Corvidae (Part III)

A teenage girl, irrevocably separated from the family of her birth, finds a new one. But too late she learns the price of belonging.

***Content warning: This episode deals with themes of religious indoctrination and past sexual trauma, and contains some gore. Listener discretion advised.***

Thank you for listening! If you have any feedback or inquiries regarding the show, please feel free to drop me a line at darkerpasturespodcast@gmail.com.

Transcript

DARKER PASTURES – 028 – CORVIDAE PART III

[Eerie woodwinds music]

NARRATOR

Episode Twenty-Eight: Corvidae, Part Three.

(Sounds of high, dusty wind)

NARRATOR

They stand along the roadside, crudely formed from scrap lumber and from fresh-cut scrub timber, sometimes even of rebar and pipe and plywood, stretching on toward the distant horizon like malformed power lines of the world that no longer is.

Missy passes beneath their skeletal shadows, not daring to look up, trying to stop up her ears with her hands. For the shabby crucifixes are not mere ornamentation or icon – each of them bears an occupant. Some have been there long enough to be little more than rags and bones, scant and partial skeletons – the flesh long picked by hungry scavengers, the larger portions not firmly affixed fallen and dragged away. A few are home to fresher corpses, though even these lack portions that have been ravaged by tooth, beak, and claw, or by the subtler but more inevitable work of corruption and gravity.

But worse than these are the ones whose corpses still breathe and speak and scream and writhe with the agony of slow, slow death, battered mercilessly by the sun and the wind and the cold of night, as their muscles and innards gradually stretch and tear, as they are suffocated by the weight of their own bodies.

One of the women Missy passes by waves her hand, as much as she is able with her wrist nailed and bound to the jagged beam behind her. Even at this small motion, she hisses with pain, but still she waves. Hesitantly, Missy approaches, feeling that this cannot be real, that this is all some nightmare from which she must soon wake – and yet she has felt that for months and months now, and never woken.

The woman on the cross is rail-thin, and looks as though she must have been sick or starving, or perhaps both, long before she found herself here. Her hair is shorn so close to the scalp that its color is unguessable, but her eyes are hazel and would be lovely were it not for the fever behind them. That awful gaze bores hotly into Missy’s face.

The woman asks her, in a raspy whisper, if she believes. She has to repeat the question before Missy, stunned and horrified by the ghastly surrealness of the past mile and of this fresh nightmarish encounter, can muster an answer.

Yes, Missy answers faintly, she believes, and it is true, or at least it was, before. As far as she can say, it still is – she has had so little time or reason to really consider such questions, since her capture and torment, since her escape and long, desperate flight from the city of tents and monsters that wear the faces of men.

Good, the woman nods slightly, too weak and damaged to move her head any more even were she freed from her constraints. She smiles – or perhaps she grimaces. Her face is so fleshless, so twisted by deprivation and pain, that it is difficult to tell.

Good, she says again, more softly, and then adds that Missy must find Burton.

Missy repeats the name, questioningly, thinking her voice sounds even smaller and feebler than the dying woman’s. She hates it, and this is a familiar sensation, all too familiar. She has suffocated in that sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, these last few months of death and terror and atrocity.

Burton Pritchard, the crucified woman’s eyelids flutter, and Missy thinks that she looks for all the world like she is battling a sudden wave of drowsiness – though of course she knows it is nothing so innocuous, so wholesome.

The woman breathes that he will show Missy the way, and then her head slumps forward to rest slackly upon her emaciated chest. Missy cannot tell if the woman is still breathing or not, and does not dare to check more closely – she doesn’t want to know. The woman is beyond her help, would likely not survive being removed from the cross – and perhaps would not permit it, Missy reflects, remembering the way her hazel eyes smoldered wildly.

Stepping back from the cross and its now silent denizen, Missy continues on her way.

About a half-mile later, from another shabby cross, a dark-haired man with a long, coarse beard raises his head to regard her with large, dark eyes. He says nothing, only stares at her, and she halts and stares back. A gust of wind cuts between them, raising a thin cloud of dust. A raven, one of many that Missy has seen among the crosses, arcs down through the air and alights upon the peak of the crucifix, just over the man’s head. The man does not give any sign that he has noticed.

Tentatively, Missy asks who has done all of this.

No one, the man says flatly. Unlike the woman, he shows no outward sign of his torment, and Missy thinks that perhaps he has not languished so long upon his cross.

We asked for this, he says after a pause, and Missy knows now that he is every bit as mad as the woman.

