Silas

I find Owen close to the quilting shed, talking with Mary. Even from fifty yards away, I sense that something isn't right. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, while her hands dart frantically in front of her like birds. She apparently has a lot to say. It looks like she's making her case by physically shoving it at him.

As I get closer, her gaze flashes toward me. She narrows her eyes menacingly and pauses just for a moment. I see her pause, standing still with her lips slightly open, before returning to launch another assault on Owen.

I don't mind that at all. He can take everything she feels like dishing out, as far as I'm concerned. I've got enough on my plate, that's for certain.

For a moment I consider taking the long way back to my house. Maybe a shower to clear my head. Maybe even finding my old tennis shoes and going for a run. Anything to work out this nervous energy that seems to be lighting me up like an overactive switchboard. Some kind of old-fashioned, outdated machine that has more lights than anybody knows what to do with. It's too much at once.

And now there's all this to deal with.

“You let this happen!” she hisses at me when I'm close enough to hear her. She stabs at the air with one finger, directing the complete force of her accusation in my direction. Owen looks visibly relieved and takes a half step back.

“Don't go anywhere,” I warn him. “I need you.”

“How could you let this happen?” she continues. “Who was watching her? What have you been teaching Seth?”

I get within eight feet of her and stop, raising my hands in front of me like I'm surrendering or something.

“I don't know what you’re talking about, Mary. I promise you that nothing Seth did was condoned in any way by either Brother Owen or myself. I can’t believe you would even think such a thing, much less make that accusation.”

“Will he must have learned it from somewhere!” she hisses.

I shrug helplessly. Learned it from somewhere? Does she seriously think anyone has to train a boy up like that? All our efforts going to training that kind of vulgarity out of them.

But I suppose she's just mad. Probably mostly mad at Seth, and Angel too, if I know how the women around here work. But Owen and I are certainly closest to her at the moment, so we are getting the brunt of it right now. If Seth were here, I would fear for his life.

“I’m going to take care of it,” I inform her.

She knuckles her wide, pillowy hips, her elbows jutting out at acute angles. Bending at the waist, she leans over slightly.

“I should hope so!” she snarls. “We can’t have that kind of thing here. It’s like a fungus — it spreads! Fix it!”

I don't think I've seen her quite so invigorated in a long time. She mostly parades around here like a bonafide prophet, waiting for people to listen to whatever she has to say.

But I suppose, she has earned it. Mary mostly engaged herself by writing rituals and ceremonies as soon as we started. She authored much of what newcomers think has always been the Kingdom Come dogma. Many of them don't even realize it was Mary who invented many of our holiest procedures. The deflowering ceremony was her idea, originally. She felt it would enhance our Family connection.

“Perhaps you should give the education of young men a little more thought, Mary,” I suggest, trying to keep my tone even so she doesn't think I'm taunting her, which I sort of am. Her meddling has not always been my favorite thing. But we are a tight community, and sometimes you have to take the help you are offered.

“Maybe I will do that. Somebody should!” she sniffs.

“Get back to me on that. I look forward to your counsel.”

Her chin juts proudly in the air. She’ll come up with something, I’m sure. And it will definitely be a help. We are about to have four women who need Masters, and none of the boys are ready for that responsibility.

“So I suppose you know what we have to do now,” I sigh, glancing sidelong at Owen.

“Oh,” Mary exhales as she realizes what I’m referring to. She wrote this one herself, too. She knows exactly what we have to do with Seth.

“I think he has probably gone along home to nurse his wounds,” Owen observes. He looks away, clearly dreading the next hour.

“Let’s get this done, then,” I suggest, unable to keep the sour tone from my voice.

Owen says nothing as we march down the dusty path, not making eye contact with anyone. From the looks we’re getting, I sense the excitement is growing. Seth’s crime is a highly unusual one in the Family, and the punishment is suitably dramatic.

When we get to Seth's front porch, the door automatically opens and he steps out, shoulders slumped forward, his eyes cast to the ground. Before his door closes I see his mother’s face in the darkened interior. Her eyes are wide with fright, but she scurries away, further into the house. He knows what's going to happen too. It's unavoidable now.

