One by one, they threw their water till I was soaked and shivering with a vehemence that could’ve broken bones.
My father’s wives came in a group and threw their water all at once. They turned around without a glance. My siblings came after, the smaller ones with their arms quaking from the weight of the bucket, lifting it onto their thin shoulders and tossing it with all their might. My oldest brother, Jedediah, threw his water directly on my face and I had to lean up, body doubled, coughing, trying to blow the water from my nose. I didn’t see Constance. They must’ve taken her back to the maidenhood room.
I heard a little boy whimper that he was cold. I heard water slide from my dowel-straight hair and collect on the ground. And I heard the Prophet’s repetitious chanting as though from miles underwater. Every minute, I felt myself dip almost out of consciousness until the next bucketful landed and I’d come rushing back.
Eventually, the water stopped. Over the groan of the rope, I could make out the smack of boot falls as the Community receded into their houses. The Prophet, too. Beneath me, the water was forming a thick pile of ice. My hair was hard with it.
I realized, then, that they were going to leave me here. To freeze to death. Without thought, I accepted it as one does a hand of cards. I relaxed and tried to ignore the burning in my legs, the bright blush in my cheeks from heat that didn’t make sense. Jude was dead. There was nothing left. No future to imagine. I wanted to sleep, just to sleep.
Like a meteor, into my mind came the memory of Constance locked up in the maidenhood room, her whole body burning with infection, her mind burning with lies she’d been fed since our mother pushed her out into the world. More than anything, it was my duty to keep her safe. And she’d never be, not with the Prophet still around. I would die and he would marry her and this place would go on for years, tucked tightly inside this forest, inside its own twisted, violent logic.
I knew it would be a choice. To let myself disappear or to straighten my limbs, wake the cells from their dying sleep, and try to get out of this.
I started swinging. Mostly to see if I could. I budged my body back and forth, my frozen hair barely moving. After a moment, I was swinging fast, and I bent up, doubling myself in half. I tried to wrap my arms around my legs, but I slipped and fell back, my body rocking, the rope tightening around my ankles. The tree groaned loudly and I held my breath, praying no one would leave their houses to check on the noise. When no one came, I swung myself again and managed to wrap my arms around my legs.
The tail end of the rope was looped through the middle of the noose. If I could tease it out, the noose might loosen. I bent my knees and gripped my legs with my elbows, my back bent as far as it could. I lifted my mouth to the rope. With a massive hoist, I latched my teeth around the bottom loop. I yanked at it, tugging with my whole head. It was frozen, and the tucked-in piece wouldn’t budge. When my teeth were aching and my body felt like it might break in half like a frozen blade of grass, the rope began to slip free. I tugged it away from the noose and the rope unwound lazily, then went slack, and I fell to the ground in a heap.
I held my stomach and breathed against the hardened mud and ice. My bottom lip had broken against the ground and I tasted salt. Slowly, I eased myself up from the ground, thrusting my shivering, bloodless feet back into my boots.
The courtyard was quiet, and I saw for the first time that Jude’s body was no longer there, the only evidence of him a few crimson puddles and a wadded up sheet, stiff with frozen blood. I stared at it for a long moment. I was uncontrollably angry, but it was a quiet kind of anger, the kind that doesn’t even simmer, doesn’t make a noise. Real anger, the deadly kind.
This was the moment I’d been hurtling toward my whole life, and I knew what I’d do. The Prophet lived by himself. His wives slept behind his house in a couple of ramshackle cottages. He must have enjoyed his privacy, because most never saw the inside of his home.
I climbed his porch steps, careful not to let the old wood creak. I took the Prophet’s round door handle between my wrists and pulled in opposite directions, leaning against the door with my elbow. The handle clinked. The door drifted open.
I stepped lightly over the threshold. A low fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the front room enough to make out a massive dark stain on the wooden floor. My blood. My eyes drifted to the fireplace. Over the mantle, beneath the silver scroll of salvation thumbtacked to the log wall, were a set of white finger bones, held together with loops of golden wire. They rested on the heavy wooden mantle delicately, like ornaments.