No one, the raven mimics harshly. No one, no one.

God wants this, the man continues. And we want this. He needs to see our love for Him. He needs to see our contrition.

Asked for this, the raven cries.

Missy says nothing. The man settles back into his prior pose of stoic contemplation, and his gaze falls to the dusty earth, churned and tracked by the raising of his cross. The rains of prior weeks have drained away, leaving he sun-scorched, wind-scoured prairie thirsting and dying once more.

Missy moves on, turning her gaze earthward also. Behind her, watching her go with dark, clever little eyes, the raven croaks, No one… wanted this.

(Sound of wind blowing resumes, fades out)

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

She walks only a little way farther before she can no longer bear the sight of the crucifixes, or even the dark, cool touch of their long shadows, and she turns from the road and begins to wander across a wide and trackless pasture. Her father taught her how to orient herself in both time and space by the sun and the stars, finding a more apt pupil in her than in her brother Barrett, and she knows that she is moving in a north-northwesterly direction.

Why, and with what destination, is a question she cannot answer and tries not to dwell upon. She knows only that she is leaving Tabernacle City and its monstrosities behind her, as well as the house that was once home, but never can be again, tainted beyond redemption by the final memory of that place.

It is with some small surprise, then, that she crests the rise of a small hill and finds what looks like a tiny village nestled in the hollow below. For a moment, she thinks queasily of the city of tents and campers, and acidic panic begins to flood up her chest and into her throat, but this settlement is very unlike that one, too small and too orderly. And, though it is only a vague impression, it seems somehow too pleasant, too kindly to bear any resemblance to the home of the Patriarchs.

The center of the settlement is a large, white farmhouse, ringed by trees – hardy spruces and pines and cottonwoods, and a single large Siberian elm. Around this sit an unhitched trailer house, two campers, and a large tent, but they are clean and well-ordered, nothing like the squalid chaos she has fled.

For a while, Missy stands there, looking down into the bowl of the shallow valley, torn between the prospect of food and fellowship, and the more certain safety of avoidance.

Finally, she begins to descend the hill, her worn hiking boots crunching on the sugar-sand and desiccated grass. Off in the west, the Bighorn Mountains are nothing more than a faint blue haze above the horizon, perhaps nothing more than a reflective mirage.

Missy wonders if she is being reckless, foolish. She wonders if it even matters – her parents are dead, her siblings lost and unlikely to be found again, perhaps dead as well. The memory of her time with the Patriarchs is riddled with dark, blind patches, ones which she dares not explore for fear that they will swallow her up completely. And so much of the landscape she has wandered through since her chance escape has been a waking nightmare, broken up by serenity and beauty that only enhances her sensations of unreality and isolation. Perhaps, she thinks bleakly and not for the first time, there is little value in survival, in this new and dreadful world.

And then, there are the birds, those emissaries of darkness and death, heralds of a strange and unknowable future – those voices from unseen throats, inhuman and yet so nearly human, their words seeming sometimes mindless mimicry and sometimes like grim and otherworldly insights. They have called to her from the skies, from the roofs of buildings and the foliage of trees, from the sightless black of the night, and have sometimes haunted her half-remembered dreams.

As though called forth by her thoughts, a bluejay calls sharply from the elm. Missy pauses, waiting for it to speak to her, but it only continues to give its harsh, gull-like cry. And now that she is considering it, Missy cannot be certain she has ever heard anything other than a raven speak.

She begins to move again, but before she has taken three more steps down the hillside, a woman is emerging from the white front door of the house, waving toward Missy and then walking out to meet her. Her old-fashioned dress, pale blue with a white floral pattern, looks recently laundered, making Missy feel suddenly aware of her worn and travel-stained jeans and jacket, of the layers of sweat and dust that have dried on her skin since she last had a chance to wash.

The woman calls a warm and simple welcome, and shows both her palms as if to show that she carries no weapon, no hidden threat. Missy returns the greeting, her voice seeming threadbare even in her own ears, joyless and guarded in contrast to the vibrant voice it answers.

The woman draws near, introduces herself smilingly as Abigail. Speaking more softly now, she invites Missy inside the house, asks if she is thirsty or hungry or needs a bath. Reflexively, Missy begins to decline, even though this hospitality is the very prospect that drew her here. But she catches herself, reminds herself that she is alone and that, as her father always told her, humans are not creatures made to survive alone, and she falteringly says that she would be grateful for all three.