The three of us walk down the widest path to the center of the compound, an oblong clearing with a covered platform in the center. Typically this platform is used for casual, simple occasions, something where everybody needs to gather and mill around, maybe have a picnic or something. It's hardly ever used for this purpose. There's usually no need.

Word must have spread quickly, because people are starting together around us. They squint hard against the remaining sunlight, hands shading their eyes, noses already wrinkled in disgust.

We lead Seth to the platform. He stands in the middle, silently watching the clearing fill with Family members. After another dozen or so make their way into the dusty, open space, I finally figure out exactly what I need to tell them.

“Brother Seth was witnessed in an act of attempted theft,” I announce, casting my voice high over everyone's heads. As soon as I say it, people begin to chant, to whisper at first. They stand with their feet planted as they rock back and forth in unison.

“Shame, shame, shame.”

“He was not successful!” I call out, making sure this crime lands solely at his feet without sullying Angel in any way. “But he was so willing to steal what rightly belongs to another man, that he must be punished!”

“Shame, shame, shame.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Brother Owen pull the small hatchet from a loop in his belt. He tests it against his palm, feeling the weight there. Seth moves to one end of the platform and jams his hands against the railing. Tears have already started streaking his dusty cheeks, and a glob of snot trembles wetly along his upper lip.

“We know the price to be paid for this crime!” I call out, addressing everyone at once. “Before all of you, he is to be punished! Before us all, he is offered redemption through transformation!”

“Shame! Shame! Shame!”

They all rock back and forth, raising their voices in unison. But it's a chant, not an angry mob. It's dutiful. It's determined.

Owen meets my eyes, his lips pressed into a hard, grim line. Silent agreement passes between us. He knows exactly what to do.

As he raises the hatchet, I turn away and walk back out of the clearing, threading my way through my Family. They don’t even see me. Everyone’s eyes are pinned to Seth and Owen.

I don't need to watch it. I hear it when it happens. That definitive thud, when Seth loses the tip of a finger.

When I see Melissa out of the corner of my eye, I pivot slightly to my left and almost run directly into Angel. She looks up at me, startled, breathing shallowly through her mouth. Her cheeks are pink, her fingers tugging thoughtfully at the sides of her cotton shift.

I’m not sure precisely what to say to her but I hear Owen’s voice behind me and turn around just in time.

“Go to your mother,” he tells her, over my shoulder. I turn to look at him. He waits a moment, presumably for Angel to walk away, before lowering his chin to speak confidentially to me.

“The aunties want it done tonight,” he says.

“Tonight? With everything else that happened today?”

He shrugs. “They feel that Seth made the situation more urgent, I guess. Mary said the aunties all want it tonight.”

I stretch back, rolling my shoulders look it up at the blue, cloudless sky. I remember suddenly that there has not been any rain in quite a while. Everything is so dusty and parched right now.

Owen is still staring intently at me when I relax.

“Well, I thought we weren't entirely decided on what to do with her, were we?”

He shifts his eyes to the left and right. He's uneasy talking about this in a public space. I agree with a curt nod and turn to walk to a more secluded spot. Once out of earshot, he begins again.

“The aunties want it done right away. If we don't want to negotiate the issue with them, we have to do it. Tonight.”

I nod. He's got a point. They'll definitely want to have some input on this decision if we let them. It’s best to not even get them involved.

“But I don’t want to rush into this, and find out we needed her sold. I don’t want it to come to that, but to be perfectly frank…”

“We’re in trouble,” he finishes the thought for me.

I can’t quite say it out loud, but my silence says enough.

“It would still on the table, even after the ceremony,” he continues.

“Dustin expects a virgin. You know that,” I counter.

He spits into the dirt. “The guys at Dustin wouldn't know any better anyway. She's got that virgin look about her. That'll probably last for a while, no matter if we go through the ceremony or not.”

That she does. The pink tip of her nose. The innocent eyes. The suggestive ways that she does things that she doesn't even know are suggestive.

“We could just leave her intact,” I suggest. “It’s unusual, I know, but it might be the best way to leave all the options open.”

“That’s not right,” he objects. The sharpness in his voice startles me, and I begin to realize there’s more to this that he has admitted.

“Are you… interested in her?” I ask. I don't look at him, though. I'm not sure why.

