plump) Prophetess, had sneeringly bestowed Sign of the Anointed chains and pendants (of common pewter, instead of precious metal like the men’s) on a dozen Disciple women, and ordered them to his bed. A bed Agnes no longer bothered to share. And, later, welcomed to the compound his mistresses’ infant Sons and Daughters of Light. Babies the Prophetess, thankfully, determined never to produce herself.
Although almost fourteen, Melinda’s young coworker Shannon had escaped the Prophet’s attention up to now, for she was as small and unformed as a child. But rumor had it that lately he’d been eyeing several of the young girls, as well as most of the rest of the women. Dear Shannon—brought here as a child by a father who disappeared soon afterward, without ever telling her what happened to her mother. She hadn’t smiled for years, yet still dreamed of someday being able to return to “a real church and regular school. And train to be an engineer. Or even an astronaut! You know, Sister Abigail, like we used to watch on TV—back before everything changed.”
Of course, some of the women the Prophet took might have been flattered by their leader’s attention. But, flattered or not, they had absolutely no choice. Not with the Prophet’s guards and guns around. Nor would Melinda, unless she and Shannon and her children all managed to escape before tomorrow night.
But how?
How to get past the many well-armed guards, including those on constant surveillance from the Tower of Sanctuary and all the guard towers; past the pit bulls, the barbed-wire-and-electric fences, the closed-circuit TV security system, the electronic bugs implanted everywhere, the massive gates at the compound’s only entrance?
And then what? How could Melinda run with no strength, no shoes, a sprained ankle, two small, tired and hungry children, plus Shannon, an equally exhausted teen-ager? What would they do for transportation, food, money? How far could they get before the Prophet’s jeeps, trucks, and motorcycles came rumbling through the deserted countryside after them, to take them back—or bury them where they fell?
“Trust in God,” Josh used to say, back before he was forced to say, “Trust in the Prophet,” instead. Now she silently pled with a God she had prayed to her entire life, but still didn’t really seem to know. Josh’s God. The One he had continued to love and trust unreservedly. The One she longed to love and trust completely, too.
Dear God, please help us now!
Chapter Four
Oh, the horror of Josh’s burial! Seeing the roughly-nailed-together coffin of the only man she had ever loved, tender husband and caring father, took almost all her strength away. Of course, it was even harder on her dear children and sweet little Shannon—for whom Josh had been the only father figure she could remember. Yet none of them was allowed to comfort each other. Or to touch or even get close to the coffin.
How did it happen? Did Josh fall from the loft or get crushed by some machinery? Could he have been saved if someone had called a doctor in Cottontree, or rushed him to the hospital over in Big Bend? There were trucks aplenty in the compound to take him either place. Apparently no one even notified the County Sheriff or Coroner—or a funeral home, for that matter.
Why not? Were they ordered not to—by the Prophet himself ?
It didn’t make sense. After all, Josh was not only one of the commune’s most loyal members, but—as the only computer expert among them—probably the most valuable one!
As all the Disciples were forced to watch, four of the guards dug a rough trench in the weed-filled Disappeared Ones area outside the Tower of Sanctuary, near one of the child-sized graves. Then, without hymn, prayer, or other comfort, the Prophet shouted, “See what happened to this sinner? This is God’s warning to a rebellious people! For Jehovah Himself killed this evil one for plotting against God’s Anointed!”
Beside him in scarlet robe and scarf, the Prophetess added sternly as the guards picked up 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
