Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

“That’s ridiculous,” Cass said. “You saw me. There’s no way I could have done that to myself. I would have- Anyone would be dead from what happened to me. Unless something changed me. Unless I was healed.”

But Hannah was shaking her head. “You could have had someone do that to you. And it’s not as bad as it looks, as bad as Cora wants to think it is, it’s just scratches and scabs, it’s just-”

“Would you stake your life on that?” Cass demanded, her frustration making her belligerent. “If I bit you, would you be willing to bet that I wasn’t infected then? What if I’m a carrier? What if-”

The blow surprised her, coming hard above her left ear, sharp enough to stun. Suddenly she was on the floor, warm blood dripping into her ear, her head ringing with pain. Hannah stood above her with her gun in hand; she’d slammed the butt into her skull.

“That’s right, I wouldn’t get too close to me if I was you,” Cass grunted, pulling herself up off the floor. She was gratified to see Hannah edge backward. “Maybe you ought to start praying after all, for insurance.”

“You think you’re so smart. You think you can come here and…and suddenly you’re the great hope. You’re Cora’s pet. Well, you might want to think again. I’ve got plans. I’ve got plans for you.”

“Look, I never asked for any of this. All I wanted-”

“Save it. I don’t really care what you want. It’s about time I start worrying more about what I want. After everything I’ve done, for the Order, for her …” Hannah shook her head with disgust. She sorted through the keys, then unlocked the door and shoved Cass inside. “Nothing’s going to happen until morning anyway, so you’ll have lots of time to think. Maybe you can come up with your own little theory so we can all get together and talk about healing .”

Cass caught only a brief glimpse of her prison in the second before the door slammed shut, enough to know she was in an old weight room with a cot set up in the middle. She fumbled her way to the cot in the dark and lay down, wondering if Monica was locked up somewhere like this nearby. After what seemed like hours, she fell into a fitful sleep.

She woke to Hannah shining a flashlight in her eyes.

“So Cora’s really going to do it. You’re the princess, I guess.”

Last night’s fury was gone, replaced by a craftiness that was almost worse. As they walked back up the stairs to the main level, bright morning sun streamed through the walkway, and Cass smelled food cooking.

The women were gathered for the morning meal. Little had changed since the night before except for a wooden pole that now rose from the center of the platform up front, and a low table that held a tray covered with a white cloth. A drifting feather was lodged near the top of the pole; it quivered for a moment in the breeze and then broke free and floated away.

It was blue, a bluebird or blue jay feather, Cass didn’t know. She had never bothered to learn anything about birds, and now whole species had been lost. Some sort of small, brown, undistinguished bird had survived and even flourished, and a flock of them chattered from the stands, watching and waiting to swoop down for crumbs.

The birds’ chatter and the clink of cutlery vied with quiet conversation, but both fell silent as she and Hannah passed. As they neared the platform Cass noticed another feature: an iron ring, bolted to the wood floor. The pole was maybe four feet tall, with some sort of clamp attached slightly above knee level. Two metal plates opposed each other; they were padded with leather or vinyl and there was about a foot of space between them. Cass had no idea what the clamp’s purpose was, but it looked ominous. She swallowed hard-what exactly was Cora planning?

Hannah directed Cass to a chair placed a few feet to the side of the platform. Two women, one in pale pink and the other in red, silently stepped away from a nearby table and arrayed themselves behind her. Cass guessed they were there in case she tried to bolt.

A murmur started in the back of the assembly and spread forward. Cass looked out over the crowd, shading her eyes from the sun, and saw two figures approaching from the field. Her heart quickened to see that one of them was Monica.

She looked exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled. Her hair was tangled and knotted. A woman wearing a gray shirt and white pants-the only pants Cass had seen in the Convent other than the ones she wore when she arrived-and a long black braid down her back walked next to her, hand on her belt, where Cass was certain she had a weapon.

Monica passed directly in front of Cass without seeming to notice her. There were deep purple circles under her eyes, and she dragged her feet as she trudged to the platform.

Cass understood now why Hannah had been smug. Whatever Cora had planned for Cass, there was also to be a public punishment-the reckoning they’d been talking about. But what were they going to do to Monica? The pole that loomed over the platform-was she to be tied to it, perhaps beaten? The things she’d done-challenging the doctrine, even refusing to drink the blood-did they really merit a public whipping?

Mother Cora appeared from the opening in the stands that led to her quarters, elegant in a wine-colored tunic and skirt. She said a few private words to the deacons gathered at the front table and gave Cass a warm smile as she passed.

The guard was binding Monica’s hands behind her back, and Monica shivered, frightened and forlorn, in the morning chill.

Hannah followed Cora to the steps, bowing low before going to stand next to the guard behind the low table. Mother Cora regarded Monica with an expression that contained more sadness than anger, like a teacher whose favorite pupil had disappointed her.

“Sister Brenda, you may begin,” she said into the microphone, and then she bowed her head and went unhurriedly back down the steps to her place at the head of the front table. The guard lifted the cloth and fussed with the contents of the tray while Hannah seized Monica by her dark hair and forced her to her knees, bending her head back forcefully so she could see what was coming, tears of pain streaming from her eyes.

Sister Brenda moved with studied grace, lining up objects Cass couldn’t identify from a distance. When she was satisfied, she picked up a bowl and a sponge from the tray. She dipped the sponge into the bowl, drops of water sparkling in the morning sun.

She crouched in front of Monica and dabbed the sponge almost tenderly at her face, then squeezed it so that rivulets of water ran down her neck. Monica sputtered and coughed, and Brenda returned the bowl and sponge to the table, and waited with her hands folded in front of her.

Hannah approached the podium, not looking at Monica as she spoke. “Sisters,” her voice boomed through the speaker system, echoing off the far corners of the stadium. “We please our Lord with our works and our prayer, but we are weak. We are flawed. Each day we stumble on our journey and sometimes we fall. And then the Lord calls upon us to deliver what is due. Justice, my sisters-we are to serve as the hand of our Lord and return to each as she has done.

“We insult our Lord if we allow offenses against Him to stand. We must not invite the weakness to grow and gain a foothold. We must smite it with conviction. When we do as our Lord commands, the blemish is lifted, the penance is done and we welcome our sister back among us.”

It was all double-talk, no mention of a specific crime, no chance for the accused to defend herself.

“Sisters!” Hannah’s harsh voice rang out, as she pointed an accusing finger at Monica. “Here before you, our sister Monica awaits the cleansing of her sin!”