Abigail flashes her warm smile again, and says that she and her family are happy to share what they have, and that she is welcome to stay with them as long as she wishes. Provided, of course, that she comes to them with a good heart.

Missy assures her that she does, and then hesitates, weighing the wisdom of the next words that spring into her mind. She decides to contravene the instincts that the road behind her has instilled, to open herself to trust, and she says that the only weapon she carries is a small Buck knife – and that it is more of a tool of utility, really.

Abigail nods and says that’s fine, that she understands completely. And from the tone of her voice, it seems clear that she does understand, and appreciates the gesture.

As they step into the warm, tidy house, like a holdover from a dead world, as they walk to the long, polished oaken table, the air filled with smells of baking bread and roasting meat and boiling potatoes, and a dozen faces smile at her in gentle welcome, Missy thinks that she may never want to leave.

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

After a meal and a hot bath, drawn by hand from an old hand pump and heated on the stove, Missy dresses in fresh new clothes her hosts – Abigail specifically, she thinks – have provided. To her relief, it is not an old-fashioned dress, but thick warm socks, men’s boxers, an undershirt, blue jeans, and a faded green sweater. Though clearly not new, it is all comfortable and functional, and feels luxurious after spending so long wearing soiled and worn clothing.

When she looks in the mirror over the basin sink, though, it all seems overlarge on her, and she guesses that she has lost at least twenty pounds, far more than she could really afford. She thinks she can almost see the skull beneath her face.

She emerges from the bathroom, and finds Abigail and one of the men with whom she shared dinner waiting for her at the table in the large dining room. The others seem to have dispersed on unknown errands in other parts of the spacious old house, or outside.

Abigail asks her to sit with them, and introduces the man as Burton. Missy’s eyes flash surprise, and she half-consciously echoes the name.

Yes, the man nods, smiling, and adds that he is pleased she has come to them.

Missy hesitates to ask his last name, and before she can decide, Abigail begins to tell her that Burton is a great man, a healer and a teacher. But to this, Burton shakes his head, and says that he is only a man, that anything great he has done has not been his will or his triumph.

If there is any glory in my work, he says, it is only borrowed. For the benefit of others, and for the glory of God.

Missy shifts in her seat, suddenly restless, itchy and hot in her own skin. The house that seemed so large now feels confining, smothering even. And it feels to her as though she is back in the cramped, filthy RV, awaiting the horrible sound of the door opening, that she is hearing a man speak of God while he unmasks the hideousness that hides beneath his piety.

Then Abigail is speaking to her gently, and she is back in the large comfortable house with its wholesome smells of country cooking. Abigail is telling her that everything is okay, that she is safe and that no one here will harm her. And as she speaks, tears gather in the corners of her eyes.

And before she knows it, Missy has fallen into the older woman’s arms, and Abigail holds her as she weeps. Her tears, hard and hot and bitter, pour out of her like the poison blood of a putrid wound.

And behind Abigail, Burton stands, his smile gentle and sad and wise, like the beatific smile of the ceramic Christ in the church Missy once attended every Sunday with her mother.

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

For the next three days, all is well. She partakes in their meals and of their daily chores, caring for chickens and hogs and a couple of milk cows, washing and cleaning and cooking. Divided between so many hands, the workload is not so heavy, and she is grateful for the company and the food.

Abigail asks her out on long walks in the evenings, after supper, and after she is assured multiple times that they will be perfectly safe near the farmstead, Missy happily joins her. The older woman reminds her, in some small way, of both her mother and her grandmother: a bit old-fashioned, but lovely and generous. And as much as she enjoys her newfound company, Missy sometimes longs for the outdoors, longs to be away from the murmur of many voices.

The countryside, too, is beautiful in the evenings, golden prairie stretching beneath the dusk of gold and fire, of pastel violets and pinks and pale cyan, while mountains loom purple and faint in the distance. Missy likes to watch the stars appear, one by one, in the velvety deep blue that stretches slowly from the eastward horizon, inevitably overtaking the whole of the heavens before they return home after an hour or more of walking and speaking, sometimes excitedly, sometimes low and thoughtfully. She likes, too, to see and hear the returning wildlife: pronghorns and elk, fire grouse and swift foxes, coyotes and wolves.

And away from the others, Abigail speaks a little more freely. She talks a little of her life before, even of her childhood in Wisconsin. She tells, softly, of how her father too had been a deeply religious man, but not at all like Burton. He had often locked her in her bedroom, and when she became old enough for boys to take an interest in her, he became still more strict, and interrogated her ever more probingly. It took her almost a year of this treatment to realize that he was jealous, to understand what it was he wanted from her.

