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Everyone submits to the Family, eventually.
No matter how hard they fight.
Everyone breaks.
I hear something outside the barn wall. Movement. Through the wide, weathered slats I see lights flickering back and forth. It's the procession. Gina is supposed to be transported here in a kind of formal parade, guided by her clan of older sisters and other Family women, the aunties, as we call them. They whisper to her, some singing and some almost chanting, encouraging her to enter the barn.
Owen leans forward in his throne, waiting to see motion on the large, rolling door. I can hear his breath coming faster now. He’s so taken with these ceremonies, I almost find it embarrassing. No one can doubt his piety, but sometimes I find his enthusiasm bordering on something else. Something deeper. Something primal. I wonder about his true motives.
But I can’t think about that now either. I need to focus. What name will I give her? She’s so thoroughly “Gina” in my memory, it’s a struggle to see her future with a new name. But I have to rename her, to offer her a clean slate for her future as a Family woman. It’s important for her sense of clarity that she receives her womanly path without being encumbered by her former self.
We are all about perfection here.
The door shudders briefly, then stops, as though it’s almost too heavy to move. I see Brother Owen scrub his palm over his face in frustration. He doesn’t have to worry. It will happen. Always does.
It's important that she opens the door herself. Presumably the aunties have given her at least some idea of what the deflowering ceremony is all about, but they never tell them the whole thing. There's always some element of surprise, maybe some fear.
I leave that up to them. The aunties know best how to shape these new women. They know how they need to be molded, to be taken apart and reborn in the holy duties of service. The aunties know each girl’s individual struggles, and how to coach them onto the divine path. They are like lengths of new tree boughs in the aunties’ able hands. A little twisting, a small bend or break here and there — nothing permanent — and the boughs can take on the most wonderful shapes.
They become pliant.
Some of them are too bold. Some of them are too shy. Some of them harbor a sinful, self-interested lust that needs to be redirected for their Masters. I don't know how they do it, but they take the mission very seriously. They are always coming up with just the right kind of reeducation.
In a way, Owen and I are merely their tools.
The door shudders again, and I hear the large casters begin to roll on the gritty track. Owen leans forward on his throne, gripping the armrest tightly.
As the large panel begins to move, I see the other members gathered outside, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement. They peer into the barn, though I'm not really sure why. There's nothing to see here. Just a large space that every adult woman has entered at least once. Once for baptism, again for deflowering, perhaps again to join with her Master.
And yet, they're still eager to reconnect. Their eyes shine, reflecting the strings of lights on the ceiling. I recognize them all. And yet I don't see them, not really. After the ceremonies, that brief connection is dissolved. They move onto other paths. My calling is to ensure the life of our Family. Our spiritual life, our everlasting redemption.
As is my duty, I look for Gina. She struggles with the door, leaning her weight against it and shoving with one shoulder against the heavy weight. When it's all the way open, she stands up straight and juts her chin defiantly in my direction as if to answer some challenge. As if opening the door further than necessary is aggressive or dominating.
Defiant to the last moment, I suppose. Right down to the very last seconds that this behavior will be permitted. No matter. She’ll alter like everyone else does.
Everyone submits.
She's wearing a long, white cotton gown that comes to her ankles. As she steps forward, the panels flutter slightly around her, exposing the edges of her thighs all the way up to her waist. The traditional garment is split up each side, only appearing to be sewn all the way together when she stands perfectly still. As soon as she moves, it's easy to see that really, it's two loose panels draped over her, front and back. So easy to tear aside. So easy to twist into rope.
The four aunties come with her, covered in their long, coarse, burgundy robes. The first two shuffle quickly ahead of Gina, taking their place in front of her. They walk with small steps between her and the dais on which Owen and I currently sit.
The other two roll the door closed behind her, shutting out the other curious faces. They want to watch. Of course they do. Some want to remember their own ceremonies. Some are fascinated, some are thrilled in an unseemly way.
But they're not allowed to watch, and they know it. They will disperse in a moment. The punishment for interfering in a sacred ceremony is nothing they want to risk.
The aunties take even, small steps as they approach. They are positioned two in front and two in back, like the four corners of a box. Gina is in the center… the jewel in the center of a box. The white, shining pearl transported slowly over the dusty, hard floor.
Owen swallows loudly, and I can hear the click of his Adam’s apple. He's sweating now. Eager, vibrating. Maybe too eager. Or maybe he's just more filled with spirit than I am.
How will I name her? Gina? Ginaaaaaa? I roll the word around in my mind, willing it to turn into something new. Nothing comes to me.
Her eyes are dark and laser focused on mine as she comes forward. She's trying to tell me she's not frightened. She's trying to reach out to me, to establish a connection. She’s acting like we will meet as equals.
It's not going to happen that way. For a moment I almost pity her.
The first two aunties reach the dais and mount the two small steps. They circle behind Brother Owen and me, sliding their hands over our shoulders, opening our robes at the neck. I feel the woman's fingers against my throat, tugging at the thick, tied cord until the knot loosens. She reaches around with both hands to open the robe in front of me, sliding it over my chest, laying my torso bare. I feel her lean toward me.
“Rise,” she says in a low voice in my ear, and I obey.
