Deep Redemption

“Yes.”

“But you will not repent?”

The low rumblings of distant thunder echoed above us, but I blocked them out, straining to hear Rider’s response.

“No,” he finally confessed. “No matter what they do, I will not repent.” He dragged in a labored breath. “I cannot . . . I cannot agree with what they want me to agree with, the actions they want me to ignore.”

My heart sank at the pain, the cutting rejection in his deep voice. My head lifted from my hands, and even knowing he could not see me, I pressed my palm against the wall. I knew what that level of pain felt like. I recognized the sadness in the way he spoke.

“What did you do?” I pushed myself to ask.

My fingers pressed harder against the stone wall as I waited for him to speak. “Too much,” he replied vaguely. “Too many unforgiveable things.” He sighed. “I deserve these beatings and more, Harmony. The things I have done . . . ” I could feel his sorrow passing through the thick wall. “I should be here. I should be getting this treatment.” He took a deep breath and whispered, “I am beginning to think it should be worse.”

I stayed silent. I heard the conviction in his voice. He meant it, every single word. He truly thought he should be getting hurt, punished . . . killed. I wondered what he had done that was so bad. I opened my mouth, about to ask, but as I did music began to play outside.

I jumped as the sound cut through the heavy stone walls of the cell. My eyes drifted to the window. The rain had eased, blue skies once again chasing away the gray.

The music faded out and Rider said sadly, “The Lord’s Sharing has ended.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. I clenched my thighs together, imagining what the girls who had been chosen to participate would be feeling right now. Each man who had taken part would have strictly adhered to Prophet David’s guidebook of how to reach celestial purity through intercourse with the girls. The girls whose tender, trusting hearts would be bruised by the wickedness of the men who had just robbed them of their innocence. Nausea built in my throat. I could not bear the dark thoughts, the tightness that fractured my chest.

Rider did not say anything else. I did not speak either. There was nothing much to say. I imagined he knew what was happening in that hall of evil just as well as I.

Heavy footsteps came down the hallway, and I straightened to sit against the wall. Just as I righted myself, the door was pushed open and two disciple guards entered the cell: Solomon and Samson. They looked down at me, their guns in their hands. I met their eyes and felt fear take hold of me.

“Come,” Solomon said. I got to my feet.

Samson pointed at my veil and headdress. “Fix yourself, quickly. You have been summoned to the mansion.” My heart fell.

The prophet. Prophet Cain had called for me.

With shaky hands, I fixed my veil in place. I smoothed down my dress. My jaw tightened in trepidation. I hated that meeting the prophet brought out such a strong, fearful reaction in me. I needed to be stronger than this.

Gather your wits, Harmony. You can do this.

“We must go,” Solomon said from behind me. Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked to the guards. My eyes drifted down to the gap at the bottom of the cell wall. I thought of Rider lying on the floor, hurt. My heart lurched. I liked speaking to the stranger. I felt a kinship with him. He was like me, an outcast. His feelings and thoughts mirrored my own. I was desperate to discover why he was here, what he had done.

I was not sure I would ever know.

The guards led me down the hallway. We passed Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth’s cell; through the open door I could see Sister Ruth sewing what appeared to be new veils and garments for me. Brother Stephen was cleaning the floor. I was happy their door was open. It meant they had a freer rein than I. They were at least able to leave their cell to carry out their duties through this mess.

I caught their eyes as I passed. They both stopped what they were doing and cast me supportive, encouraging smiles.

When we went outside, the cloggy stormy air wrapped around me. The breeze pressed my dress against my body, showcasing my figure. I pulled at the material, trying to make it less revealing. It was no use.

We passed a group of disciple guards who were walking toward a building of some kind; they all stopped to watch me walk by. I tried to keep my eyes cast down, but I could not help but look up. Their shirts were loose, and sweat covered their faces. A sudden wave of revulsion traveled through me—they had been at the Lord’s Sharing. My mind drifted to the girls they would have reached celestial pleasure with.

It was sickening.

Samson’s hand pushed on my back, forcing me to keep moving. I did, following Solomon up a graveled path. When we reached the top, I drank in the sight before me. Land as far as the eye could see, peppered with buildings. It was beautiful, all landscaped, with several vegetable gardens and areas for crops.

We walked over the soft grass, the ground wet from the rain. My toes squelched in my sandals. As we turned a corner, I saw a huge white house in the near distance. It was a beautiful building. Instantly, I knew that only one person in New Zion could live there.

Prophet Cain.

My heart raced faster and faster with each step that I took. Grass changed to gravel as we walked up the central path to the mansion. Just as we reached the steps to the entrance, a red-haired woman came through the doors. Beside her was a young girl, no older than seven or eight, holding her hand. The little girl had long blond hair and bright blue eyes. Even from my vantage point I could see that the girl was beautiful. They disappeared from sight around the back of the mansion.

Inside, the house was vast and beautiful, a palace of opulence. I smelled heavy incense drifting in the air.

Solomon led me to a high wooden door. He rapped on the wood three times. A deep voice shouted for us to enter. I forced myself to stand straight. I forced myself to hold my composure. You can get through this, Harmony. You must.

The door opened and Samson guided me through. There were two guards straight ahead. They held guns, though they were dressed in white tunics rather than their usual black uniforms. They too looked red from exertion . . . no doubt exhausted from the Lord’s Sharing.

We came to a halt. I could not see in front of me; Brother Solomon was blocking my view. The room was silent; the sound of my slow, controlled breathing seemed to fill every inch of space.

Solomon stepped aside. I kept my head down, as Sister Ruth had told me to. Meeting the prophet was the highest honor for our people and the scriptures informed us that certain etiquette was expected.