She had managed to run away then, escaping when he let her out to return to school, and slowly making her way westward by any means she could. That was a very dark time, Abigail says, and she did many things—and many things were done to her—which shamed her and left her feeling broken. She lived a transient life, frequently dulling her mind with whatever substance, legal or not, she could lay hands on – because consciousness, memory, and understanding were too terrible a burden sober.

But then, she says, she met Burton. He was a great man even then, before the plague, before the sun set on the world humanity built for itself. Before she met him, she had ceased to believe in anything at all, thought the universe was simply a huge machine of nothingness, and that awareness, sapience, only brought misery. She had long ceased to believe in God, and thought mostly of her father and his awful secret longing when she heard the name.

Burton showed her what men could be, if they chose to be, which indeed they rarely do: loving protectors and nurturers and teachers, selfless guides through both the physical and spiritual realms.

Missy is silent for a long time after this telling, as they wander through the dwindling twilight on unmarked earthen roads. Then finally, she begins to speak in barely more than a whisper, of the deaths of her parents, of the way the Patriarchs seized and violated and destroyed what they could not seize or violate. Her own story is sparse and broken, many of the words actually painful to pull from herself, but if there are any gaps, Abigail seems able fill them in on her own.

She takes Missy’s hand and squeezes it, and Missy holds onto it like a lost child reunited with her mother.

After a while, Abigail says that she never felt truly reborn until the world came crashing apart. It was too loud before, she says, there was too much to distance people from themselves, from the wonder of all creation. God’s voice was too hard for most to hear, drowned out by politics and economics and technology, by the labyrinthine evils that humanity inflicts upon itself.

Burton made it all easier, she adds with a soft, slightly mysterious smile. Burton gave them everything they needed to thrive.

Somewhere off in the hills, a coyote begins to yip, and after a few moments, another answers its cry.

After they have returned to the house and said their goodnights, Missy falls into her bed with a kind of contentment she can hardly remember having felt before. Maybe she did, once, before everything fell to pieces, but she had not appreciated it then. How could she? She had not known the world as she knows it now, had not met such bitter suffering yet, let alone been rescued from it.

She begins to drift into slumber, thinking that she has found a new home, a new family. They could never replace her first one, of course, but they were so much better than the loneliness and vulnerability she had known on the road and in the wilderness.

This thought is soured, though, by a question that has needled the back of her mind since she first arrived at the farmstead, if this Burton is the same one the crucified woman knew. He is a preacher, surely, from the way he speaks of God and from the way he leads grace before every meal, but he is so kindly and unassuming, Missy cannot believe there is any connection between him and that sprawling horror along the roadside.

But the way that Abigail speaks of him, she cannot help but think, is so like the way the dying woman on the cross did.

(Haunting music)

[Long pause]

NARRATOR

Three days turn into a week, and a week into a month. After several long and insight-filled talks with Burton, Missy begins to use her true name again: Melissa. Missy, Burton has helped her to realize, was a belittling nickname, and one that took away her power.

Between him and Abigail, Melissa realizes so much about herself and about the world that she had always been blind to before. She realizes that the world before the plague, the one which she had thought of as comfortable and safe, was really a great machine that ground up people and animals, communities and ecosystems, even dreams and souls, only to feed itself and keep itself running, purposeless beyond its own lifeless sustenance. And so many had been slavishly devoted to that machine, had been willing but unaware cogs and gears and bolts, exhausting themselves and even killing and dying to preserve it.

It was the Devil, Burton tells her. The God of the World.

And she believes him. She believes, she realizes; she never lost her faith in divinity, only her belief in humanity’s worthiness. And now she understands that humanity is not worthy, never has been, never could be. God gave them His Creation and they tore it to pieces, shat all over it.

But God is infinitely good, Burton tells her, and offers even the most unworthy a chance. And all that is required is genuine penance, and acceptance of a love that can never be earned.

Melissa thinks of her parents, certainly dead, and of her siblings, lost and likely dead. She thinks of seeing them once more, in a place she cannot imagine, where death and evil can never again find them.

And she thinks of the man called Father Allgood, and of the men like him, and of how they never said sorry once for anything that they did, how their hearts were filled with pride and cruelty and with still uglier things. She thinks of how they could never show penance, not truly, because they never could really believe themselves to have done wrong.

