Читать книгу Songs for a Mockingbird - Bonnie Compton Hanson - Страница 8

But in a blur of wings, the mockingbird soared high overhead. He’d missed once more.

Turning the air blue with curses, “Move, woman. You’re wasting the Prophet’s time. And mine.” He grabbed her arm so tightly she almost collapsed.

Instead, praying for strength, she followed him on to the most massive of the commune buildings: the bleak concrete Tower of Sanctuary. At all times, two well-armed, well-paid men wearing, like the Messenger, the uniform of the Prophet’s elite Right Hands of Power, lounged on stained plastic lawn chairs under a canvas overhang outside its thick steel doors. Chain-smoking, tobacco-chewing, gulping beer, and trading yarns, they acted more like “good old boys” than formidable guards. But Melinda knew their trigger responses were lightning-fast. As were their pair of snarling pit bulls.

This graceless building—resembling a misbegotten grain elevator—housed the Disciples’ Teaching Tabernacle; the Altar; the dread Catacombs, including the Places of Inquiry, Repentance, and Judgment; and the Ark of Holiness—the Prophet’s super-secret living quarters.

Satellite dishes and various antennae and cameras sprouted from the Tower roof, along with a tattered American flag. Just below them, a small room on the top floor held an increasingly-sophisticated arsenal of computers, GPS, closed-circuit TV systems, and other hi-tech surveillance equipment. Plus piles of guns and ammo. Even though Josh was systems manager, in charge of keeping everything electronic running or else, he was never permitted to work there (even on his own computer) without a guard right beside him. And a gun pointed straight at his head.

“Yo, Gabe!” the guards shouted as the Messenger approached. Tossing him a cold beer, “Whassup, bud?”

They had gifts for Melinda, as well: two well-aimed spurts of tobacco juice. And shrill laughs.

As she tried to wipe her face with her scarf, Gabriel ordered, “Inside, woman. And keep your silence. This is holy ground.” Then he pushed her into a dark, narrow hallway with slime-covered walls. Oh, dear God, what will become of me? Will I never see my loved ones again?

Up to now, Melinda had only been allowed in the Teaching area of this fortress—though often enough to know every dreary inch of it by heart. For each and every night, following their cold, spare Evening Prayer Feast in the spartan Providence Pavilion, all the Disciples—men, women, and children—had to assemble in the Tabernacle for the Prophet’s messages.

Long ago, those nightly meetings had been delightful hour-long “Family Devotional Times,” with the adults poring over their own Bibles and discussing Scripture together, while special activities were provided for the children. Sometimes with a delicious dessert afterward. But as both the number of commune members and Harve’s own personal power increased, the Disciples’ Bibles were taken away, and only the Prophet permitted to speak. Forced to sit cross-legged on the concrete floor before him for four or five hours at a time, after long days of labor, his listeners—even little ones—were forbidden to doze or make any sound except “Amen,” or “As God wills.”

Or clap at the Prophet’s tuneless songs and laugh at his jokes.

Pictures of the Anointed Prophet and Exalted Prophetess and crudely-printed posters of their stern admonitions graced the Teaching Room’s unpainted concrete-block walls. And where an untrained but joyful choir once boomed out glad hymns and praise songs—accompanied by an old spinet piano and several guitars (including Melinda’s)—now the only music allowed was the Prophet’s off-key singing of his own “psalms,” while he banged on his bongo drums.

But today the Messenger hurried her past that room to a narrow metal door lettered crudely, “Repent or die!” He flung it open, revealing a steep flight of stairs dropping off into total darkness. The Catacombs!

“Go!” he ordered. Then a shove sent her reeling downward into the blackness as the door clanged shut behind her.

Falling hard on her right ankle, she was blinded by pain. And, as suddenly, by flashlights.

`“Get up, woman!” barked an unseen voice. “The Prophet is waiting.”

“My ankle—” she gasped.

“Silence! Do you want to anger the Prophet?”

Swallowing her moan, she struggled upward. Leaning against one wall for support, she managed to make it along the narrow hall. At its end, another door flung open, and Melinda was shoved inside.

The Place of Inquiry.

A single candle lit the bomb-shelter-like room. Immediately a sickly-sweet odor—like the pot Melinda remembered from Harve’s pre-conversion days—assaulted her nostrils. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Taped haphazardly around the rough concrete walls were pictures of America’s President and other Government officials—all scribbled over with doodlings and obscenities. Unseen small animals scurried among the piles of newspapers, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, spent shells, French fry cartons and empty beer cans littering the filthy floor, along with whips, clubs, and electric cattle prods. While two huge speakers blared raucous music so loud it seemed to vibrate through Melinda’s own body.

The Prophet squatted lotus-fashion in worn jeans and camouflage T-shirt on a faded piece of linoleum, beating away on his drums in time to the music. The unkempt curls and beard of his college days had long since been discarded for a smooth chin and closely-shaved skull, like those of his skinhead guards. A widening waist spilled out over a massive silver belt buckle and elaborately-tooled holster. At his feet dozed his just-as-well-fed favorite pit bull, The Avenging Angel.

Only the chain around the Prophet’s neck with its large Sign of the Anointed—solid gold in contrast to his guards’ silver ones—marked him as the Prophet instead of just another aging militia wannabe.

That and his well-worn Bible.

And his combat boots, glistening Glock pistol, and AK-47.

“Kneel!” ordered his guards, forcing her to the floor with their rifle-butts.

At first the Prophet simply kept on playing. Finally he stopped and turned to her.

“Sister Abigail,” he intoned solemnly, “the Prophetess and I have known you and your husband for many years.”

Yes, Harve, almost eleven years now. An eternity of wanting to believe in you. Josh kept pointing out how you were “ministering” night and day. He said you witnessed to unbelievers—that you spent hours praying and studying your Bible and listening to God. That you and Agnes needed the money the rest of us earned to pay for this ministry. That’s why we all hung in there. What happened?

