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I'm thrilled, happy enough to dance. But then I feel it again. My demon. I feel it as though I've just disturbed it from slumber. I feel it lift its head and sniff the air. I feel it in my belly, hot and throbbing, ready to uncoil again.
It's still in me.
Silas
I find Owen close to the quilting shed, talking with Mary. Even from fifty yards away, I sense that something isn't right. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, while her hands dart frantically in front of her like birds. She apparently has a lot to say. It looks like she's making her case by physically shoving it at him.
As I get closer, her gaze flashes toward me. She narrows her eyes menacingly and pauses just for a moment. I see her pause, standing still with her lips slightly open, before returning to launch another assault on Owen.
I don't mind that at all. He can take everything she feels like dishing out, as far as I'm concerned. I've got enough on my plate, that's for certain.
For a moment I consider taking the long way back to my house. Maybe a shower to clear my head. Maybe even finding my old tennis shoes and going for a run. Anything to work out this nervous energy that seems to be lighting me up like an overactive switchboard. Some kind of old-fashioned, outdated machine that has more lights than anybody knows what to do with. It's too much at once.
And now there's all this to deal with.
“You let this happen!” she hisses at me when I'm close enough to hear her. She stabs at the air with one finger, directing the complete force of her accusation in my direction. Owen looks visibly relieved and takes a half step back.
“Don't go anywhere,” I warn him. “I need you.”
“How could you let this happen?” she continues. “Who was watching her? What have you been teaching Seth?”
I get within eight feet of her and stop, raising my hands in front of me like I'm surrendering or something.
“I don't know what you’re talking about, Mary. I promise you that nothing Seth did was condoned in any way by either Brother Owen or myself. I can’t believe you would even think such a thing, much less make that accusation.”
“Will he must have learned it from somewhere!” she hisses.
I shrug helplessly. Learned it from somewhere? Does she seriously think anyone has to train a boy up like that? All our efforts going to training that kind of vulgarity out of them.
But I suppose she's just mad. Probably mostly mad at Seth, and Angel too, if I know how the women around here work. But Owen and I are certainly closest to her at the moment, so we are getting the brunt of it right now. If Seth were here, I would fear for his life.
“I’m going to take care of it,” I inform her.
She knuckles her wide, pillowy hips, her elbows jutting out at acute angles. Bending at the waist, she leans over slightly.
“I should hope so!” she snarls. “We can’t have that kind of thing here. It’s like a fungus — it spreads! Fix it!”
I don't think I've seen her quite so invigorated in a long time. She mostly parades around here like a bonafide prophet, waiting for people to listen to whatever she has to say.
But I suppose, she has earned it. Mary mostly engaged herself by writing rituals and ceremonies as soon as we started. She authored much of what newcomers think has always been the Kingdom Come dogma. Many of them don't even realize it was Mary who invented many of our holiest procedures. The deflowering ceremony was her idea, originally. She felt it would enhance our Family connection.
“Perhaps you should give the education of young men a little more thought, Mary,” I suggest, trying to keep my tone even so she doesn't think I'm taunting her, which I sort of am. Her meddling has not always been my favorite thing. But we are a tight community, and sometimes you have to take the help you are offered.
“Maybe I will do that. Somebody should!” she sniffs.
“Get back to me on that. I look forward to your counsel.”
Her chin juts proudly in the air. She’ll come up with something, I’m sure. And it will definitely be a help. We are about to have four women who need Masters, and none of the boys are ready for that responsibility.
“So I suppose you know what we have to do now,” I sigh, glancing sidelong at Owen.
“Oh,” Mary exhales as she realizes what I’m referring to. She wrote this one herself, too. She knows exactly what we have to do with Seth.
“I think he has probably gone along home to nurse his wounds,” Owen observes. He looks away, clearly dreading the next hour.
“Let’s get this done, then,” I suggest, unable to keep the sour tone from my voice.
Owen says nothing as we march down the dusty path, not making eye contact with anyone. From the looks we’re getting, I sense the excitement is growing. Seth’s crime is a highly unusual one in the Family, and the punishment is suitably dramatic.