“Am I interested in her?” he huffs, offended. “Listen, Silas, I'm just thinking about all of us. You're the one who suggested —”

I hold up a hand to silence him. I don't need to hear this. His objections don’t ring true.

“Perhaps, since you’re fond of her,” I continue as though he said nothing, “you should lead the ceremony.”

I hear his breath instantly go ragged. He does want her. Something inside me finds that unacceptable. I’m not sure why. What is it about this girl that seems to haunt and inspire both of us? Do I even want to know?

“I will do whatever needs to be done,” he sighs finally, measuring his words carefully. That's a good sign. At least he realizes something unusual is going on.

“Sun’s almost down,” I observe, squinting at the horizon. This seems so sudden, it practically takes my breath away. Now? With the sun going down?

Then again, why do I mind? This has all been so mechanical for the last decade, why should I care? It’s not something to be savored. It’s not something to even really be concerned over. It's just a duty. Just part of what binds the Family together. It's just how we bring the girls to womanhood, then to marriage. How we ensure that Kingdom Come survives as a Family.

I try to shake the thoughts out of my head. I need to have a clear head now.

“Well if that's what they require, then we will do it tonight. But leave her intact. Just in case.”

“Tonight,” he agrees somberly.

We separate, and I hurry back to my shack to clean myself and clear my head. I rush through the prayers I'm supposed to recite, the words just tumbling through my head without too much thought. What is this… eagerness? Excitement?

Her face flashes again in my memory. The way she looked at me in the late afternoon sun, lit golden by the light. Surprised, awestruck. Yet willing and trusting. The perfect little mate.

It's almost dark when I meet Owen in the barn, changed into our robes and ready to begin as we have done so many times before. We take our places on our carved wooden thrones and face the door.

The lights are on. I practically hear the electricity zinging through the wires. Somehow the floor has been swept. Who found the time? But here it is. We are ready.

I hear the people outside, the voices excitable and encouraging. Their footsteps pound against the dry ground.

The door slides open definitively, and there she is. She’s lovely, dressed in the traditional shift. It hangs all the way down to the floor, revealing the curve of her shoulders, bits of her calves flashing through the slits up the sides as she shifts her weight around nervously.

Four aunties gather around her. She licks her lips and glances at everything, then looks at the door as though slightly surprised at how simple it was to open.

Mary's there, scowling imperiously next to Agatha. Annie looks irritable and distracted, and Melissa seems a little wobbly on her feet.

If they expect to watch me take her virginity, this isn’t going to work.

Annie and Agatha reach for the door to drag it closed behind the group. I stand and raise a hand.

“Stop,” I call out. Everyone turns to look at me, including the Family members gathered outside.

I take a deep breath.

“Just Angel,” I announce. The words hang in the air for a second.

Brother Owen stands up close to me. “What are you doing?” he asks in a low voice.

“Preserving our shot at a future,” I growl back, careful to keep my voice low.

“Can’t you just fake it? They’re not going to let this happen.”

“No,” I reply flatly. The truth is, I know I couldn’t fake it. The throbbing hard on beneath my robes is proof of that. I want to tear her to pieces. It’s killing me.

I hear Mary clear her throat.

“Pardon me, Father Daddy?” she calls out from the other end of the room. “I don't think I heard you?”

“Just Angel,” I say again, meeting her eyes so that she understands my meaning. “The rest of you can leave. We won't need your services tonight.”

The aunties cluster together to discuss, but I'm not looking at them. I'm only looking at Angel, meeting her eyes across the room, trying to telegraph what I'm thinking directly to her. Maybe not everything I'm thinking, but the basic message that she is safe. That she's right to be here. Even alone.

I have a plan. I need her to trust in my plan.

“No!” Melissa barks, her ugly self-centeredness raging to the surface. Annie snatches her by the elbow and drags her toward the door. Agatha and Mary tip their heads together, muttering furiously.

But they know they have to obey. This may be the first time a deflowering ceremony has occurred without the assistance of the aunties’ protocols, but my word is law. I'm sure we can muddle through without their ‘assistance.’

Mary finally shoos her sisters back through the entrance and pulls on the door with all her might. She closes it slowly, glaring at me the entire time, letting me know that that's not the last time we’re going to speak about this.

But I can hardly care about that now.

We have a ceremony to undertake.