LITMIR.BIZ

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the coffin, “May all of you watching here be likewise warned! For God tells His Prophet and Prophetess everything in signs and visions and revelations—even your own secret, wicked thoughts! His Word is true and His punishment sure. Blessed be His Holy Name!”

      But Melinda didn’t hear them. My poor, dear Josh! Heart of my heart and life of my life. How unbearable to remember that during the last several years the few times we actually had a chance to speak privately, we’d quarreled bitterly. Or at least I had. For we had both become so miserable here. And seeing you still trying to be faithful and sweet and loving at all times just made me feel that much worse.

      If only we had fled this place while we still could, and kept that old love, that old joy alive. Then maybe I could have learned more about your God—the real God of the Bible, not the one that fake “Prophet” pretends to serve. That hypocrite! For over ten years you gave him your brains, your devotion, your life, your all. Yet no matter how much you did for Harve, he just became that much more contemptuous of you. And angry. And insanely jealous. Just as Agnes was with me. So if you indeed fell from the loft today, was it by God’s Hand—or Harve’s?

      Oh, the heartbreaking disbelief and horror in her children’s tearless eyes as they watched the guards simply dump the coffin into the shallow hole! Propping up her swollen ankle on a large dirt clod, Melinda had held onto their small hands for dear life. Sweet little Amber on her left, as blonde and blue-eyed as she. Dark-haired, dark-eyed Jeremy on her right, sober beyond his years and a carbon copy of his father. The father none of them would ever see again. With young Shannon behind the three, as close as she dared to be.

      Suddenly the Prophet handed her a shovel. “Sister Abigail,” he ordered, “you yourself must throw the first shovelful of dirt on the coffin, and so cover your transgression and shame from being married to a blasphemous sinner Under Blood Atonement.”

      No, no, no, no, NO! God, please! But … somehow she managed to do it.

      After that, Jeremy and Amber had been whisked away from her, as usual, by Sister Uriah, the official Guardian Angel and chore supervisor of all children past toddler age—an overworked, quick-tempered woman who punished the smallest infraction.

      After the burial, Melinda and the other seamstresses were taken over to the Providence Pavilion—just long enough to hear the Prophet announce Melinda’s and Shannon’s upcoming “spiritual marriages” to him. Then before the Evening Prayer Feast was served, they were herded back to the dust-choked sewing room to try to meet the Prophet’s deadline for this latest very profitable sewing contract.

      Profitable, of course, only for him. And the Prophetess.

      All night long the girls and women labored under dim, dangling bulbs, fighting weary eyes, pesky June beetles, and voracious mosquitoes. Striving desperately to finish this order of colorful, hand-finished women’s skirts and blouses, lacy undergarments, children’s playclothes, tablecloths, elegant quilts, and exquisite baby clothes, all highly-prized by the outside world. All equally forbidden for the Disciples’ own use.

      During Melinda’s lonely childhood, her Grandma Jackson, on her rare visits, had introduced her to the joys of sewing, crocheting, and other needlework. Later, as a newly-expectant mother, Melinda delighted in making little Jeremy Joshua Currie’s layette herself. While the other commune women were just as thrilled to present her with hand-sewn gifts at the shower for her very first child.

      But by the time little Amber Anne came along, Melinda’s newest was allowed only hand-me-downs. For by then all the time and energy of all Disciples, women as well as men, had been commandeered in the name of—and for the purse of—their Prophet. All families were split up, with men and boys in one dorm, women and girls in another. After that, the only commune babies born were those sired by Harve—whose desperate mothers still had to work just as hard at all their other tasks. Since oil paintings took far too much time to produce anything saleable, Melinda was forced from her art to her needlework. For the Prophet’s use, not hers.

      That night, after many more hours of intricate needlework under inadequate lighting, and no food, Melinda was almost at the breaking point. Exhaustion and terror filled the room—especially after midnight, when the other Disciples hurried by on their way back from the night’s Teaching for a few hours of rest. After that, only the clattering sewing machines broke the oppressive silence.

      With nothing to eat since yesterday morning’s usual cold rice, the seamstresses’ fingers often faltered. But still Sister Dorcas drove them on. “We dare not disappoint the Prophet!” she commanded—as much for herself as for the others.

      Even so, only the damp night’s chill settling in through the open doorway enabled Melinda to keep her eyes open. That, and the bucket of water she kept her right foot in to help with the swelling. And the heart broken deep within her.

      Then, near dawn, young Shannon nodded off at her sewing machine, running its needle right through her hand. But before her screams could split the air, Sister Dorcas clamped her hands tightly over the girl’s mouth. And prayed in terror.

      At their own workstations, the other women were just as horrified. Not only for Shannon’s injury, but for its possible consequences for them all. What if, God forbid, the Prophet or any of his guards heard her cry? Even small children with severe earaches quickly learned not to provoke the Prophet’s wrath by sobbing in pain and disturbing his “holy sleep.” Most of the women had endured the humiliation and pain of being beaten and chained to a cruel Repentance Punishment Post for far lesser transgressions.

      Trembling, Melinda herself yanked out the needle. Then she and Dorcas dunked the girl’s badly-bleeding hand into Melinda’s pail of water. Adding a quick prayer to a little iodine, they wrapped the already-swelling appendage in some fabric scraps from the quilting basket.

      Then back to work for everyone, including Shannon. But because blood kept oozing out of her bandages onto her work, she was soon re-assigned to sweeping up and delivering supplies to the others.

      Melinda’s heart bled as deeply as her young friend’s wound. Never, never should anyone have to work in such conditions— especially not someone so young! Not in the Name of the loving God Melinda had read about in the Bible back at the coffeehouse! The same God her husband had believed in to the death! A God of love and light—not one of mutilation and repression of both body and spirit.

      Oh, if only Melinda could escape, she would storm back with an army of sheriffs, and free all the poor little children here! Yes, and all the men and women, too!

      But back to that same unanswered question, “How?”

      Fingers never stopping, she glanced out the nearest window for inspiration. By now the night stars were paling, and bare feet already began to shuffle by the glassless window frames on their way to Morning Prayer Feast. Soon some Disciples passed close enough to be recognized—including her own son.

      She stared intently, hungrily at Jeremy’s sweet, grave face, so like his father’s, hoping for a nod or even a smile. Instead, he frowned and pointed to his left hand—then looked at her expectantly, even desperately, until pushed on by his grim Guardian Angel.

      His left hand . . . what in the world could be significant about Jeremy’s left hand? That was the one she had held at Josh’s burial . . . yes, with her right one. Until the Prophet had thrust the shovel at her right hand, and she discovered that her fingers were clutching a small wad of paper. Could that paper have been important? Why, maybe it was a note!

      But what had she done with it? Think, think . . .

      Put it in her apron pocket, most likely. Yes! But as her right hand slipped down to her lap to check—

      “Sister Abigail!” her supervisor barked. “Let’s see both hands up on that table working!”

      “Sorry, I-uh, dropped a spool,” she mumbled.

      The note would have to wait.

      Finally, “All right, Sisters!” Sister Dorcas announced again. “You are doing so well, you may all now take a bathroom

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