The Prey (12 page)

I pull away from the window, lean out of sight against the wall. Their voices continue to sweep in; I want to close the windows. The darkness in me at war with the bright sunshine outside, the smiles and harmony.

*   *   *

Three songs later, I hobble outside. Sunlight tingles my face pleasantly. This, along with the cool mountain air blowing dust out of my bones, gives me an uptick in optimism. Sissy is standing off to the side, arms crossed over her chest. I’d assumed the choir would stop singing once I came out, but they continue even after I beckon them to stop. Their round, cherubic faces blush with embarrassment whenever our eyes meet, but that doesn’t stop them from staring at me. Their eyes wide, their mouths opened, they look to be in a perpetual stance of astonishment.

The doctor sniffs. “It’s all about beauty and peace and harmony here. That’s the essence of the Mission.”

After the last song, the choir disbands around us. A girl approaches me. “Please, we’d like you to join us for supper.”

“Yeah, I think I got that,” I reply, trying to sound good-natured and appreciative. Her cheeks bloom crimson.

“This way, then,” she says.

The group of girls escort Sissy and me down the cobblestone street in a tight crescent moon formation. Every one of them is smiling with exuberance, their white teeth glowing under the sunlight. As we make our way toward the main square, their bodies waddle and sway, most curiously.

“That’s how they walk,” Sissy says next to me. “I asked them about it, but they brushed it off. Like they do with all my questions.” She lowers her voice. “I think it has something to do with their feet. They’re puny.”

She’s right. Their shoes, poking from under their frocked dresses, are mere nubs.

More girls line the street, many of them chubby-cheeked and potbellied. And then it hits me that what I had earlier taken for flabbiness is actually something else: they’re pregnant. In fact, once I start paying attention, every which way I look, girls in various stages of pregnancy are waddling about with roly-poly bellies. It’s got to be at least one in every three. All of them smiling, mouths stretched wide to expose twin rows of gleaming, shiny teeth.

“You okay?” Sissy asks, looking sideways at me.

“Yeah,” I say. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. “Where’s the gang?”

“Probably at the dining hall already. They’ve been eating nonstop since we got here. They have the bulging bellies to prove it.”

Like everyone else here,
I’m about to say, but then we’re already entering the banquet hall.

What immediately strikes me is how crowded the banquet hall is compared to the first time. Four long tables stretch down the length of the hall, each flanked by long oak benches. Each table is packed with village girls and a sprinkling of toddler boys from one end to the other. The hall is crowded but orderly and quiet. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows that rise up to the rafters; slabs of light pour through them, cutting diagonally across the dining hall.

I’m ushered to the front of the hall and onto a stage. The boys are sitting around a table set there. Sissy’s right; they’ve all put on the pounds. Faces rounder, a languid, rested look about them. They’re happy to see me; Ben, David, and Jacob run over to give me a hug.

“Ben!” I exclaim as we sit down. “Your cheeks! They’re the size of balloons!”

Everyone at the table laughs. Jacob joins in the fun. “It’s like all ten pounds Ben’s gained here went straight to—and only to—his cheeks.” He reaches over and good-naturedly pinches Ben’s cheek.

“How many days have we been here?” I ask. “Three days or three months? Look at the weight you guys have put on!”

Ben tilts his head back and smiles. “Can’t blame us,” he says, laughing. “The food here is ridiculous.”

Ours is not the only table on the stage. Another table—this one sturdy and with legs so regal and thick, they seem grown out of the stage itself—sits at the front edge. On top of a heavily starched tablecloth, silver cutlery sparkles beside gleaming plates.

“The senior elders sit at that table,” Jacob says, his eyes watching the kitchen doors.

As if on cue, a group of elders enters the hall. Immediately, every person stands, heads bent down in deference. The elders saunter in, their rotund bellies lolling over their belts. Krugman is the last to enter; only after he sits down do the elders, then the rest of us follow suit. It’s all done with surprising quiet. Even the benches scrape against the floorboards with a minimum of noise. And then we’re all sitting perfectly still, nobody moving. At last, Krugman, grasping a mug, stands up.

It’s now I notice that Sissy’s not with us. Now that I think about it, she vanished from my side shortly after we entered the dining hall.

