Page 21

Arie

A ttina pulls a heavy white veil over my head and leads me from the room. I can just make out shapes in my peripheral, but I feel the enormous presence of the bodyguards at my back. My tears flow swiftly, but my sister nudges me hard in the ribs, warning me to stop. I only cry harder.

The ceremony is in the great hall and all the Children of the Moon are in attendance, including the Sisters of the Moon, whose bodies are scrubbed clean of dirt and dressed in the white gowns of the ceremonial rites.

They kneel on the dais behind the Prophet.

He’s dressed in the gauzy white robes of the Brothers, and he lies upon a mound of silk pillows.

His rolls of fat are many and are clearly visible through the sweat-stained fabric.

The whispers from our people are too loud.

A buzzing in my head that will not quiet.

My heart races and sweat beads on my brow and temples.

Even though my sister’s arm is linked through mine, my feet halt their forward momentum.

I cannot walk any further. I cannot willingly walk to this betrothal knowing that it will be my sole job to service the Prophet, to meet every one of his needs, and to bear his offspring until I’m deemed unworthy.

My sister tugs ruthlessly on my arm, and the guard shoves me forward. A sob bursts free of my chest and I raise my hand to cover my mouth, but my sister wraps her bony fingers around my wrist and shoves it to my side.

“Do not embarrass this family further, Sister,” Attina hisses quietly. “Our father and Arista have already done us irreparable damage to our name.”

I take another tentative step forward, and the guard shoves me so hard I stumble, but Attina doesn’t let me fall.

I wish she had. Perhaps if my nose was broken, if my face was ruined and no longer beautiful, the Prophet would turn me away from the ceremony.

But that does not happen. I reach the dais and I’m pushed to my knees before our holiest of men, but I only see evil, greed, and his lecherous thoughts as he rolls his rheumy gaze over me.

The Prophet will be my first husband, but I am not his first wife.

I will be his thirtieth. Some have died in childbirth, some threw themselves against the rocks, and others tried but failed, like Sister Alana.

Many of the Prophet’s brides bore him children until their eighteenth year before he cast them aside . .. never to be seen again.

I have only a few months before my eighteenth-year celebration. As a Sister of the Moon, I should not even be here, but I suppose they have run out of young girls to marry off.

Our marriage ceremony goes by much faster than I anticipated. I must remain silent throughout, and Brother Ulf reads from the Mother’s scripture as I close my eyes and try not to run. Prophet Job pulls back my veil and kisses my forehead, my cheeks, and then my lips. “Such a beauty you are.”

His fat fingers squeeze my breast, and crimson claws its way up my neck. Laughter fills the room. No doubt the Brothers find a blushing bride endearing, but I want to be sick. I focus on counting my breaths. Openness leads to true enlightenment . The Mother has decreed it so .

Brother Ulf leads the congregation in a final prayer, and I’m urged to sit beside Prophet Job as we’re brought various platters of meats and cheeses and scarlet wine flows from giant carafes.

I consume none of it. I keep my head bowed, blocking out the stare of my new husband and that of our people as they eat and drink to our merriment and prosperous coupling.

The Sisters tend to my hair, loosening the tight braids so they fall over my back and shoulders. They fasten a crown of fresh yellow and red blossoms from the many gardens on our island to accent the bright copper of my hair.

I’m stripped of my gown and forced to my knees again before the Prophet, while he sups and stares at my naked breasts.

Brothers Ishtar and Ulf approach the dais and spread my legs for the Prophet, so that he may feast visually while he stuffs grapes and great hunks of cheese and meat into his mouth.

When he tires of our audience, the Brothers will usher our people out into the commune where they will chant and sing until our sacred rite is complete. All except the Sisters of the Moon, who will stay for our joining, in case I cannot satisfy my new husband the way a wife should.

My stomach churns and I want to vomit at the thought of his enormous frame moving over me, the rolls of fat crushing me. I take a shaky breath and cast my eyes at the floor.

Prophet Job must signal that the others should leave because behind me I hear the scrape of the long wooden benches as our village gets to its feet and files out of the great hall.

I lift my head, but I will not cry. A serving girl comes to take the platters of food from beside the Prophet, but he quickly slaps her hand away.

