives another ugly twist.
“Bow your heads.” He holds a hand out toward me.
Revulsion courses through me, and I have to bite back an avalanche of hatred as I take his hand. But it’s either do it or face the same punishment as Leah. Or maybe worse. He takes my clammy hand in his dry one, and I clasp palms with the wife to my right. A prayer ensues, one that I don’t listen to. Instead, I think about Adam, about his plans for us to escap
e. They’re all burned away now, ash just like the cinders from the winter solstice bonfire. Then I picture Georgia, her warm smile. She is burned away, too, destroyed by the Prophet one way or another, even if his son Noah was the one who struck the final blow.
“Amen.” The word reverberates through the room, and I pull my hand away from the woman to my right. The Prophet, though, won’t let go. His fingers clamp around me, my bones grinding against each other. “So happy to have you here, my dear.” He pulls my hand to his mouth and brushes his lips against my knuckles.
I clench my teeth together, only taking a breath when he releases me. Wiping my hand on my skirt, I drop my gaze to my plate again. I want to ask about Adam, but I know that won’t get me anywhere. The Prophet wants me here for a reason, but he’s a snake that only slithers when he feels the time is right. Wait. Ruth’s word again. Ruth. Where is she?
“Eat.” Grace points her knife at my plate. “Don’t be rude.”
Insane laughter careens around my thoughts. Don’t be rude. God, that’s so fucking rich coming from her, and in this place. Still, I need to bide my time, so I pick up my silverware and scoop a bit of mashed potatoes into my mouth. I swallow them far more quickly than I intended, their buttery softness so delicious.
The room falls into a quiet hum of chat broken by the raucous sounds of children here and there. Our table is silent, perhaps waiting on the Prophet to speak.
I eat a bite of roast chicken, and then another, unable to resist my simplest need. But I glance at the Prophet. He eats slowly, methodically, only one thing at a time. His chicken is first, and he makes square cuts to the meat, forking cubes into his mouth and chewing slowly. If I didn’t already know what a pyscho he was, his surgical manner of eating would have been a dead giveaway.
The silence lasts a few more minutes, and I almost finish the food on my plate. It’s nothing spectacular, but it’s so much better than what I’m used to at the Cloister that I feel as if I’m eating a five-star meal.
When the Prophet clears his throat, I still.
“Delilah, I have good news for you.” He sets his knife and fork at perfect angles on the edges of his white plate.
I can’t imagine what news he has for me that could ever be good.
“Senator Roberts has agreed to acquire you, despite your unfortunate situation.”
My food threatens to make a reappearance.
Grace clangs her fork down on her plate. “Sir, that’s the reason I asked for some time with you. I need to—”
He turns toward her with a quick twist of his head. “I wasn’t finished.”
“Apologies.” She pins her lips together and stares into my eyes, as if turning her scolding into hatred meant only for me.
“As I was saying,” the Prophet continues, “he has agreed to take you on and to marry you as soon as possible. I expect him to take delivery within the week.”
No. The word is on repeat in my mind. But my voice seems to have deserted me. I grip the knife harder. It’s a simple butter knife—dull and curved. How much force would I need to shove it into his neck and twist?
“I believe this is the part where you thank me, Delilah.” He grins, his eyes narrowing with a snakelike quality. “After all, I have delivered you to a bright future despite your damage and worthlessness.”
The room takes on that eerie quiet once again, the women looking at me as their children prattle on, oblivious.
My palm is slick with sweat, but if I can generate enough force, that won’t matter. The knife will plunge deep, severing something important. A child behind me giggles. Can I murder their father right in front of them? The thought cools my fire. I can’t damage them. Not like that. I won’t turn into the monster, won’t hurt them like that. Even if they are his blood, they are innocent.
“Well?” His voice carries an edge far sharper than that of my butter knife.
I loosen my grip. “Thank you.” The words burn, singeing their way from my lungs. I promised myself I wouldn’t cower, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be smart. When the moment is right, I will strike, and I will not falter. This is not that moment. Not yet.
“That’s better.” The Prophet returns to his food.
The room seems to relax, the women returning to their food. I’ve completed the subservient dance, bent to the Prophet’s will, and now everything is as it should be. No discipline need be meted out, and the Cathedral will continue running smoothly. Their world is safe. Like cattle waiting to be slaughtered, the wives breathe and eat and ignore the reality of their surroundings—will they even protest when the saw comes down on their necks?
After a few moments, Grace says quietly, “May I?”