“We are once again assembled here today in celebration of the arrival of our stalwart travelers. Long have they journeyed and many are the dangers they have overcome to reach us. Such a miraculous arrival calls for celebration, many times over. For our brothers, once so lost, are now found.”

There is loud applause as Krugman pauses. He gazes fondly at the five of us.

I lean over to Epap. “Where’s Sissy?” I whisper.

“Shh,” he says, barely turning to me, his eyes remaining fixed on Krugman.

“Those of us,” Krugman continues, “who have been fortunate to converse with them can attest to this: they are kind, intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive souls who are warriors in their own right. We welcome them as one would a family member: with warm, extended arms, embracing them joyously into the community of the Mission. And our joy is made complete today,” he says, his voice rising dramatically. “For Gene, fearless leader of the company of new friends, has fully recovered from the most debilitating of illnesses. We give due thanks to Elder Northrumpton for his expertise and persistence in restoring Gene to full health. I am happy to say that young Gene will be moving out of the clinic to reside at an as yet undecided cottage.”

Elder Northrumpton bows his head in acknowledgment.

“Let us pray,” Krugman says. Heads bow as one. “Great Provider, this day we give you thanks for the abundance of food and drink and mirth and sunshine you so faithfully provide each and every day. We give thanks for the bestowment of health upon our new brother, Gene. We pray that in your wisdom and timing, you will deliver the Origin into our trustworthy care. Great is your faithfulness, great is your mercy, great is your kindness, great is your protection over this beloved community.” He nods at a girl standing by the kitchen doors, and almost instantly a river of dishes flows out, the server girls waddling side to side.

“Where’s Sissy?” I ask Jacob, sitting on my other side.

He’s only half listening as he watches the food being brought in. “Sitting with all the other girls on the main floor,” he murmurs disinterestedly. “Girls aren’t allowed on the stage.”

“You should have insisted that Sissy…”

But he’s no longer listening. He’s turned away from me, is leaning over to David, pointing at the first dishes heading our way.

I scan the rows of girls. There. In the back, lost among the sea of girls. Sissy is sitting in the middle of a row, as quiet as the others. Our eyes meet but for a second. Then a row of serving girls walks to my table, blocking my view of her.

The food, brought quickly to our table and almost as quickly devoured, is amazing. Served piping hot, steam still rising from them, they have exotic names, announced by our server as she sets the plates before us. The boys attack the dishes when they’ve been barely set down.

“Epap!” I say. “We should get Sissy up here with us.”

He shakes his head, his cheeks bulging. “She’s fine. Girls eat on the floor. It’s in the bylaws,” he says, his words jumbling out of his full mouth. He stuffs his face with even more food, unable to keep up with the pace of food streaming out of the kitchen. And soon enough, I’m doing likewise. I’m famished, I realize, a good sign that I really am over my illness. Dishes roll out of the kitchen, hot, charred, the meat of squirrel and rabbit and pig and cow, all accompanied by the most decadent sauces of mouthwatering succor.

“Where does all this food come from?” I ask to no one in particular, and no one bothers to answer. After two courses of dessert, we lean back in our chairs, gorged and sated. A bell rings from the back of the hall; at once all cutlery is put down. Benches scrape back and the villagers rise as one. Only the elders remain seated, still eating.

A girl shuffles to the center of the hall.

“A reading of the bylaws,” she proclaims in a clear, loud voice. “Number one.”

“Remain together in groups of three or more,” booms everyone else in unison. “Solitariness is not permitted.”

“Number two,” the tall girl yells.

“Smile always with the joy of the Provider,” shout the girls.

“Number three.”

“Obey the elders as unto the Provider himself.”

They remain standing as another elder, still chewing, stands up. “We have wonderful news. We celebrate today the birthdays of Cassie, Fiona, and Sandy. Cassie and Fiona will be sleeping in the tavern facilities tonight; Sandy will be napping there this afternoon.”

There is no response from the girls.