“Leave it, whore,” the Prophet bellows. I startle, and he reaches out a hand to soothe me while clucking his tongue at the girl. “You have frightened my beautiful young bride. Get out of my sight before I order the Brothers to ruin the other side of your putrid face.”

Tears well in her wide blue eyes and spill from her lashes over scarred cheeks. She is marked by fire, unclean, her heart weighed by the Mother and found wanting. What could she have done to deserve her permanent disfigurement, and by flames, no less ?

She backs away from the Prophet, but her gaze darts to the platter of meats and cheeses left behind. A delicate bone-handled knife sits buried in a round of soft cheese.

The serving girl’s eyes meet mine, and in them, I see my future: always cowering before the wrath of our holiest man, buried underneath him as he thrusts his small member inside me over and over, carrying his fat, greedy child who’ll inherit the Kingdom of the Children of the Moon.

But worst of all, reflected in her gaze, I envision plucking the babe from my womb, and sporting scars like hers that will never heal.

I wish I had run last night when I had the chance, dashed myself upon the rocks, but they forbid us to trespass on that part of the island. To cross the thorny briars and enter the dark forest is a death sentence.

The serving girl gives a small, infinitesimal nod, and then kicks the platter, upending it.

The Prophet roars, lashing out at her. The Sisters gasp in shock, edging away from the girl.

I scramble forward, picking up the great hunks of food and placing them back on the platter.

I slip the knife beneath the silk bedding and sit back on my haunches as the guards enter the room and remove the kicking and screaming servant girl.

Prophet Job’s eyes land on me and he holds out his arms as if he means to embrace me. “Now. Come here, my pretty little flower.”

I swallow back the bile rising in my throat and move toward him. My heart is beating so fast I fear it may take flight. The Prophet embraces me. His skin is slick with sweat and gives off an odor like soured milk. I let out a small squeal as he pulls my body down on top of him.

He spends a considerable amount of time squeezing and tickling my flesh, my buttocks, my arms, and my sides.

His hands are everywhere, and when he forces me to sit up, to sit astride him, I cannot get my legs around his substantial girth.

I think he likes that though, how small I am compared to him.

This is not like the many ceremonial rites I’ve endured since I was ten. There is no spearing of members into my orifices, no ankle restraints, no pain ... yet.

“Lean back and spread yourself for me, girl.”

I place my feet on his chest and lean back on my forearms, my limbs shaking like the leaves in a midwinter storm.

“Hmm,” he says. “And they have taken you in the ceremonial rites before?”

“Since I was ten, Prophet.” My voice cracks over the words.

“Did you like it, little bride of mine?”

My shaking stops, and all of a sudden I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My mind is crystal clear. I grab the knife from beneath the silk cushion and plunge it into his throat. Blood bubbles up around the blade. His eyes are wide with panic.

Somehow, I register the mournful cries of the Sisters, but I block them out.

It is his fault any of us have endured years of pain, of brutality at the ceremonial rites.

It is his fault we have bled and died from our wounds while locked in cages.

His fault we were torn from our mother’s breast, that our father thought so little of his daughters he sold them to wicked men for a promotion.

“Did I like them forcing themselves inside me? Did I like the pain and bleeding, and how my cheeks burned with shame afterward?” I hiss. “No. None of us have ever enjoyed the rites, but you probably know that already.”

“Ariella, what have you done?” Sister Attina asks.

I glance up at the Sisters in shock, my hands trembling.

Attina is pale as a sheet, and she collapses to her knees on the dais.

The rest of the Sister’s faces only show fear and terror, but there is one who breaks formation and kneels by my side.

Adella . She’s younger than me, by a full two lunar years, but I’ve always felt a closeness with her.

We’ve spent years huddled together at night, to keep warm, always remembering to put some space between us before the sun rose and the guards found us embracing.

“Ariella, you must go.”

I reel back from my sister. “What?”

“You killed the Prophet. You must leave before the guards come back.”

“No,” Attina says. “She must stay and pay for what she has done. She must—”

Adella slaps Attina across the cheek. The sound rings off the great walls and she hisses quietly. “Do you wish to see our sister put to death?”

