This is about the halfway point of our story. Take a break if you need it. Drink some water. Join a cult. Join my cult.
Chapter 11. In pursuit of eternal life, dude.
Breakfast settles in Marshall’s stomach like a warm hug. Homemade slices of rye bread with strawberry jam, bowls full of ripe red grapes like oozing jewels, freshly brewed coffee better even than Marshall’s fireside grinding could manage. The breakfast offerings were modest, avoidant of excess. They are guests but even they would eat no more than anyone else and here nothing goes to waste.
Marshall is not falling in love with this place. He refuses to. It’s too fucking obvious.
After they eat, June separates them in order to ensure each given task is tailored to their specific strengths. As a sort of jack of all trades, Marshall is given a list. A long list, what looks like a list someone has been keeping for quite a while, compiling tasks that require immense strength or height or an immovable stomach. He is immeasurably flattered.
For an hour, he churns the compost bin with a large woman named Ila. She is quiet but in a peaceful, eclectic sort of way, not a ‘I’m in a cult and not allowed to speak’ sort of way. What Marshall does manage to pry from her thin lips is that she’s been here for six years and has no desire to leave. She and most of the women here have slept with Shepherd Maya, but there’s no pressure. Shepherd Maya has both a penis and nice tits so she’s fun to sleep with regardless of your sexual orientation. When Marshall asks why there are no men on the farm, Ila just shrugs and pulls down on her side of the crank, the thick cylinder of sludge turning in response.
“Men believe it is a woman’s job to care,” she postures in an unidentifiable accent. “A man’s job is to invent money and make games out of their fake currencies and pretend they don’t desire phallic imagery.”
By the time the hour is up, Marshall’s arms are aching and his lungs are wide open as a field of tall grass. As the sun arcs higher into the unnaturally blue sky, the wind carries on its wings the smell of fresh water and healthy soil. Cicadas call out their late summer song like an ambient choir. Herons soar overhead with big brown wings, chipmunks ducking in and out of the brush perhaps playing their own games. The high sun curling across Marshall’s pale skin pulls him inward and he feels held again somehow.
Marshall scales the Big House and makes some repairs on the old roof. He installs a gutter system carved from hollow reeds that collect rainwater and channel it to the basement to be filtered and reused. He rakes the driveway and mends the crooked front gate. He keeps his backpack strapped across his body even through the hot afternoon sun soaking his dress.
For lunch, they were encouraged to pull fresh corn from their stalks, ripe apples from trees, berries dark as night right off the bush. He eats on his own by the stream that spills downhill from the lake. He puts his bare feet in the water and lets the cool stream carry him inward as his sweat moves downstream. In between bites of thick ruby apples, he looks up through the gaps in the crowns of trees and watches blue mingle with white and sees the shifting parts of himself reflected back, like a puzzle constantly changing the shapes of its pieces. An unsolvable puzzle can be a frustrating task and he’s felt before that frustration from others unwilling to hold his pieces and try to understand them. He’s felt the abandonment of being thrown back into the box and shoved under the couch. He feels his pieces settling here like there might actually be a full-fledged image somewhere in all the confusion. He gets back to work.
In the heat of the afternoon sun, Marshall sweats through his dress but finds it generally pretty comfortable to work in. He can squat and move his legs with ease and the thin fabric is very breathable but he misses his carpenter pants and all of their pockets and loops and places to tuck away the necessities. Still, when a warm breeze winds its way through his thick leg hair and cools his sweaty balls, he grunts with satisfaction.
He pulls the dress up to his thighs and stomps grapes to be fermented into wine. He carries big oak barrels up and down the stairs to the cellar, a cold stone-lined room filled with miscellaneous salvaged items, extra beds and the room in the back where wine ages in the dark.
A woman named Amelie helps him crack open a fifty year old barrel and they share a small glass of chardonnay, red like blood, stomped by someone else’s feet long ago. The oak burns his throat and the chill cools his skin. Amelie is pretty and stoic and when she kisses Marshall in the dark, he lets her because sleeping with Jamie has made him horny and it's not a big deal anyway except that it makes him feel good. They kiss softly and then get back to work and Marshall likes kissing a lot so he works his ass off until dinner–tilling a field for fall crops, building a canoe, kissing more women because they seem to like him and it seems to be an unwritten social norm of the colony. Amelie’s kiss lingers the longest. Her lips were soft and cherry red from the wine. He doesn’t see his friends until dinner, which is a communal gathering that normally takes place in the Big House but has been moved to the lawn out back to accommodate their guests and the good weather. Marshall’s last task of the day is setting up a makeshift canopy. He and Ila drag the long table from inside the house out onto the grass beneath linen sheets drawn between branches.
Suddenly, as if they hadn’t all been separated the whole day long, here comes Beaver from inside the house with a tablecloth and he makes trips back and forth carrying silverware and ceramic plates, setting the table with a careful eye. Lana walks slowly down the path with Shepherd Maya holding twin torches with smoldering flames. A conspiratorial hush wriggles its way across the cult members whose eyes fall upon their slow walk but they quickly compose themselves. They’ve only just begun taking their seats at the long table or on the porch or in the grass when the Big House doors open once more and a dozen women spill from inside with various dishes, platters, pots, all steaming and swirling in the angled evening sun and there’s Jamie trailing behind them all in an oversized green apron carrying a bubbling pot of soup so delicately as though he found it at the end of a rainbow.