The elder sits down. At that, the villagers are led out row by row. A large blackboard stands by the exit doors. As each girl walks past the board, she slows to read it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s their daily assignment,” Epap says. “Every day, each villager is assigned to a different cottage for a specific task: sewing, maternity care, cooking, whatever. The elders say it’s good to become adept at all things. The daily assignments are completely randomized. You never know who you’ll be working with, or sleeping next to. Because you sleep in the same cottage you worked in that day. You work in the fabrics cottage, you sleep there that night. Helps foster a sense of community. Mixes things up.”

*   *   *

After supper, Krugman and a handful of elders take me on a tour. Epap and the other boys, already familiar with the layout of the Mission, scamper off. Sissy is nowhere to be seen. When I ask about her, the elders merely shrug their shoulders. Unlike the village girls, the elders are sure-footed, their strides long and natural, their boots striking the flagstone and brick path with strident confidence.

“We pride ourselves on two things in this village,” Krugman remarks, his pudgy arms swinging back and forth. “Food and singing.” As if on cue, one of the elders lets loose a gargantuan burp, foul and wet, the stink of rotten eggs and sour milk. It drifts wetly through us.

“That’s not the singing part,” one of the elders says, snorting out laughter as the other elders laugh their approval.

“This here,” Krugman says a minute later, “is the culinary section of the village. You only need to sniff to know you’re here. You could gain weight just by breathing in these sweet smells.” He takes in the cottages. “Come, let’s take a peep into one.”

We enter the nearest cottage, the bakery. The aroma of baking bread, donuts, and croissants fills the air. I’m first into the cottage, and in the second before the girls inside become aware of our entrance, I catch their expressions. Dour, grim, as if all color has been sucked away, leaving the washed-out kitchen a somber gray. And then the girls are smiling, their voices trilling, a light switched on.

“Welcome! What a wonderful surprise!” a nearby girl says with upturned lips and sprightliness in her movements.

“Prepare treats for our esteemed guests, on the double!” Krugman shouts stridently. Motes of flour blow from his mouth like a frosty winter breath.

We are given samples of cupcakes, soufflés, all delectable. As we leave, the girls bow down, hands clasped in front of them, thanking us for the visit. Everyone is smiling.

“Where do you get all this food?” I ask Krugman as we make our way down the street. We walk past a group of girls carrying buckets, water sloshing inside, smiling bright and bowing as we pass. “All the ingredients the girls were using,” I continue when Krugman doesn’t answer. “I’ve seen very little farmland, so where does it all come from?”

Krugman gazes at me, mirth gushing from his eyes, as if sheer happiness alone is answer enough.

“It has to come from somewhere—” I start to say.

“The Good Provider is faithful,” Krugman says. “His provisions are new every morning, new every morning.”

“I don’t think—”

“Ahh, we’ve arrived at our next stop! The singing sector!” Krugman bellows, turning away from me. Two elders are staring at me. Their eyes burn with a corrosive friendliness.

“These cottages here,” Krugman pronounces, “are the apple of my eye. This is where we train our choir. Only the most musically gifted are permitted to train here. Listen, can you not hear them?” He pushes the door open, and the music comes to an instant stop.

“Elder Krugman, we’re so glad you’ve deigned to visit us,” the girl seated at the piano says. By the protrusion of her stomach, she looks to be at least seven months pregnant.

Krugman smiles. “I’ve been telling our guest about what a special group you are. I trust you will not disappoint him in days to come.”

“Certainly not.”

More pleasantries are exchanged. Their voices trilling, their faces plastered with sunny sweet smiles.

And it is that way in every cottage we visit: the carpentry cottage, the woodwork barn, the fabric and design cottages where girls learn knitting, crochet, embroidery, macramé, cross-stitching. We are greeted with bowed heads and stilted exchanges. Even the girls we pass on the main street act with the same petrified friendliness, teeth exposed, smiling to the ground. Only the babies in the maternity ward—there are rows and rows of occupied cribs—veer away from the scripted small talk, their cries and screams shrill with displeasure.

*   *   *

The tour ends upon night’s arrival. The glow of dusk, settling like a purple film of dust upon the mountains, is erased by the descent of night. Almost all the elders drop out of the tour, citing a meeting, and head off to the tavern. I’m left with only a pair of junior elders, silent and glum. Streetlamps blink on.