Attina cups her red cheek and shakes her head. “But the prophet ...”

“Would kill her or put her aside, eventually. Haven’t you noticed he only likes them young and simple?” Adella turns to me. “Ariella, you must run now. Through the briar forest, run and don’t look back.”

“What will I do? What will happen to you and the rest of the Sisters?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re free, Arie. You can escape this place, like we always talked about.

She bundles up my dress from the floor and slips it over my head, and then she gathers together the left-over meat and cheese in a kerchief and tucks it into my hand.

“It is dark, thank the Mother, so you will be harder to spot. Keep to the trees and once you’re in the briar forest, keep moving until you find the cliff face. ”

“How do you know all of this?”

“It does not matter. Listen to me, Arie.” She cups my face in her hands until I meet her gaze. “It’s a long drop into the ocean. You will need to run as you fling yourself from the cliff. Have faith, Sister. The Mother will not let you dash yourself upon the rocks below.”

“But ... the mother does not wish us to dive into her sacred sea ... It is forbidden.”

“Would you rather dive into the devil’s flame? For that is what they will do to you for killing the prophet. Run, Arie. Be free.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes with one hand and nod. Adella opens the door at the back of the hall, the ones the guards had escorted the serving girl through, and pokes her head into the darkness.

She grabs my shoulder and pushes me out of the building. “Go. Be free, Arie.”

I run along the stone path, the cold ground biting into the soles of my feet.

I dart behind trees and cabins to avoid being seen.

Everywhere, my people are reveling in the celebration, drinking spiced wine and dancing to the Prophet’s songs of exultation.

I dodge a group of Brothers around a fire, but the mournful cries of a woman stop me dead in my tracks.

I press my back flat to the side of the building, and slowly peek around the corner.

The serving girl struggles as she’s held over the flame, her skin bubbling with the heat, her cries swallowed by the inferno.

Oh, Mother . A quiet sob tears free of my throat, and Brother Ulf spins in my direction. I pull back, huddling against the wooden cladding. The gravel path crunches under his boot as he comes closer and I close my eyes tightly, trying not to make a sound.

From across the town square, a horn sounds.

The guards have returned and found the Prophet.

Shouts go up and the sounds of many boots crunching over stones lead away from me.

I dare a glance. Brother Ulf is gone. They all are, all but the poor serving girl who lays at the foot of the fire, tiny wisps of smoke curl away from her face and hair.

I run to her side, but she jerks away from me.

“It’s okay, they’re gone.”

“Y-you k-killed him?” His voice is a cracked whisper.

“Yes.”

“R-run.” She says and struggles to her feet. I help her up, but she shoves me, hard.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Go, you fool! I-I’m already dead.” The girl leaps into the fire.

I scream, but she doesn’t make a sound. Her lips mouth the word, “run” and in a daze, I do just that.

I run for the tree line and disappear. Branches sting my face as they slap against me.

Exposed roots, try to trip my feet and I stumble more than once, but I run until my breath saws in and out of my lungs, until my heart beats impossibly fast and my chest feels as if it too has been consumed by flames the way the serving girl was.

I run until my dress gets caught on the thorny brambles of the dark forest and my feet are raw and bleeding.

I run until I see the edge of the cliff face and the Mother’s Sea below.

I’m just about to leap when I hear Adella behind me. “Run Arie, run!”

I stop and turn. Several of the guards stand with my sister. Her gown is covered with crimson splotches, as if she smeared the Prophet’s blood over her skirts to protect me.

Brother Ishtar holds a flaming torch aloft, and I can just make out her broken face in the firelight.

“Oh, Adella. What have you done?”

“Step away from the ledge, Sister Ariella.” Brother Ishtar says.

Adella shakes her head. Brother Ulf pulls her to him, pressing a knife to her throat. My footsteps falter.

“Jump,” she mouths. “Be free.”

“Shut up, whore,” Ulf says.

My face crumples, and I glance at Adella. Her eyes are wide and imploring. Brother Ishtar advances. I will not go back there. I will dash myself upon the rocks before I pay for killing the Prophet.

“I am sorry, Sister.” I whisper, and then I turn and step off the ledge.