The solace of the day builds up in Marshall’s chest and climbs up his throat and spills over in a golden grin of crooked teeth beaming at the handsome man and his bountiful soup. Jamie hasn’t shaved since they left Georgia and the stubble on his face and scalp is already growing thicker, darker. He places his beladeled soup at the very center of the table and bows modestly. Though his expression must look indifferent to the other onlookers, only Marshall can see the creeping tug at the corner of his mouth, his relaxed brow, the confidence in his stature attesting to the deep pride he is taking in his work.
Marshall thinks that if Jamie pulls him in close again tonight, he’ll fall into the burgeoning cook’s lips and drink him in like a rich broth.
After a bit of a seating shuffle which placed Lana next to Maya at the head of the table and Jamie at the opposite head (both of these placements caused another almost imperceptible ripple in the ranks), Marshall sits somewhere in the middle next to Beaver who swings his legs in his chair and bounces his head to some song in his mind.
“You have a good day?” Marshall asks.
Beaver nods. “Yeah. They let me do laundry and dishes and dust the tops of cabinets. My ma never let me do that stuff.”
“You like cleaning?”
He nods again. The dress he was given is two sizes too big and his skin is like slick oil against the white fabric. “My granddaddy was a custodian. I only ever met him a few times but I could tell when my ma looked at him that he was a good dad. He did lots of cleaning to afford the apartment she grew up in.”
“That’s awesome,” Marshall says. “I bet your granddaddy would be proud.”
Marshall never met his grandparents on account of Eddie’s dad killed his ma and then himself while Eddie was in the cult, and Elaine’s parents cut her off once she started doing drugs and enjoying penises, though she always claimed the final straw came when she was twenty one and she’d had a bit to drink and said ‘Jesus Christ!’ in a poor tone that was unbecoming of a Catholic girl like herself. Marshall believes her.
These people are abstract to Marshall, living only in slurred stories, curses shouted toward the sky, old photos where no one looks happy. In his head, Marshall and his family sparked into existence without the need for fornication or upbringing and aging. It’s all a bit easier if we don’t consider that we go back and back and back forever and carry the weight of everything that came before us. When he looks at it like that, it’s like all he has to carry is his own shit. Even that is barely manageable. His backpack is at his feet beneath the table.
At the head of the table, Shepherd Maya stands and the air falls silent, even the bugs and birds seem to quiet their evening movements. The sky is turning orange in a last ditch effort to scatter light across the land. A lone mourning dove coos sadly on the Big House’s gables as though the sun is going to set and never rise again.
“My people,” Maya says, “thank you all for being so welcoming today to our guests. They have worked hard for our hospitality and I have watched your reciprocity carefully. I am proud of your kindness.”
June shifts in her chair.
“Tonight, we celebrate connection, spirit and life everlasting. We thank you o Mothers Three for the gift of another day and the bounty of this land. We ask your forgiveness for the havoc of this world and the destruction that is humanity. Mother of Earth, Mother of Sky, Mother of Water, we praise your blessings and offer our spirits. In pursuit of eternal life.”
“In pursuit of eternal life,” the women echo.
Marshall repeats the phrase under his breath. In pursuit of eternal life. When he was seven, he went to church once with his neighbor Trish. He didn’t appreciate the sacrifices of Jesus who died for all sins without really urging anyone to change and he thought that if there really was a god judging their every move to place them in Heaven or Hell, the world would be a much kinder place or otherwise god should take his big dark hand and drag it across the world, raze it all and start again from scratch. He liked the singing and chanting though. He liked being told what to say and getting Trish’s toothy grin of approval when he praised along with all the rest.
A recitation doesn’t have to mean anything anyway. If the words mean the same thing to everyone on endless lips then no one is really thinking that hard about it anyway. It’s easier to speak without thinking.
“In pursuit of eternal life,” Beaver whispers. “The fuck does that mean?”
Marshall scowls pointedly and leans in close. “It means free food.”
Beaver’s eyes fill with understanding. “In pursuit of eternal life, dude.”
Shepherd Maya sits and the clatter of dishes and people reaching for food and the general chatter rises from the earth. Marshall takes a healthy serving of everything that is available. The veggies are fresh, the turkey cooked perfectly white, food falls down his throat like there is no end to the sustenance or his hunger. There is no eternal life without nourishment.
He saves Jamie’s vat of soup for last. The broth is rich, likely a beef bone stock, salty like semen. The carrots are soft and bountiful, the onions slippery and clear. He holds a spoonful on his tongue and lets it soak into his gums, his teeth, his cheeks, and slowly trickle down his throat in a hot stream. The layer of soup settles on top of his stomach and fills him to capacity. He finishes his bowl with a deep sigh of satisfaction and meets Jamie’s peering gaze with a conspiratorial grin.
