The chanting abruptly stops.
So does the voice in my head, its echo disappearing, its presence drifting apart like clouds burned away by the sun.
I open my eyes, and I come back to myself.
Every woman in the room sits perfectly still, backs perfectly straight. The silence rings in my ears. Not a comfort, or even a relief. But it’s better than their inhuman raving. It’s better than feeling trapped in my own body, driven half-mad by the chanting.
I turn reluctantly to Irena, but her gaze is fixed on some far-off thing. Something I can’t possibly see. Her deity? Her Anguish?
Like an exhaled breath, tension flows out of the room. The heat lowers. Even the flames in the hearth seem to diminish, and everybody slumps. I feel like some presence has left this place, and we are here alone now, us mortals. The sisters blink, glancing around at one another, expressions of complete and utter reverence on their faces. As if they have all seen a vision of Heaven, and now know it to be real.
Irena turns to me, laying a hand on my shoulder. She must know how frightening the sisters sound in prayer, how theylook. This worship feels less like a churchscene and more like the ravings of the possessed, but I say nothing. I should get the fuck out of here after dinner. Do I really need to sleep in that lovely soft bed? Do I reallywantto?
‘Let us eat,’ says one of the sisters.
‘Let us eat,’ says another and another. Like a soft wave, the first warm blush of spring, their voices lift in gentleness. ‘Let us eat.’
For the first time I see that the table is already laid. There is bread, cheese, strange meat, and even stranger fruit. Despite my remaining unease, my stomach tightens not in fear but in hunger.
‘Let us eat,’ Irena says, squeezing my shoulder, before filling her plate with the available offerings.
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say, and I’m not certain I could speak if I wanted to. This is all too uncanny, too unreal, almost dreamlike. I’d rather fill my stomach and then work it out in the cockpit of a ship I know too well: its every curve and angle, the clang my boots make on its corrugated metal floors, the purr of her engine when she’s in atmosphere, the quiet drift of her form between stars. I know her like a friend, a lover, an extension of my own body.
I know what blood looks like, staining her walls. I know what it looks like when a skull bursts against the inner hull, I know what a crushed brain looks like, I know how a man sounds when he dies.
‘Try the bread,’ Irena suggests, taking my plate and serving me as if I’m a child, or she my servant. I don’t protest. I think she wants to care for me, or help me feel at ease. Maybe she can tell I didn’t like the worship. She dishes up bread, and a slab of some shining red meat, and slices of a white fruit that smells ripe and vivid. She pours from a large jug something hot and steaming, spiced.
‘Thank you,’ I manage. My voice, to my relief, sounds steady. Normal. Not, as I’d feared, shaky and weak with terror.
Why should I be terrified? Nothing happened. Nothingreal. What did I just witness but enthusiastic religion in action? Who am I to be offended, let alone frightened by such a thing?
Perhaps, I rationalize, every religion is like this. Maybe it’s not at all like I’ve seen in the films, or in books. This might be what it’s really all about. I was just taken off guard, that’s all.
It’s not the sisters’ fault I’m plagued with waking nightmares.
Irena shows me how to assemble the best bite of food: spread soft cheese on my bread, then lay a slice of meat on top, and if I like a bit of sweetness with my salt, I ought to layer thinly sliced fruit on top of that. I obey her instructions, and I’m taken aback by how good it tastes. How fresh and simple.
‘What kind of meat is it?’ I ask, reaching for my mug. I sip the hot liquid, and it feels like pure comfort as it warms my insides.
‘It is the flesh of a domesticated mammal, native to this planet,’ Irena answers. ‘Similar to a goat, or a sheep, though smaller. Heartier.’
‘And the drink?’
‘You like it?’
I nod. The food, the lively conversation about the table, my hunger abating … it all lulls me back to normality, almost docility. ‘Is it the wine you make here?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s good.’
One of the sisters leans over the table, catching my eye. She is one of the younger ones, maybe even younger than me. Her skin is almost as dark as the table’s wood. Her hood is pulled up over her hair. She smiles. ‘How do you find our planet, Midonia?’
‘It’s very …’ Cold? Primitive? Off-putting? ‘Fascinating. I’ve never seen a colony like this. No tech, no dedicated airfield. Do you even have a satellite radio?’
She shakes her head, still smiling. ‘No. Well, yes, but … we don’t use it.’
‘The radio is for my use,’ says Sister Cadence, seated nearby. ‘In case of dire emergency.’
