By the time we’re inside, bathed in sudden firelight and warmth, the urge has slid away, forgotten.
5
Long tables lined with benches fill the dining hall. A great hearth burns along the far wall, logs crackling in orange flame. The tables are mostly full, the last dozen or so women trailing in as Irena and I enter. The air is warm, bright; all around me is the sound of soft voices, of companionship. But there is a heaviness also. A pressure on my chest.
It’s the altitude, I reason. Exhaustion, hunger.
I take a seat alongside Irena. Sister Cadence, who welcomed us earlier, sits among the rest of the sisters. Is there a leader here? As one, the seated sisters hold out their hands, clasping those of their neighbors. And I remember, of course, their deity.Anguish.
Heis the leader.
Here in the remotest edges of space, on an otherwise uninhabited planet, these women could do whatever they wanted. They are at peace. They look after themselves. They seem utterly happy. A searing flame of emotion licks the back of my throat, at the knowledgethat these women, these self-sufficient and intelligent women, still owe fealty to amale god.
The sisters begin to pray.
I grip Irena’s hand with a little too much tension. On my other side, a woman with long grey hair holds my hand in hers as she and the others’ voices rise in a chant.
I tense at the sound. I’m not used to prayer, nor am I fond of it. I’ve only heard hymns in funeral homes. I’ve only spoken words to so-called ‘God’ at my lowest, when the universe seemed ready to forget about me and let me fall through its cracks to some depthless void below. But he never did anything to help me.
I cannot participate in the prayer. I don’t know the words. I let the prayer wash over me as the tempo speeds. The sisters’ voices grow deeper, louder.
I glance around in vague discomfort. Every woman’s eyes are closed tight, their lips moving in tandem, spittle flecking the edges of some mouths. These women are young and old, frail and healthy, some beautiful, others less so, all of them joined in this one act.
The worship seems to go on forever.
The firelight dances.
Outside the dining hall, darkness fills the windows. I begin to feel cramped, hot, too tight, until the pressure in my chest grows unendurable.
I can’t breathe.
I’m about to drop Irena’s hand, to wrench myself from this unbroken circle and make my way outside for a desperate lungful of fresh cool air, when the chanting grows erratic. Frantic. No longer are the words spoken in unison. Some sisters murmur as if to themselves, chins dipped to their chests. Some raise their voices high, nearly shrieking in the thick heat. Others say nothing now, tears dripping down their twisted faces. It is a cacophony. A discordant auditory melee, sickening in its confusion, in the way these women seem overcome by it, convulsing with it, clutching their faces and stomachs, pulling at their hair.
I’m transfixed, frozen in a disgusted kind of awe, aware suddenly that I have no idea what the sistersdo, or what their deity asks of them. Anything could happen. I’ve heard plenty of stories about zealots and cults … At any second one of the sisters might pick up a knife and drag it across her skin, or plunge it through the flesh of her neighbor.
My mouth waters, and I swallow the thick saliva down my throat.
I drop the sisters’ hands to clutch the bench, knuckles white, willing myself to get up. To get out of here. No home-cooked meal is worth this. I’m too hot, the voices all over and around me, drilling into my ears. The wracked cries, the sobs. I close my eyes and allI hear is pain, suffering … and then I see something all too familiar, a memory, more vivid than ever before.
I see broken bodies. I smell blood. Blood on my boots, blood in my hair. I feel blood sticky between my fingers. Blood dripping from the broken pieces ofthem. Blood, hot, tangy, wet … a memory of voices cut short.
They deserved it.They deserved it.
Sudden and sensual, a voice penetrates my mind. It hums through my insides, stroking every nerve, setting me on fire. It’shim. I know this with a sickening certainty. My shadow, flaming hot like a dying star in my chest.
MIDONIA.
I gasp sharply as the voice invades me, my own name reverberating through my head. I’ve never heard him speak in words before. He has always called for me with feelings, or through the distant melody of a dream. This new sensation of his voice, obscene and slick, drags along my skin. Something unseen caresses my sweat-pricked neck, while seeking fingers slither up my dress …
YOU CAME TO ME.
My stomach clenches and I writhe, trying to free myself of the sisters’ voices, their clamorous wailing overpowering all my senses. But I can’t stop it. I’m trapped in the worship, in this unhinged ardor, unable to release myself. I can’t speak, can’t move, can’t protest in any way. Cold terror drips down my spine.
What are they going to do?
Unseen fingertips grip my thighs, gouging into my heated skin.
What ishegoing to do?
