The closest I’ve gotten to school, besides those weeks with Bertie, were the mild, green-smelling days in the Community when the Prophet taught the children beside the pond. He read aloud from the Book of Prophecies, tales of sage believers garbed in golden feathers fighting the hell demons of the Gentiles with swords made only of God’s light.
One afternoon, when I was eight or nine, the Prophet called the children for a lesson. Constance walked, hand in mine, in that jerky way of almost-babies, and we arranged ourselves around the pond. In the distance, men thunked axes into wood, and nearby my mother breathed through her nose as she stared into the murky surface of the pond. She couldn’t do much else, so she was put in charge of the children while the Prophet gave his lessons.
From his billowing cloak, the Prophet extracted the Book of Prophecies.
“‘Do not stray into the land of the Gentiles, for they humiliate God with their arts that pay Him no homage, with dances that contort the body in evil motions that defile purity, with the wicked writings that question Him and criticize Him and say He doesn’t exist and never has.’”
I had heard this passage a thousand times. It formed the rule book for our behavior—the Gentiles do these things, so we do not.
“Why can’t we write, Prophet?” I interrupted.
He let the book fall a few inches as his sharp eyes took me in. “Because it is an abomination in the eyes of God.”
“You write,” I noted.
“The only people who need to write are those who record God’s deeds.”
“Then why can’t we read? So we can know the deeds of God.”
“If you could read, you would be able to read the wicked writings, too, and God does not approve the risk. You have a Prophet to read to you, and that is just as good as reading for yourself.”
“Why can’t we do painting?” I asked. “Surely that can’t be an abomination to God.”
He crossed his arms. A darkness darted across his face, a storm growing in his gray-shot eyes. “I’m not sure I can explain it in a way you will understand. You are merely a girl child.”
“I’ll try to understand, Prophet,” I replied.
Maybe he knew that the question wouldn’t die without an answer. His eyes roamed upward. “Do you know what the sky is?”
He raised his hand as though to touch the clear blue expanse above. “It is a great piece of canvas stretched all the way across the world. And on it, God paints. We do not paint because there is no need. The greatest painting of all already exists.”
“The sky is a canvas?” I asked, turning my eyes to the bright blue that, to me, appeared endless. It looked like a clear pond that went on forever.
The Prophet nodded, his hand shadowed darkly against the brilliant blue. “God made the sky for us to know Him. When it’s sunny, can’t you feel His joy beaming down? When it storms, you can’t mistake His anger. And rain—what do you think rain is?”
“Tears,” I said, catching on. “But what about at night? What does the darkness mean?”
“It means He’s sleeping. It means His eyes are closed.”
“But what about lightning and—”
“God’s bad dreams,” he cut in, already one step ahead. “Now, does that answer your questions, Minnow?”
I chewed on my lip and nodded.
I barely heard the rest of the lesson because, over my head, the universe was receding, the world growing smaller and smaller, and the Prophet growing larger and larger. Somewhere, far off, I sensed a sound like pressure rising in the air, the feeling that a hinge was squeaking. The next time I looked, the sky didn’t seem so endless anymore.
I shot a glance at my mother. She didn’t appear to even see us, the way she swirled her toes in the water.
“But what are the stars?” I demanded too loudly.
The Prophet turned to me, his lower lip twisted. “Why do you want to know, Sister Minnow?” he asked pointedly. Constance, her body a warm presence at my side, grew tense. “Your questions could lead one to believe that you are doubting God. There are consequences for disbelief.”
My heart began to thump loudly. “I just . . . just want to know . . . about the world He created.”
He considered this. “The stars . . . they are a way for God to see us even when He is asleep. They are His eyes. And when you see the stars flickering, that’s how you know He is watching you.”
My heart squirmed in my chest, my hands pink and tightly fisted in my lap. Whenever I pictured God, I didn’t imagine an omnipotent force that could observe us from on high. I imagined a boy my age, going to school, living in the world. A boy named Charlie.
“But—” I sputtered, “but how are His eyes up in the sky if He’s really Charlie? I thought He was walking the earth right now.”