And yet, what they took from her, and what they never had themselves, she has regained. Melissa is stronger, more at peace, than she has ever been before, and no one can ever harm her again, not while Burton and his loving God are with her.

She smiles at Burton, and he smiles back, so gently.

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

A month turns into two. More arrive, some stay, many move on. Somehow, none of them ever seem to even consider threatening Burton or his flock.

Some small part of Melissa wonders whether the crucifixes serve more than one purpose, but she pushes that thought away.

The others tell Melissa that she looks like a healthy, strong young woman now, and not the starving, terrified girl that came to them. And she smiles at them because she knows it is true. She has fed both her body and her spirit, here, among the faithful and the righteous, and grown strong in God’s light.

She joins Abigail and Burton and the others that have been there long in prayer each night before bed, and sometimes she finds herself weeping during the prayer, not with sorrow or pain, but with the purest and most overwhelming of joy.

The world is ending, Burton tells them each night, the machine is breaking. The Devil’s power, which always rested in humankind and their hands so ready to do evil, is finally coming to an end.

But, he says, there is still work to be done by the faithful. God’s love has been rejected, has been spurned, and only a great show of penance can redeem the sorrowful tatters of humanity in His eyes.

Each night he asks if they are willing to show such penance.

Yes, they all answer, firmly and unhesitatingly. Yes, Melissa smiles and weeps.

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

The day comes when Burton tells them all that it is time, that they must begin their penitence now. He will join them, he says, and show them all the way.

He has shown so many the way, he says, but now his time too is coming. God is ready for them all, and needs them only to prove their devotion, and the depth of their remorse. For they have all sinned against God, in some way or another. They were all part of the Devil’s great machine, or at least did nothing to stop it.

Somewhere in the back of Melissa’s mind, a small voice says that this is not the way, that Burton, even if he is kinder, is as mad as Father Allgood ever was. But Melissa drowns the voice out with her own as she cries amen to Burton’s words.

They move out behind the barn, where some of the men in the group have been stockpiling whatever building materials they could gather, and they each begin to construct their own crucifix. Even Burton and Abigail join.

As they work, Melissa dares to look up at Burton and ask him what will become of the others, of those who have not made it yet.

Burton smiles and says that she has a good heart, to think of others even now, and that the Lord will surely see it. But then he grows a little graver, a little sadder, and says that he has done what he can, and that they must leave the rest in God’s hands now.

It takes a full day to construct all of their crucifixes satisfactorily, and as evening falls, they return to the house to share one final meal of fellowship. It is simple fare, since everyone has been busy all day outside – only a thin vegetable soup and plain wheat bread, and there is a gentle sadness and bittersweet love between them all as they eat, talking little and feeling much.

They go to bed afterward. Melissa does not sleep, and she can hear gentle moans in the room beside hers. A younger couple that showed up only a few weeks before her sleep there. Whether they are weeping or making love, she cannot tell, but she finds she hopes it is the latter.

She would like someone to have a good final night, at least.

Lying awake, she hears the house fall silent, and the doubtful voice in the back of her mind says don’t do this. Do not do this. There is always hope, there is always another way.

Outside the window of her little room, she thinks she hears a raven croaking: no one, no one. Wants this, wants this.

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

Morning comes, and with it, toil and weeping. They all wear the same clothes, simple robes that the women have made from old bedsheets and other scrap linens. Melissa even helped with this, despite her lack of skill in that arena. They take no breakfast other than water mixed with vinegar, and then they all kneel and pray.

Melissa realizes during this that, for all her time in the little nondenominational church that only she and her mother attended, the rest of her family feeling no such inclination, she knows very little about the prelude to the Crucifixion – the Passion, she thinks it is called. She does not know how Jesus spent his last morning, only that some accounts said he carried his own cross, and others said that another man did.

But Burton makes it clear which view he takes, and that they will follow in the Savior’s footsteps. They gather up what they have built and slowly, painfully, begin to drag it up the hill, toward the road that Melissa abandoned over two months ago now.

How much has changed, she thinks, her back groaning and sweat beading on her brow beneath her burden, and in how little time.

The little voice says that nothing has changed, not really, only her willingness to forsake all reason for false promises of safety and peace.

You are the Devil, she says inwardly, to the little voice. You are tempting me away from the true path, the path that Burton has shown me.

I am you, the voice replies, I am reason. All that awaits on that hill is agony and death. This is not Golgotha, and Burton is no Jesus.

