“Push this button,” my father said.
“What does it do?”
“Puts the plane on autopilot.”
We watched as the plane grew smaller and smaller in the distance, twinkling like a star in the sunlit sky.
“Where is it going, Daddy?”
He pointed. “There.”
“The eastern mountains?”
He nodded. And then he spoke words that frightened me. “Don’t forget this moment.”
“Okay,” I said.
But he wasn’t satisfied. “Don’t ever forget where the plane is going. I want you to remember this, okay?”
“Okay.” I looked up at him. “Where is it going?”
There was a silence so protracted I thought he hadn’t heard me. But then he whispered a word so softly I don’t think I was meant to hear. “Home.”
For a moment, it appeared he was going to say something more. Not just another word or sentence, but a whole torrent of thoughts uncontrollably spilling out. A fear clutched my heart. Because for all my curiosity, I found myself not wanting to know, not wanting to hear the stench of confessions too long unspoken, of secrets too carefully guarded. I don’t want this, I thought to myself, I don’t want this at all.
But my father closed his eyes, and when he opened them, eyelids flying upward, resolve had settled in them.
“Remember where this plane is going, okay?” he said.
It did not seem remarkable to me that day, the direction of the plane. As if my father had only willy-nilly chosen that heading, or allowed the random wind to determine the plane’s course. But later, years later, I realized it must have been deliberate. Any other heading, and the plane would have eventually crashed in the endless desert. But only eastward would the plane have found a different end: into the green of mountain meadows, the blue of glacial lakes, the white of that mountain’s snow suffused with the red glow of dawn’s light.
17
… DIM VOICES, THEN silence. A coarse blanket placed gently over my shivering, freezing body, which I grab with burning hands. I fade out …
… I surface out of a gray heat, a sheen of sweat soaking into my clothes. Even in my feverish state, I sense the passage of time: the heft of nights and days gone by, the rise and fall of moons and suns. On my burning forehead, a cold compress is daubed once, twice, sizzling on contact. Soft voices murmur out of the darkness before subsiding into silence. A cool hand slides into mine, refreshing and lovely, like smooth marble. I grip it tightly as I descend back into the fevered pit of heat and cold …
Hours—days?—later, I’m able to open my eyes. The room—flattened into a two-dimensional canvas—ripples like a wind-gusted flag. A face looms toward me. It is Ashley June, her skin sick and pale. But the color of her hair is off. Then the face morphs into the contours of Sissy’s face. Her brown eyes peer with concern into mine. The room tilts and I clamp my eyelids down. From next to me comes the soft sound of water gently splashing. A wet towel is pressed against my burning forehead. The world careens into black …
… My eyes crack open, crusty with residue. A day, a night has passed since they last opened. And almost immediately, I start to collapse into the dark chamber again. But not before I see Sissy, staring out the window unaware of my awakening, her face awash in moonlight and taut with tension. And fear. Something is wrong. I slip away …
* * *
I awaken. It feels like a rebirth: for the first time in days my mind is lucid, my body reclaimed though weak. I touch my forehead. It is cool and dry. The fever has broken. I breathe in, feel the rattle of phlegm lodged in my windpipes.
Sunlight sprinkles through the sheer curtains. I’m in a small room, wood paneled and made more spacious by a large alcove. Sitting in a leather armchair, fast asleep, is Sissy. Her mouth is parted, the blanket rising and falling ever so slightly.
I struggle to sit up, my strength whittled away.
“Easy does it, nice and slow,” Sissy says at my side in a blink, her hand under my head as she lowers me back down.
“How long?” I caw. My voice, rough and raspy, does not sound like my own.
“You’ve been out three days. You were touch and go for the first two days, burning up. Honestly, we didn’t think you’d pull through. Here, drink some.” She holds a bowl to my lips. “The fever broke last night.”
“I got it.” But the bowl weighs a ton, and I almost spill it. Sissy cups my hands with her own, steadies the bowl. I take a few gulps, then lean back into the pillow. A wave of warmth courses through my body.