The way Jamie smiles with all the warmth of the fiery sky, Marshall feels as though the whole cauldron of soup was prepared just for him, like every drop of broth, every skinned and sliced carrot, every soft chunk of starchy potato had his name carefully whispered into it. It’s like drinking love.
Jamie sits at his end and eats in silence. Lana and Maya are chatting at the other end with wide grins and nodding heads and hands placed carefully on wrists and if Lana notices the sharp glances being shot her way by jealous women, she does not let it affect her.
The women that are not coveting their leader and the interloper soaking up her attention like soft veggies are watching Marshall with a different sort of hunger. Amelie and Ila, older women, girls as young as sixteen, their eyes flit from spoonfuls of soup to Marshall's soft and unsuspecting face through thick lashes and veiled desire. He notices but doesn’t really know what to do with it. Marshall finds himself attractive but has never really understood what attracts others to him, what about his stature and demeanor has brought sex to him like a weekly commodity. He imagines it must have something to do with his size. The imposing frame of a man both tall and wide can be fearsome and full of lust. Or maybe it’s his quiet, honest nature, the way words tumble from his mouth in a southern drawl with little thought but deep compassion and intelligence. In his worst fear, he worries that there is a blankness to him, that his giving and agreeable disposition pulls others in like an artist to a clean white canvas. He could be anything and so they see everything.
The sheer number of eyes on him does make him a little uncomfortable but it’s only Jamie’s speckled eyes that he craves and Jamie has thick lashes to peer through just like the rest of them.
When dinner is through, Shepherd Maya insists that they let the others handle clean up duties. She says they should go back to their cabin and think about what they want to do. Leave or stay. The placid grin on her perfect face says she already knows what they will choose.
Marshall is on the floor staring at the swirls of dark wood and thick knots in the ceiling. Beaver is pacing the span of the room with the worried demeanor of a woman having her home repossessed. Jamie and Lana sit on opposite beds and the air is heavy. No one wants to be the first to admit what they all know to be true: they had a really lovely day.
A spider is weaving a web in the crisscrossing rafters faster than he thought possible. Marshall sighs and the silk ripples.
“It’s off the grid,” he says finally.
“The people are very nice,” Beaver adds.
Lana is twirling her nest of hair between two fingers. “Maya is a bombshell,” she says, and then adds, “and, yeah, it’s a cool place or whatever.”
Marshall sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. “What did you two get to talking about all day?”
Lana shrugs but it’s forced. “Everything. Being a disappointment. Growing up out of place–like feeling physically displaced from your spirit. Addiction. Says there was a lot of that on the reservation. She gave me a good herbal tea for settling my stomach and reducing withdrawal symptoms. We had crazy intense sex too, obviously…I like her.”
Marshall licks his lips. Sex is abound. “And she didn’t say anything…like cult indoctrination kinda stuff?”
Lana pulls several strands of hair from her head. “I mean, sure. She made us all feel very personally welcome. She warned me of the dangers of the outside world, tried to make me believe this is the only safe place in the world. Cult stuff.”
A good place to watch the end of the world.
“We should stay,” Jamie says to his fumbling hands in his lap. “I like the kitchen. No one is going to find us here.”
“Fuck,” Marshall mutters. “We’re joining the fucking cult, aren’t we?”
It’s Marshall's turn to sleep with Beaver and he accepts his duty even if he’d prefer to be pulling Jamie close enough in the dark that he can feel how grateful he is for the love-filled soup. Beaver snores lightly and Marshall sleeps in deep, easily disturbed fits.
In the morning, they let Shepherd Maya know they’ll be staying and her joy is warm like soil.
In the evening, after another day of work, the colony gathers by the lake where the four misfits are officially indoctrinated. Hand in hand, they step into the lake. In their lacy white dresses, they wade into the depths and, as instructed, they gather all their breath in their chests and allow their bodies to sink to the sandy, silty floor. The water is warm and clear.
Lie flat on the very bottom of the lake, Maya had instructed. Look up to the surface, watch the shifting light through the churning water and dig your fingers into the earth. And they do. Breath held like a secret tight in his chest, Marshall buries his thick fingers in the slimy dirt, clings to the loose earth, feels the weightless water sway him slightly in its crib and with stinging, open eyes, he watches the evening sky erupt with fire through a film of lakewater.
On the shore, the women hold torches and bow their heads before four dripping bodies.
Shepherd Maya breathes in the scent of transition. Sweet algae, soft earth, melting trees.
“Earth, sky and water,” she speaks loudly enough to reach her followers. “Let the light of their sacrifice shine bright.”
She grins wide, toothy, true. “And may that light never burn out.”
Sell me freedom, give me gold / Tell me that I will never grow old
Previous chapter. Next chapter.
Step into the lake. I promise it’s not a lake of fire, I swear. As a reminder, if you wanna skip the wait for chapters, you can grab your own digital copy of the whole book on my website or on amazon for your e-reader.. I leave that decision up to you.
"In his worst fear, he worries that there is a blankness to him, that his giving and agreeable disposition pulls others in like an artist to a clean white canvas. He could be anything and so they see everything." FUCK!!!
Let the light of their sacrifice never burn out.. sounds fukn ominous to me!