“Go on.” The Prophet draws off a square of potatoes and scoops it up.
“Delilah is not ready, especially not for an assignment of this magnitude.” She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her starched white napkin.
The Prophet swallows and turns to her, his eyebrows inching up his forehead. “You want her to stay?”
“No,” she responds quickly, then tempers her words. “But, if she is to serve and further your glory, she needs more time.”
He shakes his head, his confusion wafting over the table and making the nearest wives look up from their food with worried eyes. “You’ve wanted her gone, Grace. I know what’s in your heart. Your jealousy and hatred.”
Grace’s face blanches, but she continues. “I am fallen, a woman descended from Eve, and cursed like all women to be self-centered and foolish.”
He nods, her self-loathing perfectly in line with his misogynistic teachings. If I had the ability to pity Grace, I would have done it right then. But she lost any chance at my pity the moment she broke my finger, or likely before that.
She folds her hands in front of her, the picture of contrition. “But Prophet, you have inspired my better nature. And I know, without a doubt, that Delilah cannot perform her duties in a way that will glorify you. She is not ready. Just this morning, she threatened to kill the senator when he visited her in the Cathedral. I was watching the video, ensuring that she acted in accordance with the Cloister’s teachings on her place.”
The Prophet looks at me, his dark eyes accusing. I tilt my chin up just a smidge, even though my insides are going cold, and I feel the ghost tap of water on my forehead. Will my behavior get me sent back to the Rectory?
“What did she say to Senator Roberts?”
Grace lifts her hand and waves at the guard near the door—the same one who accompanied the senator this morning.
The tips of my ears go cold.
“Please tell us what Delilah did this morning.” Grace looks up at him, her expression expectant, hungry.
“I took the senator into the dormitory like you asked me, Prophet. This one was in the shower.” He gestures at me. “She threatened to kill him. Told him she wouldn’t do what he said, would fight him, try to escape, and then said again that she’d kill him.”
“Why didn’t you report this to me earlier?” The Prophet pulls his napkin from his lap and throws it down onto the table.
“I-I—” the guard stammers.
The Prophet makes a sharp chopping motion with his hand, dismissing the guard. He turns to me. “You led Adam astray, and now you think you’re free to threaten the man I’ve chosen for you? You think you know better than your Prophet?”
“You aren’t my Prophet.” The words spill out, the truth emblazoned on the air.
The wives gasp, and Grace reaches for her baton.
“No.” The Prophet holds a hand out toward Grace. “This is my cross to bear.” He reaches over and grabs me by the hair, yanking me from my seat and dragging me through the tables and out into the hall.
I scratch at his hand and try to kick, but he doesn’t let go. He’s strong for his age, and despite the food, I’m still tired and weak.
“Let go!” I thrash as my scalp burns, and I fear he’ll rip my hair all the way out.
He throws me on the
floor in the adjacent living area, my hands sliding across the baby-blue rug and burning as they go.
“Hold her!” he bellows and yanks his belt free from its loops.
I struggle to stand, but Grace is on me, shoving me back down to the floor as the guard grabs my arm and holds me in place.
Grace rips up my linen skirt. I’m not wearing panties. Ruth didn’t offer me any.
“Slut!” the Prophet yells.
My ass erupts in pain before I even hear the stroke of the belt. I buck, but Grace and the guard keep me still. He strikes me again, his fury arcing across my flesh like burning electricity.
“‘I will punish the world for its evil, the wicked for their sins. I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty and will humble the pride of the ruthless.’” He punctuates his words with ruthless strikes.
I scream, agony leaving my mouth in a torrent of cries, but he doesn’t stop. His belt ravages my ass, the backs of my thighs. Again and again he hits me until my body is nothing more than a conduit for pain.
When the strikes stop and I’m nothing more than a sobbing heap on the too-soft carpet, the Prophet leans down, his red face darkened by his black eyes. “You will obey me. You will obey the senator. ‘Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect, not only to the good and gentle but also to the cruel.’ I don’t care what he does to you. In fact—” he spits in my face, the wetness trailing across the bridge of my nose “—I hope he does far worse than anything you’ve ever imagined. You deserve it, filthy harlot, for what you did to my son.” He grabs my hair again and wrenches my face to his. “You will submit to me, serve me, and be obedient, or I will string you up like the witch you are. But first I’ll let every man on this compound have his fun with you.” He shoves my head back down and stands.
I close my eyes and curl into a ball, my lower body ringing with agony, and my mind a torrent of hate and thwarted wrath.