Sissy looks exhausted, her hair a frazzled mess, a few strands pressed into her cheek as if stenciled in. Large bags under her eyes, with tension roped taut across her face. There’s something wrong.
“Is it morning or afternoon?” I ask.
The question catches her. “I dunno. I’ve lost track,” she says, and peers out the window. “Looks like afternoon.” She studies the windows on the other side of the room. “Yeah, that side’s west, so it’s afternoon.”
“Where is everyone? The boys?”
“Out and about.”
“Are they okay?”
She nods. “And then some. They’ve really taken to this place.” She attempts a smile, but her lips are lined with tension. “They’re loving it here. They couldn’t be happier.”
“So this really is it, then? The Land of Milk and Honey?”
She nods, falls quiet.
“Sissy, what’s wrong?”
“No, nothing. It’s great. Fruit and sunshine. The Promised Land.” But she is no longer looking me in the eye.
“Just tell me,” I urge her gently.
She bites her lower lip, shifts in her chair. In a hushed voice, she says, “There’s something off about this place.”
I sit up. “What do you mean?” Phlegm gets caught in my chest, and I start hacking away. She slides next to me and lightly pounds my back. “Sissy, tell me.”
She shakes her head. “You need to rest.”
I grip her hand. “Just tell me.”
She hesitates. “It’s hard to put my finger on it. Nothing really big, just a bunch of small things.”
“The boys have noticed it, too? Epap?”
A stab of frustration lights her eyes. “There’s too much food, too many fun distractions here. I brought it up with Epap yesterday and he didn’t have the faintest. Told me to knock it off, to stop being paranoid. To relax and enjoy this place. But I can’t. Something’s off-kilter.”
Just then, the sound of footsteps approach from outside the door. The door bangs open. A tall man, slightly hunched as if embarrassed by his height, stumbles in. Sissy stiffens.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps at her. “This is not good. This is not good!”
“What’s the matter?” I say.
The man’s eyes swing toward me. “You’re awake!” he says, swaying.
“I am.”
He blinks long and hard. “I’m Elder Northrumpton. I’ve been taking care of you.” His voice is slurred, his eyes bloodshot. Even from the bed, I can smell fumes of alcohol pouring out of his mouth. He stumbles over to the windows, fumbles with the latch. Leaning out, he belts out a yodel, his hands cupped to the sides of his mouth. Even his yodel is slurred. Then he turns back around.
“Please get ready,” he says to me. “Supper is in a few minutes. A group of girls will escort you over to the banquet hall shortly.” He points to a cupboard. “A set of warm clothes, fitted for you. I’ll give you some privacy to change. But hurry.”
“He should stay in bed,” Sissy says. “He’s weak. Surely we can bring food to him.”
The elder’s eyebrows knot together with irritation. “He is to dine with the rest of us in the banquet hall,” he answers. “Grand Elder Krugman will be most pleased to see Gene up and about. Most pleased at the quality of care I’ve given him.” His licks his lips. His attention shifts to Sissy. “And what are you doing in this room? You’re not supposed to be here.”
/> Sissy tenses but doesn’t say anything.
“Let’s go. Now.” He walks out of the room, leaving the door open. No sound of footsteps accompany his exit. He’s stopped right outside the door, waiting in the hallway for Sissy to follow.
Sissy leans over to me, her eyes sharp. “Listen, you have to know something,” she whispers quickly.
“What?”
“It’s about your fa—” She gazes at the door. “—about the Scientist.”
And at those words, the air in the room is sucked out. I remember now: Krugman’s fat lips opening, the noxious odor of his breath in my nose, his words in my ears: He died. In a tragic … incident.
My father. Dead.
Again. The second time in my life I must grieve him, miss him, feel abandoned by him. Feel the emptiness in the world left by him.
It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
Sissy’s hand slides into mine; the soft touch is familiar. I now realize it was her hand that held mine over the past few nights and days, a cool salve on my burning skin. It was she who nursed me back to health.
