by Selena Kitt
“Crap, my mask is coming apart.”
“Leave it. We’ll get you a new one. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Leah heard the door open again and then close. Silence. She crept out of the stall, finding a red Magdalene mask sitting on the sink. She picked it up, inspecting it. It had sequins and feathers, and the elastic around the back was fraying. She saw it was coming apart, where the elastic was connected to the mask itself. She threaded it through the hole, knotting it. There, good as new.
She took off her blue mask and tried on the red one. Very different. The blue ones were plain, kind of like a Lone Ranger mask, but the Magdalene masks were red feathers and sequins. Flashy. Pretty.
The door opened again but Leah didn’t have time to hide. A whole gaggle of Magdalenes descended, chattering and clucking, adjusting their masks in the mirror, some of them taking a break to use the toilet. Leah stood by the sink, trapped by the barrage of girls.
One glanced over at her, smiling, and asked, “Your first time?”
“Does it show?” Leah couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Well come on. The show’s almost ready to start.”
Before she knew what was happening, they were off, down the hallway, past the place where the nun was supposed to be guarding the door, watching for her return. There was no one there.
“Hurry!” The Magdalene who had inquired about Leah’s lack of experience clasped her hand, pulling her along. “Stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Leah hoped she might lead her past an exit, but no such luck. Not that finding an exit would be helpful anyway, since she was completely naked. Where could she go? She followed her new red-masked friend down the corridors. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, following the rest of the Magdalenes.
When Leah stepped into the inner sanctum, she wished she had kept her blue mask instead of taking her chances, trying to find an exit, and a red one. Everywhere she looked, red masked girls were having sex. In every possible position. It was like a masked Kama Sutra. The room itself was circular, and the walls were lined with cubbies about ten feet across, with cushions on the floor covering all the available floor space. On the right were red cushions, and on the left white ones. Sheer curtains hung at the doors of the cubbies, red or white depending on the side of the room. Leah understood immediately the Magdalenes were on one side, the Marys on the other. And Marty hadn’t been lying, or stretching the truth, or making things up. Leah was seeing this. It was real.
Her red masked friend pulled her along, keeping hold of her hand. “Hurry! I want to see. It’s almost time.”
Leah glanced back, searching each of the cubbies for a glimpse of Marty. She thought she would recognize her, all that red hair, her creamy pale skin. And of course her big, pregnant belly. But she didn’t see her. What she did see reminded her of the photographs she had found under Mr. Nolan’s bed. Red masked women were tied up, gags in their mouths, restrained, some being spanked, some whipped. Others were on their knees, serving a masked man with her mouth, some of them serving more than one.
She hadn’t concerned herself with the white side of the room, with the Marys—she didn’t know any of them. But as they passed, she discovered the white masked women were dancing, seducing the masked man, some more than one. The men got to their knees in front of the Marys and worshipped there, at her temple.
“Look!” Leah’s new friend nudged her, pointing to where a robed man, wearing a priest’s collar and a black mask, was speaking in Latin, making the sign of the cross. She couldn’t see much from her vantage point as people were crowded around. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see. “It’s okay, he’ll raise them up.”
And then, Leah watched, as one Mary and one Magdalene began their assent on their crucifixes. They were strapped to them, their arms outstretched, one girl in white, one girl in red. Their feet were kept apart, spread wide, a bar between them, restraints at their ankles. Leah watched with fascination and horror, thinking it couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. But it was.
The Mary and the Magdalene were nude. The Magdalene was heavily pregnant, and something about her was familiar. She tried to place that feeling, wondering. It wasn’t Marty, of course. She’d know her red hair anywhere. But this woman… and then Leah saw the tattoo, the rose on her thigh. It was Elizabeth, the girl who had come with them on the van from Magdalene House. Mystery solved. She glanced over at the Mary on the cross, and gasped out loud, covering her mouth with her hands. She would know her anywhere, masked or unmasked—she didn’t need any identifying mark. She had known her, like a sister, her entire life. The Mary on the cross was Erica.
That realization made her weak, and she nearly passed out, leaning on her new friend for support. The red masked girl put an arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently, whispering “It’s okay. It’s a lot the first time. Don’t worry if you can’t see everything. They’re taping it. You can see it in the viewing room afterward.”
“What?” Leah blinked at her, not understanding—was she even speaking English?
“Look!” The red masked girl pointed up, and Leah followed the direction of her finger, shifting her gaze, seeing something this time that did bring her to her knees. She sank down to the floor, her legs unable to hold her anymore. The shock was too great. She felt like she was going to vomit.
Up on a platform was a movie camera. That in itself was nothing—it was the man behind it, wearing a black mask to hide his identity, not that it mattered. She would know him anywhere, just like she knew his daughter. It was Robert Nolan, the father of her baby, the father of the young girl splayed on the crucifix he had his camera aimed at.
He doesn’t know. She looked up at him and he didn’t see her. And he didn’t see Erica. He didn’t know it was his own daughter he was filming as the cross began its descend again and the crowd cheered, clapping wildly. He was filming this ritual for the church, and Leah thought about the pictures and the films she and Erica had found under Mr. Nolan’s loft bed.
