I've got a little too much on my mind for this, but I need to be present, to focus. I know I need to shut everything else away and try to just exist in the moment. Gina’s deflowering ceremony is not going to be the easiest one. She hasn't been an easy child, and now that she's becoming a woman, she has a lot to learn. I almost feel sorry for whoever is made her Master. He’ll still have a lot of work to do even after Brother Owen and I are done with her.
The barn is clean, as clean as a barn can get. The concrete floor has been thoroughly swept and is only lightly coated in dust, with a subtle, lined texture that the broom bristles made. It will do just fine, the way it has for every other ceremony for the last ten years. The humbleness of the cold concrete is what we like to call spiritually useful.
Obedience is hard, the same way the floor is hard.
Obedience is strength, the same way wood is strength.
The strings of lightbulbs that sway back and forth across the rafters illuminate the room in a kind of magical glow. It looks like it could be a harvest dance in here. Maybe a birthday party or some other kind of feast. A baptism. A wedding.
We have weddings in here too, though they are usually done in groups. Unlike the mainstream heathens, we don't elevate the individual over the group. When we marry, we marry together to show that every person is part of the Kingdom Come Family. It's not just two people going off to be on their own; it's two people joining the larger group.
Even those foolish young ones who think they're going to strike out, change things, shake things up… they learn. They see the benefit to unity among our people. They begin to understand the value of loyalty over self-interest.
Everyone submits to the Family, eventually.
No matter how hard they fight.
Everyone breaks.
I hear something outside the barn wall. Movement. Through the wide, weathered slats I see lights flickering back and forth. It's the procession. Gina is supposed to be transported here in a kind of formal parade, guided by her clan of older sisters and other Family women, the aunties, as we call them. They whisper to her, some singing and some almost chanting, encouraging her to enter the barn.
Owen leans forward in his throne, waiting to see motion on the large, rolling door. I can hear his breath coming faster now. He’s so taken with these ceremonies, I almost find it embarrassing. No one can doubt his piety, but sometimes I find his enthusiasm bordering on something else. Something deeper. Something primal. I wonder about his true motives.
But I can’t think about that now either. I need to focus. What name will I give her? She’s so thoroughly “Gina” in my memory, it’s a struggle to see her future with a new name. But I have to rename her, to offer her a clean slate for her future as a Family woman. It’s important for her sense of clarity that she receives her womanly path without being encumbered by her former self.
We are all about perfection here.
The door shudders briefly, then stops, as though it’s almost too heavy to move. I see Brother Owen scrub his palm over his face in frustration. He doesn’t have to worry. It will happen. Always does.
It's important that she opens the door herself. Presumably the aunties have given her at least some idea of what the deflowering ceremony is all about, but they never tell them the whole thing. There's always some element of surprise, maybe some fear.
I leave that up to them. The aunties know best how to shape these new women. They know how they need to be molded, to be taken apart and reborn in the holy duties of service. The aunties know each girl’s individual struggles, and how to coach them onto the divine path. They are like lengths of new tree boughs in the aunties’ able hands. A little twisting, a small bend or break here and there — nothing permanent — and the boughs can take on the most wonderful shapes.
They become pliant.
Some of them are too bold. Some of them are too shy. Some of them harbor a sinful, self-interested lust that needs to be redirected for their Masters. I don't know how they do it, but they take the mission very seriously. They are always coming up with just the right kind of reeducation.
In a way, Owen and I are merely their tools.
The door shudders again, and I hear the large casters begin to roll on the gritty track. Owen leans forward on his throne, gripping the armrest tightly.
As the large panel begins to move, I see the other members gathered outside, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement. They peer into the barn, though I'm not really sure why. There's nothing to see here. Just a large space that every adult woman has entered at least once. Once for baptism, again for deflowering, perhaps again to join with her Master.
And yet, they're still eager to reconnect. Their eyes shine, reflecting the strings of lights on the ceiling. I recognize them all. And yet I don't see them, not really. After the ceremonies, that brief connection is dissolved. They move onto other paths. My calling is to ensure the life of our Family. Our spiritual life, our everlasting redemption.
As is my duty, I look for Gina. She struggles with the door, leaning her weight against it and shoving with one shoulder against the heavy weight. When it's all the way open, she stands up straight and juts her chin defiantly in my direction as if to answer some challenge. As if opening the door further than necessary is aggressive or dominating.
Defiant to the last moment, I suppose. Right down to the very last seconds that this behavior will be permitted. No matter. She’ll alter like everyone else does.
Everyone submits.
She's wearing a long, white cotton gown that comes to her ankles. As she steps forward, the panels flutter slightly around her, exposing the edges of her thighs all the way up to her waist. The traditional garment is split up each side, only appearing to be sewn all the way together when she stands perfectly still. As soon as she moves, it's easy to see that really, it's two loose panels draped over her, front and back. So easy to tear aside. So easy to twist into rope.
The four aunties come with her, covered in their long, coarse, burgundy robes. The first two shuffle quickly ahead of Gina, taking their place in front of her. They walk with small steps between her and the dais on which Owen and I currently sit.
The other two roll the door closed behind her, shutting out the other curious faces. They want to watch. Of course they do. Some want to remember their own ceremonies. Some are fascinated, some are thrilled in an unseemly way.
But they're not allowed to watch, and they know it. They will disperse in a moment. The punishment for interfering in a sacred ceremony is nothing they want to risk.