“What is it? What about him?” I say.
A floorboard in the hallway creaks; the elder suddenly reappears in the doorway. “Now!” he barks. Sissy stands to leave, but I grip her hand. I need to know.
She pauses, seeing my earnestness, then grabs the damp cloth and makes a show of dabbing my brow one last time. As she does, she bends over until her lips are right against my ear.
“It was a suicide,” she whispers. “They said he hung himself in that log cabin.”
What?
“I’m really sorry,” she whispers.
A loud creak as the elder starts moving toward us. “Let’s talk later,” Sissy says quickly, squeezing my hand as she leaves. Their footsteps thump away on the floorboards. I am left alone in a plunging silence.
Suicide doesn’t make sense. My father valued life. He instilled in me from an early age its very sanctity. During the hellish existence we lived in the metropolis, he refused the easier path that death offered; instead, he daily fought to survive yet another day. Living was dogma to him. And if he fought to stay alive in that wretched metropolis for so many years, why would he so soon commit suicide here, in the Promised Land?
A chorus of girls’ voices suddenly ambles through the windows, interrupting my thoughts.
The wind chimes are clinking
The sunshine off the spoons glinting
Tell us all, tell us one
Time to eat, a supper sublime.
Their voices warble in a seamless blend. I pull the curtains back from the window and they’re right there. In two rows of ten, making a semicircle, facing me. Serenading me. Their faces, scrubbed and sparkling, as if gleaned straight from the crisp mountain air. They gaze up at me on the second floor with earnest smiles.
I pull away from the window, lean out of sight against the wall. Their voices continue to sweep in; I want to close the windows. The darkness in me at war with the bright sunshine outside, the smiles and harmony.
* * *
Three songs later, I hobble outside. Sunlight tingles my face pleasantly. This, along with the cool mountain air blowing dust out of my bones, gives me an uptick in optimism. Sissy is standing off to the side, arms crossed over her chest. I’d assumed the choir would stop singing once I came out, but they continue even after I beckon them to stop. Their round, cherubic faces blush with embarrassment whenever our eyes meet, but that doesn’t stop them from staring at me. Their eyes wide, their mouths opened, they look to be in a perpetual stance of astonishment.
The doctor sniffs. “It’s all about beauty and peace and harmony here. That’s the essence of the Mission.”
After the last song, the choir disbands around us. A girl approaches me. “Please, we’d like you to join us for supper.”
“Yeah, I think I got that,” I reply, trying to sound good-natured and appreciative. Her cheeks bloom crimson.
“This way, then,” she says.
The group of girls escort Sissy and me down the cobblestone street in a tight crescent moon formation. Every one of them is smiling with exuberance, their white teeth glowing under the sunlight. As we make our way toward the main square, their bodies waddle and sway, most curiously.
“That’s how they walk,” Sissy says next to me. “I asked them about it, but they brushed it off. Like they do with all my questions.” She lowers her voice. “I think it has something to do with their feet. They’re puny.”
She’s right. Their shoes, poking from under their frocked dresses, are mere nubs.
More girls line the street, many of them chubby-cheeked and potbellied. And then it hits me that what I had earlier taken for flabbiness is actually something else: they’re pregnant. In fact, once I start paying attention, every which way I look, girls in various stages of pregnancy are waddling about with roly-poly bellies. It’s got to be at least one in every three. All of them smiling, mouths stretched wide to expose twin rows of gleaming, shiny teeth.
“You okay?” Sissy asks, looking sideways at me.
“Yeah,” I say. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. “Where’s the gang?”
“Probably at the dining hall already. They’ve been eating nonstop since we got here. They have the bulging bellies to prove it.”
Like everyone else here, I’m about to say, but then we’re already entering the banquet hall.
What immediately strikes me is how crowded the banquet hall is compared to the first time. Four long tables stretch down the length of the hall, each flanked by long oak benches. Each table is packed with village girls and a sprinkling of toddler boys from one end to the other. The hall is crowded but orderly and quiet. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows that rise up to the rafters; slabs of light pour through them, cutting diagonally across the dining hall.