She wanted to go to him, she wanted to scream his name, run to him, throw her arms around him. But how could she? Like this? And she couldn’t expose him in front of these people. Again, trapped. There was no way out, nowhere to go, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She couldn’t reach him, even though he was right there.
I have to.
She had to, in spite of the risks. She pulled her mask off, trying to get his attention.
“Lily!”
She turned at the sound of her name—her fake name—seeing Marty, flanked by two masked men. They were half dragging, half carrying her.
“My water broke!” Marty laughed, she actually laughed, as she was being escorted out. Leah ran after her, ignoring her new red masked friend’s call to come back, following them down the hall, outside of the inner sanctum. Leah dropped her red mask, tossing it to the floor, having a hard time keeping up with the burly guys dragging Marty down the hallway. Finally they stopped and two nuns took over. She didn’t recognize either of them, thank goodness, because she wasn’t wearing a mask anymore.
The nuns took them back to the room where they had undressed. Leah put her clothes on with trembling hands. Marty belted a pad into her underwear pinning it in place to keep her dress dry. The nuns waited for them to get dressed, and then escorted them outside to the street. Leah had asked several times if Marty was okay, but the girl was in good spirits, laughing, talking about this finally being it. She was having no pains.
The nuns put them in a taxi, telling the driver to take the girls to Magdalene House.
“Marty?”
“Yeah?” The redhead had stretched out in back, putting her head in Leah’s lap. Leah stroked her hair.
“One of those girls said the Magdalenes get ten thousand dollars after they give up their baby. Is that true?”
“Yeah.”
“So if you give up this baby, they’ll give you ten thousand dollars?”
> “…Yeah. But it’s even better to be a Mary. They get taken care of for the rest of their lives.”
“They do?”
“Yep. But it’s a big price to pay. Heck, I won’t even give up my baby for ten thousand...” Marty was drifting off.
They didn’t speak again on the ride home. Marty slept. Leah wondered if maybe they drugged the Magdalenes to make them more compliant, unbeknownst to them. Sister Benedict met the taxi at the back door, ushering Leah toward the house, but keeping Marty in the back of the cab.
“Take her to the hospital next door,” Sister Benedict instructed. “You can stop here after you’ve dropped her off and I’ll pay your fare.”
“Yes Sister.” The taxi driver tipped his hat.
Marty waved from the window and Leah watched her go, seeing her smile, so excited, and wondered if she’d ever see her again.
Chapter Twelve
Erica waited, tucked away, hidden from view, attended by nuns and other women, girls really, in white masks like her own. She wore the veil of a bride, sheer fabric attached to her white mask, flowing down over her back, settling around her shoulders. Otherwise she was nude. She felt funny, a little groggy. When she’d arrived at the church, taking the back entrance, going down the back stairs as usual, she had been met by two nuns she had never seen before. They had whisked her away, deep into the bowels of the church.
There had always been rumors secret tunnels existed underneath the church, and she knew now it was true. The block-long four-corner complex that included the church in one corner, the college and high school opposite, and the elementary and middle schools parallel to those made four points on the corners, and in the middle was the rectory, where the priests lived, and beside it, the convent for the nuns. This is where the ritual took place. At the center of the star.
Erica submitted to their ministrations, allowing them to bathe her, wash her hair, paint her fingernails and toenails, but that isn’t all they painted. Her body was painted as well, symbols and runes in black paint, a sharp contrast to her creamy, pale skin. They gave her something to drink from a jeweled, golden cup, similar to the one Father Patrick had asked her to drink from.
“What is it?” she asked, but the nuns didn’t answer. They just tipped up the chalice, forcing her to swallow. There were other Marys, their masks not as elaborate, not as sequined and feathered as her own. They attended as well, holding her veil, sitting at her feet when she was placed in what could only be considered a throne, high backed wood, with white velvet cushions for her bottom and back.
When Father Patrick appeared, the Marys knelt the way she had been taught, submissive, hands behind their backs, head down, eyes down. They formed a line on either side of Erica’s throne, creating a walkway for Father Patrick. He approached her slowly and she watched him, a man in white robes, collar and cassock, he carried a bottle in his hand, a small thing, like for perfume. He stopped in front of her and knelt. On one knee, Father Patrick lifted her newly manicured foot, and kissed the top of it. His lips were dry and Erica suppressed a shiver.
He looked up, his gaze moving slowly up her body, to meet her eyes. She knew what was coming, she had been taught and told. Still, his words seemed foreign. His touch too. He sprinkled the water—holy water—over her feet and knees, her breasts and belly. With each pass, he spoke the words in Latin, blessing her before the ritual. All night, she had heard her sister Marys whispering when the nuns were occupied: why her? she’s too new… it should be a sister with more seniority. Shhh, Father Patrick requested her. Why?
No one knew the answer.