Suddenly the Prophet smiled meanly. “What a pity. Your husband has been weighed in the balances and found wanting.”

Her head jerked up as if slapped. “Josh!” she cried, without thinking. “Is he all right?”

He beat furiously on his drums. “God judged Brother Shimron in the barn today!” he shouted with sudden fury. “Yes, cast him down to his death for his pride and his evil, rebellious thoughts! Take heed and repent, lest you likewise die!”

She could not think. She could not move. She could only scream inside, No, no, no, no, NO! God, please! You can’t! You can’t! Not my beloved Josh. It’s not fair!

Suddenly he jumped up. Striding rapidly across the room, he stood before her, then leaned over. Lifting her face to his, he smirked.

“But God is merciful to you, Sister Abigail. He told me that I can cover the blood of your husband’s transgressions with the cloak of my own holiness. Therefore, after cleansing our camp from this evil, tomorrow night you and your young co-worker, Sister Deborah, will receive the Sign of the Anointed and become my newest Exalted Handmaidens.” Touching her shoulder suggestively, “May your bodies be as fruitful in the Prophet’s service as your needlework, bringing forth many Sons and Daughters of Light. Of course, before that privilege, you must still complete your sewing orders on time!”

Abruptly taking her hands in his, he smothered them with sloppy kisses.

Then pushing her away, “Pee-ew! Is that ‘baccy juice I smell? Get out!”

“M-my husband!” she stammered. “Where is my darling husband?”

But the Prophet was once more pounding away at his drums. And the guards were already pulling her along the hall, banging her injured ankle roughly against the concrete floor.

Outside, numb with shock, she gasped, “My son—is he all right? And my husband—my husband’s b-body. I must prepare him for burial. Where is he?”

One guard sneered. “None of your business, woman. We already nailed that varmint’s casket shut. We’ll bury him tonight just before Evening Prayer Feast. But, don’t worry, the Prophet will soon have you forgetting that loser. Consider yourself lucky.”

The other was sterner. “Never mention that son of the devil again! And thank God the Prophet is willing to save you from condemnation. Now back to your sewing room. You still have a deadline to meet. Go on; git!”

The pain in both heart and ankle almost overwhelmed her. Yet she knew if she dared cry out as her very soul longed to, she’d be beaten savagely. Or worse.

You’re the one who believed in Harve, not me; I never believed in anyone but you. I can’t even understand God the way you do. Yet I never stopped hoping that this nightmare would end. That someday I would be back in your arms, and everything would be just like old times.

But now it’s too late. Oh, dear God, never to hold you again? I can’t bear it!

And what about her children? Little Jeremy had been in the barn, too. Did he see it all? Was he all right? Was little Amber?

At her first step outside, she collapsed in agony. Finally she tore a strip off her dress hem to bandage her badly swollen ankle. Then, rummaging around in the weeds, she found a rickety tomato stake for a cane, and stumbled back to the sewing room.

Amid the furtive glances and whispers of her co-workers, Melinda’s fingers were soon working as feverishly as her mind. Yes, Josh had obviously decided to leave, and take her and the children with him. He must have been found out by the Prophet, who would stop at nothing to maintain his diabolical hold over them all. Including his just-stated intention to take both Josh’s widow and her young friend to his own bed.

The imprints of the Prophet’s lips against her hands still burned. Dear God, she loved only Josh and always had. This man must never touch her body.

But how to stop him? In the two years since the Prophet’s “special revelation” to acquire a harem of Exalted Handmaidens, he and his wife Agnes, now the Exalted (and exceedingly plump) Prophetess, had sneeringly bestowed Sign of the Anointed chains and pendants (of common pewter, instead of precious metal like the men’s) on a dozen Disciple women, and ordered them to his bed. A bed Agnes no longer bothered to share. And, later, welcomed to the compound his mistresses’ infant Sons and Daughters of Light. Babies the Prophetess, thankfully, determined never to produce herself.

Although almost fourteen, Melinda’s young coworker Shannon had escaped the Prophet’s attention up to now, for she was as small and unformed as a child. But rumor had it that lately he’d been eyeing several of the young girls, as well as most of the rest of the women. Dear Shannon—brought here as a child by a father who disappeared soon afterward, without ever telling her what happened to her mother. She hadn’t smiled for years, yet still dreamed of someday being able to return to “a real church and regular school. And train to be an engineer. Or even an astronaut! You know, Sister Abigail, like we used to watch on TV—back before everything changed.”

Of course, some of the women the Prophet took might have been flattered by their leader’s attention. But, flattered or not, they had absolutely no choice. Not with the Prophet’s guards and guns around. Nor would Melinda, unless she and Shannon and her children all managed to escape before tomorrow night.

But how?

How to get past the many well-armed guards, including those on constant surveillance from the Tower of Sanctuary and all the guard towers; past the pit bulls, the barbed-wire-and-electric fences, the closed-circuit TV security system, the electronic bugs implanted everywhere, the massive gates at the compound’s only entrance?

And then what? How could Melinda run with no strength, no shoes, a sprained ankle, two small, tired and hungry children, plus Shannon, an equally exhausted teen-ager? What would they do for transportation, food, money? How far could they get before the Prophet’s jeeps, trucks, and motorcycles came rumbling through the deserted countryside after them, to take them back—or bury them where they fell?

“Trust in God,” Josh used to say, back before he was forced to say, “Trust in the Prophet,” instead. Now she silently pled with a God she had prayed to her entire life, but still didn’t really seem to know. Josh’s God. The One he had continued to love and trust unreservedly. The One she longed to love and trust completely, too.

Dear God, please help us now!