Читать книгу Songs for a Mockingbird - Bonnie Compton Hanson - Страница 10

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 by the time little Amber Anne came along, Melinda’s newest was allowed only hand-me-downs. For by then all the time and energy of all Disciples, women as well as men, had been commandeered in the name of—and for the purse of—their Prophet. All families were split up, with men and boys in one dorm, women and girls in another. After that, the only commune babies born were those sired by Harve—whose desperate mothers still had to work just as hard at all their other tasks. Since oil paintings took far too much time to produce anything saleable, Melinda was forced from her art to her needlework. For the Prophet’s use, not hers.

That night, after many more hours of intricate needlework under inadequate lighting, and no food, Melinda was almost at the breaking point. Exhaustion and terror filled the room—especially after midnight, when the other Disciples hurried by on their way back from the night’s Teaching for a few hours of rest. After that, only the clattering sewing machines broke the oppressive silence.

With nothing to eat since yesterday morning’s usual cold rice, the seamstresses’ fingers often faltered. But still Sister Dorcas drove them on. “We dare not disappoint the Prophet!” she commanded—as much for herself as for the others.

Even so, only the damp night’s chill settling in through the open doorway enabled Melinda to keep her eyes open. That, and the bucket of water she kept her right foot in to help with the swelling. And the heart broken deep within her.

Then, near dawn, young Shannon nodded off at her sewing machine, running its needle right through her hand. But before her screams could split the air, Sister Dorcas clamped her hands tightly over the girl’s mouth. And prayed in terror.

At their own workstations, the other women were just as horrified. Not only for Shannon’s injury, but for its possible consequences for them all. What if, God forbid, the Prophet or any of his guards heard her cry? Even small children with severe earaches quickly learned not to provoke the Prophet’s wrath by sobbing in pain and disturbing his “holy sleep.” Most of the women had endured the humiliation and pain of being beaten and chained to a cruel Repentance Punishment Post for far lesser transgressions.

Trembling, Melinda herself yanked out the needle. Then she and Dorcas dunked the girl’s badly-bleeding hand into Melinda’s pail of water. Adding a quick prayer to a little iodine, they wrapped the already-swelling appendage in some fabric scraps from the quilting basket.

Then back to work for everyone, including Shannon. But because blood kept oozing out of her bandages onto her work, she was soon re-assigned to sweeping up and delivering supplies to the others.

Melinda’s heart bled as deeply as her young friend’s wound. Never, never should anyone have to work in such conditions— especially not someone so young! Not in the Name of the loving God Melinda had read about in the Bible back at the coffeehouse! The same God her husband had believed in to the death! A God of love and light—not one of mutilation and repression of both body and spirit.

Oh, if only Melinda could escape, she would storm back with an army of sheriffs, and free all the poor little children here! Yes, and all the men and women, too!

But back to that same unanswered question, “How?”

Fingers never stopping, she glanced out the nearest window for inspiration. By now the night stars were paling, and bare feet already began to shuffle by the glassless window frames on their way to Morning Prayer Feast. Soon some Disciples passed close enough to be recognized—including her own son.

She stared intently, hungrily at Jeremy’s sweet, grave face, so like his father’s, hoping for a nod or even a smile. Instead, he frowned and pointed to his left hand—then looked at her expectantly, even desperately, until pushed on by his grim Guardian Angel.

His left hand . . . what in the world could be significant about Jeremy’s left hand? That was the one she had held at Josh’s burial . . . yes, with her right one. Until the Prophet had thrust the shovel at her right hand, and she discovered that her fingers were clutching a small wad of paper. Could that paper have been important? Why, maybe it was a note!

But what had she done with it? Think, think . . .

Put it in her apron pocket, most likely. Yes! But as her right hand slipped down to her lap to check—

“Sister Abigail!” her supervisor barked. “Let’s see both hands up on that table working!”

“Sorry, I-uh, dropped a spool,” she mumbled.

The note would have to wait.

Finally, “All right, Sisters!” Sister Dorcas announced again. “You are doing so well, you may all now take a bathroom break. But no food. And get back here immediately after your turn!”

Melinda almost quivered with anticipation as she stood in line outside the foul-smelling outdoor privy. Once inside, she would have barely a minute to attend to her personal needs and also pull out that crumpled scrap of paper, smooth it, and read it, before the next just-as-weary woman pounded on the door. The outhouse was unlit—but those huge flood lights glaring in through the cracks and knotholes in its walls should give her enough light to read by.

But a few moments later, as she headed back to the workroom, Melinda could hardly contain her disappointment. Why, that was no note at all—just a stupid scrap of paper torn from some fertilizer invoice, showing the words “with,” “go,” and “shipment.”

Soon the Prophet’s Messenger stopped by again to check on their progress. “Now remember,” he warned. “This shipment must go on time—or else!”

And then it came to Melinda: “Go—with—shipment.”

Simple coincidence? Or was this a desperate message from her young son?

Or even one passed on to Jeremy from Josh, just before he—

Of course! Josh must have been planning their escape. Since the entire compound was surrounded by a 12-foot high barbed wire and electric fence, the only way out—short of a non-existent plane or helicopter—was through the well-guarded front gates. These were always kept locked, except when various trucks, jeeps, motorcycles, or tractors were driven through them by Harve or Agnes. Or by one of their guards on his way to town to get supplies, or to deliver corn and other cash crops from the commune like the sewing order going out tonight. Or even to spend a wild night on the town. Incoming orders were always delivered at the gatehouse itself.

Josh must have wanted her and the children to somehow sneak out to the truck that would be transporting the sewing bundles, without being seen. And then hide among the bags of finished sewing orders for a ride through those gates and on to the outside world—hopefully, all the way to Cottontree. Or even to Big Bend City, if the truck went that far. A perfect plan.

Except, of course, an impossible one.

Or was it?

Finally, just before the evening meal, the last order was finished and wrapped.

“All right,” barked the Messenger, “everyone grab a bundle or two, and take them out to the barn. Come on, get moving here. We can load everything in only four or five trips each, if no one’s lazy. And you know how we reward lazy Disciples!”

In the barn, Melinda found the same truck that had been parked there earlier, now with its sides up and most—but not all— of the hay bales removed. Two guards took the packages from the women and threw them up onto the remaining hay. When all the bundles were on board, they secured a blue plastic tarpaulin over the top. Last of all, the Messenger put up the tailgate.

“All right, that’ll do it,” he shouted. “Time for Evening Prayer Feast. Move it, move it, move it!”

The famished, half-dead women dragged off toward the Pavilion. Only Melinda lingered, pretending to rewrap her ankle while she looked around the barn and truck. How could she ever get her children away from their Guardian Angel? Or Shannon from her work crew? How could they all hide under that tarp without being seen? And get out of the compound without being missed?

Oh, if her head would just quit aching so she could think! Or if the God Josh had trusted so much would just do a miracle for her like the ones she had read about in the Bible!

“This kind can come forth by nothing, but by prayer and fasting.” (Mark 9:29)

What, what? A Bible verse . . . but why did she think of that particular one?

Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. Yes! Oh, thank You, God. For now she had her plan.