But Erica knew. Her mother had assumed this role, had submitted to this man in front of a secret congregation of worshipers. Her father had been right. Father Patrick didn’t need her, there were many, many more Marys here in white masks who would have been humbled and grateful to serve in the capacity Erica was assuming that night, but Father Patrick wanted her.
She had met with him just two hours ago, fully clothed then and sitting in a chair across from him in this very room. He had taken her hands in his, patting them gently, soft strokes, and he had told her why she had been chosen as the Virgin tonight. Yes, her mother had assumed the role before her. Yes, he and her mother had consummated their love. They had done so in front of witnesses, in the only way it was possible in the church. As a ritual. As a priest, he could assume no manly role in her life, but as the Virgin, Susan could have him, and he her, in ritual form.
Father Patrick had also told her something she still couldn’t quite comprehend. She had been in a daze since, going through the motions, letting the machine that was the Mary Magdalenes work, so they were moving her limbs, they were in control of her body, her life. Perhaps that was the reason he had told her then.
“The Marys will never conceive. You are special, chosen among women. You were born to be worshiped. Your seed will never sprout, your bloodline will never be passed on. You are a virgin onto yourself.”
Father Patrick met her eyes and Erica felt what he had to say deep in her belly, womb deep, somehow knowing, even though she’d never been told. She knew. Somehow she knew.
“You have been prepared for this ritual. Your body is a temple. When you were a young girl, your mother knew you were special, she wanted this for you. Take heart, child. She gave you in service, offering you to the Marys. You were sterilized, an operation performed so you’ll never bear fruit. You are pristine, unsullied, a virgin. Forever. Your mother did for you what was done for her.”
Erica couldn’t respond. She couldn’t move, or breathe, or think. The ritual she had seen her mother submit to, the ritual she had watched in black and white on film, her mother raised up as the Virgin, with her sister, the tainted Magdala. Leah’s mother had been heavily pregnant during the ritual. And tonight, when Erica assumed the role of the Virgin on her cross, there would be a Magdala beside her, heavily pregnant with a man’s seed, a representation of man’s whore, while Erica represented God’s whore.
When Father Patrick had finished blessing her, the nuns brought her forth, the white masked Marys filing along behind, raising Erica’s veil. White rose petals had been strewn along her path to the cross. They stuck to her feet as she walked, barefoot, toward her destiny. The cross was enormous, as wide as a doctors examining table, and she felt just as exposed, letting the nuns and the Marys situate her on the cross, her arms splayed out to the sides, and strapped in place with leather and buckles. Her legs were opened, more leather straps and buckles, a bar between them to keep her from closing her thighs.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. The cross was padded. But she was completely exposed to the gaze of the crowd. She saw the ceiling above her, knowing the rectory and the nunnery were just above her head. They were at the heart of the star, the center of the square, the core of the church. Beside her, the Magdala, her darker sister, adorned with red mask and veil, red paint like blood on her skin, her belly enormous, swollen with the proof of her sin.
The room was spinning. Whatever they had given her to drink made her weak, unable to fight or protest. Not that she would. She was ready for this. Hadn’t her mother prepared her, hadn’t she intended for her daughter to take her place at this post? The proof of this wasn’t just in her mother’s past, her diaries, photographic evidence projected on the screen—it was marked on her daughter’s body, a faded white scar that had rendered her sterile.
Father Patrick spoke the words in Latin, unintelligible to her. When she looked down, she saw him standing by her side, holding the round wafer in his hand. She had been completely shaved, even there, and he placed the Eucharist on her sex, speaking the words of communion in Latin, and then, he used a silver pitcher to pour the wine, the blood of Christ, between her thighs. The cross she was resting on began to move, rising up. Erica held her breath, feeling her arms go taut in their straps, her legs parted, immovable. They didn’t raise the cross fully, just enough for the crowd to see. Beside her the Magdala had taken her communion, and was ready for co
nsummation.
“Blessed is she among women… Blessed is she who believed.”
It was Erica’s cue, her only memorized line in the ritual, and her voice shook, “From henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.”
The crowd roared with approval.
The room was still spinning, each person below wearing a mask, an ocean of black and red and white. From this vantage point she could see the round, each room containing a Mary or a Magdalene, white on one side, red on the other.
On the white side were the virgin brides, virgins forever, perpetual virgins, and they gave themselves to those masked men who asked for entrance, a blessed gift. The one difference between the Magdalenes and the Marys, besides color, was that many of the Magdalenes were also pregnant. Heavily pregnant. The Marys had flat, concave bellies. Perfect lines, breasts that had never been nursed from, the Marys were like the goddess Venus rising from the ocean, perfection in feminine form. And they were being worshiped.
It was the Magdalenes who were being punished for the sins of Eve on the other side of the room. They were the temptresses. They had sinned, and their sin was evident in the heavy sway of their breasts, full and filling with milk, in the pendulum swing of their bellies, the fruit of seed sewn in lust. The Magdalenes were the daughters of Eve, they represented the sins of the flesh, and they were perpetually punished with the pain and agony of childbirth. They were man’s whores.