I’m ushered to the front of the hall and onto a stage. The boys are sitting around a table set there. Sissy’s right; they’ve all put on the pounds. Faces rounder, a languid, rested look about them. They’re happy to see me; Ben, David, and Jacob run over to give me a hug.
“Ben!” I exclaim as we sit down. “Your cheeks! They’re the size of balloons!”
Everyone at the table laughs. Jacob joins in the fun. “It’s like all ten pounds Ben’s gained here went straight to—and only to—his cheeks.” He reaches over and good-naturedly pinches Ben’s cheek.
“How many days have we been here?” I ask. “Three days or three months? Look at the weight you guys have put on!”
Ben tilts his head back and smiles. “Can’t blame us,” he says, laughing. “The food here is ridiculous.”
Ours is not the only table on the stage. Another table—this one sturdy and with legs so regal and thick, they seem grown out of the stage itself—sits at the front edge. On top of a heavily starched tablecloth, silver cutlery sparkles beside gleaming plates.
“The senior elders sit at that table,” Jacob says, his eyes watching the kitchen doors.
As if on cue, a group of elders enters the hall. Immediately, every person stands, heads bent down in deference. The elders saunter in, their rotund bellies lolling over their belts. Krugman is the last to enter; only after he sits down do the elders, then the rest of us follow suit. It’s all done with surprising quiet. Even the benches scrape against the floorboards with a minimum of noise. And then we’re all sitting perfectly still, nobody moving. At last, Krugman, grasping a mug, stands up.
It’s now I notice that Sissy’s not with us. Now that I think about it, she vanished from my side shortly after we entered the dining hall.
“We are once again assembled here today in celebration of the arrival of our stalwart travelers. Long have they journeyed and many are the dangers they have overcome to reach us. Such a miraculous arrival calls for celebration, many times over. For our brothers, once so lost, are now found.”
There is loud applause as Krugman pauses. He gazes fondly at the five of us.
I lean over t
o Epap. “Where’s Sissy?” I whisper.
“Shh,” he says, barely turning to me, his eyes remaining fixed on Krugman.
“Those of us,” Krugman continues, “who have been fortunate to converse with them can attest to this: they are kind, intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive souls who are warriors in their own right. We welcome them as one would a family member: with warm, extended arms, embracing them joyously into the community of the Mission. And our joy is made complete today,” he says, his voice rising dramatically. “For Gene, fearless leader of the company of new friends, has fully recovered from the most debilitating of illnesses. We give due thanks to Elder Northrumpton for his expertise and persistence in restoring Gene to full health. I am happy to say that young Gene will be moving out of the clinic to reside at an as yet undecided cottage.”
Elder Northrumpton bows his head in acknowledgment.
“Let us pray,” Krugman says. Heads bow as one. “Great Provider, this day we give you thanks for the abundance of food and drink and mirth and sunshine you so faithfully provide each and every day. We give thanks for the bestowment of health upon our new brother, Gene. We pray that in your wisdom and timing, you will deliver the Origin into our trustworthy care. Great is your faithfulness, great is your mercy, great is your kindness, great is your protection over this beloved community.” He nods at a girl standing by the kitchen doors, and almost instantly a river of dishes flows out, the server girls waddling side to side.
“Where’s Sissy?” I ask Jacob, sitting on my other side.
He’s only half listening as he watches the food being brought in. “Sitting with all the other girls on the main floor,” he murmurs disinterestedly. “Girls aren’t allowed on the stage.”
“You should have insisted that Sissy…”
But he’s no longer listening. He’s turned away from me, is leaning over to David, pointing at the first dishes heading our way.
I scan the rows of girls. There. In the back, lost among the sea of girls. Sissy is sitting in the middle of a row, as quiet as the others. Our eyes meet but for a second. Then a row of serving girls walks to my table, blocking my view of her.
The Prey Page 9