He saved me, Melissa insists.

He is killing you, and himself, and all the others, the voice says.

She waits for it to speak again, but it is silent now, leaving her to ruminate on that final thought.

He is killing us, she repeats, unwillingly.

She doesn’t know that she has spoken aloud until the woman beside her – one of the next-room neighbors she heard in the night – looks over at her sharply. The woman’s eyes are red and bloodshot, but Melissa does not think they were while they drank diluted vinegar and prayed. The strain of the shabby crucifix on her back is too much for her smallish frame, perhaps.

The woman whispers, so faintly that Melissa can scarcely hear her, that she doesn’t want this.

Melissa hesitates, then says that Burton told them all that no one would be forced, no one would be obliged, and that if they doubted, they were free to leave in friendship.

Yes, the woman says, but what if he is right, after all?

Melissa has no answer.

The sun has risen high – Melissa judges it to be past ten-thirty – when they top the crest and reach the roadside, where previous crucifixes still stand. All their denizens are silent now, falling apart, gnawed and pecked at.

Burton, his robe soaked through with sweat and his chest heaving, tells them all to take a brief rest, and then the true labor will begin. After he has regained some of his breath, he begins to speak, tells them that they will all need to help one another – even if it is very hard, he emphasizes, even if it is painful. That sometimes love, true love, can feel incredibly cruel, and that the test was holding to it, even then.

Then he bids one of the other men to fetch the hammer and nails, the rope and the ladder, and they do so from some hidden place near the road. Melissa wonders how it was placed there, if someone came in the night or in the hours before dawn to prepare the place for them, and who it might have been.

Burton continues speaking, telling them that they will raise the crosses and take their places upon them one at a time.

Each crucifixion will be a communal process, a group effort. They will show the Lord how much they love Him, and each other, by mimicking his sacrifice together.

Now the little voice speaks again, for the last time, asking Melissa who will help the last of them into place. Melissa feels nauseous, her heart racing in her ribcage, her legs itching to run.

The young woman with the reddened eyes says, quaveringly, that she will go first, and Melissa is certain that she is volunteering because she knows she will break and flee if she is not the first. And she feels in this moment such kinship, such compassion for the woman, and wonders if they might have been friends in the former world, before the plague and the birds and the certainty of doom.

The woman’s husband – or perhaps boyfriend, since they wear no rings – helps her to raise her cross. The holes for them have already been dug, looking fresh still, and once more Melissa wonders who prepared them and when. The young man weeps as he helps his partner into place, as he takes the small ladder and binds her limbs into place with rope, then drives the long nails through her flesh. She screams, and he weeps, and those below pray and sing and shout their loving encouragement.

Burton tells her that she will be with God soon, that they will all be with Him soon.

Yes, the woman cries through her screams, yes, with Him soon.

And then she begins to babble, to tell God how she loves Him, to beg Him to spare her, spare her lover that drives nails through her heels, to forgive her dead parents and bring them back to her.

Below, they sing and pray and shout their love.

Her lover is next, taking the place beside her. He too screams, and pleads, and babbles. Below, they sing and pray and shout.

Then, Abigail takes her turn, and as she clambers awkwardly onto her cross, Melissa thinks, no, no, not Abigail. She wants to tell her to wait, to wait until last, but she knows she will not, knows Abigail would not listen if she did, would only shake her head sadly at Melissa’s lack of faith.

She asks Melissa to drive in her nails, and suddenly Melissa feels cold all the way through.

Two ravens, perched on a cross bearing only two skeletal hands behind her, begin to croak loudly.

No more, no more. No one. Wants this. No one. Asked for this. No more.

Please, Abigail smiles down at her. Shivering, unable to speak, Melissa takes the nails and the hammer, and ascends the ladder the men have placed. As she drives in the first nail, Abigail shrieks, her gentle, beautiful, grandmotherly voice breaking and scattering like dropped glass.

Melissa’s inner voice does not speak, but it screams. It screams, and screams, and screams as she swings the hammer and the nail bites deeper, turning red; as Melissa repeats over and over to herself that love can feel cruel and that they will all be with God soon and that the Patriarchs can never take her again now; as the ravens croak that no one wants this and then take wing and fly sunward; as the people below sing and pray.

(Bleak music)

[Short pause]

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro]

NARRATOR

Story, narration, and music by Lars Mollevand. If you enjoyed today’s story, please rate, review, and share. Thank you for listening. We’ll meet again… in darker pastures.

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro - Continues]