Sister Sisteron

By Thomas Harrington

Most people think that money is the crucial factor in life. Unfortunately, it--like religion--cannot guarantee happiness, prevent bad choices, or ensure good personal relationships. Each merely provides some comfort...useless in moments fraught with danger. In this fast-moving romantic thriller, Jack and Claire escape a dubious religious group, fall in love, and learn that cults do change lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Harrington
• Release date: Aug 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452339566

Thomas Harrington

Prior to writing novels, the author enjoyed a multifaceted career: from decorated combat aviator to global communications director of a major consumer brand. He has traveled the world and met sports, film and television stars, political leaders, and royalty. He graduated from Middlebury College, is married, lives in Germany, and has two grown children.

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Sister Sisteron

By

Thomas Harrington

Smashwords Edition

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Copyright © 2010 by Thomas S. Harrington

Discover other titles by Thomas Harrington at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/harringtonbooks

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the copyrights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Sister Sisteron

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Chapter One

Jack Snyder had learned to doubt any god in the hands of man; his distrust of women came naturally. Each might serve some purpose, but he valued his freedoms.

Six months ago, he had accepted a freelance assignment to write a magazine article about European religious cults. The subject had piqued his curiosity…and provided an escape from a woman, who had wanted more than he was willing to commit. Now, he longed to return to a life he could call his own—with or without a woman—and a schedule with little or no routine.

His initial research period had been interesting and carefree; the past month among Disciples of Genesis fanatics had been monotonous and even odious…at times bordering on unbearable. Repulsed by his subject, mental detachment expected from a successful journalist had collapsed under the weight of too many wrong emotions. Even domestic life with a woman couldn’t be this bad.

He should have returned to New York already, but had delayed his departure on the strength of whispered gossip. A rumored initiation ceremony might add spice to the bland mix of uninteresting characters and fraudulent cant. He had witnessed nothing to compete with front–page sensationalism of self–destructive cults: boredom posed a greater risk than spiked Kool-Aid. Each day he had stifled urges to lash out at stupidity, because he knew that any display of honest emotion would raise suspicion and change nothing. Passion must be saved for his writing.

Before joining this group, he had had intelligent conversations about religion, and he had endured various weirdoes. Saving the worst for last, he had gathered sufficient material. Time with this flock and their keepers had provided the crowning touches to his research.

No one suspected that he had come seeking religion for professional reasons, not out of conviction. Like a lizard, which imitates its surroundings to survive, he had watched, listened, and copied. Piety and fervor were easily faked, especially to an audience blinded by self-delusion. Although he had immediately noticed how this obscure group abused its members and the first book of the Bible, he had shown no hint. The Disciples of Genesis had accepted him as a novice and, like salesmen touting whole life policies, had praised his future potential. He hoped escape would be as easy as he imagined.

The Disciples of Genesis had welcomed him at their front door, but he planned to sneak over the perimeter wall after dark. Because he doubted he would be able to leave as easily as he had arrived, his departure would be without ceremony. He would say no good–byes and leave no forwarding address.

Surrounded by mumbling fanatics, Jack had often reflected on the reputation of cults—nurtured over centuries—for mistreating those who disagreed or turned their backs much worse than they abused believers. Since time immemorial, words like intolerance and revenge have been associated with religious fervor. True faith could be proven only through toil, sacrifice, self-denial, and anguish; heresy had to be subjected to even greater misery and pain. Death—real or symbolic—has been a constant companion.

None of this posed a problem for him. Deceit, which had proved to be child’s play, would save him from suffering repercussions of disappearance. Anonymity of a false identity, lies he had told, and distance should provide sufficient layers of protection.

Delayed departure had provided no new insights, but the imminent ceremony piqued his curiosity. Whatever he would witness might even be a reward for his mental ordeal and physical isolation from the real world.

*

Jack shuffled barefoot to the ceremony with other hooded shapes. Unsure of the hour, he strained to hear church bells in the village of Grimaud. Watches were forbidden, and shadows had darkened the sundial he had passed. Time belonged to God and the Disciples, unless one glimpsed the sundial in daylight or heard faint chimes carried by favorable winds. Now, the sky provided a hint. He guessed the time to be around ten.

Travel books extolled such June evenings. Jack couldn’t describe the color of the Cote d’Azur sky, and few artists could mix the shade. The mere suggestion of a pinkish cloud—lingering contrail or sign of weather change—was the only blemish in an otherwise flawless sky. A lone star lurked, like the advance scout of an approaching army.

Under different circumstances, this setting would have been peaceful and relaxing. And, it probably was for residents and tourists enjoying a different lifestyle in houses, boats, hotels, and campgrounds dotting the nearby coast and adjacent hills. Maybe only a few noticed, whereas Jack had come to appreciate simple pleasures, which nature provided and religion could not deny.

Like battery–driven toys, the drab mass rounded a corner of former stables and entered the chateau courtyard. Jack wondered why he considered that metaphor: toys implied fun. Here, nothing resembled enjoyment. Automaton would be a suitable description. But, then again, he knew that word suggested modernism. No aspect of this place approached modernity. Antique, at best. Rundown, for sure. The word laughable worked best. But, he couldn’t laugh. If you were involved in a cult, no aspect was humorous.

The compound’s condition worked as metaphor for the tragic souls within. Dusk softened evidence of neglect, and lengthening shadows concealed dilapidation. Maintenance had an even lower priority than personal hygiene and comfort. The entire scene felt like he imagined a prison camp, even if people were held captive only by foolish beliefs. No one else seemed to notice the duress. That’s why he would scale the wall and write the story.

Jack glanced at the moon, low in the southeast sky. Usually, its presence enhanced a beautiful setting, but his mind considered more practical matters. A day or two short of full, the moon’s light would aid travel on foot…and facilitate detection. Escape scenes from long–forgotten movies provided clues of what he hoped to avoid.

Like a sluggish, muddy river, the procession flowed into the chateau. Jack bowed his head and pretended to pray. Thoughts of impending flight enhanced his senses, lately dulled by the absurdity and monotony of cult ritual and canon. Beneath boring normalcy of regimented life, he had detected a sinister reality, which others had failed to realize…or had chosen to ignore. Now, a cocktail of conflicting emotions influenced his thoughts: fear of discovery, elation at being able to leave, and melancholy that comes at the end of each day.

End of the day?

Until this moment, he hadn’t considered that aspect. Why hold an initiation at day’s end? The book of Genesis—if he remembered correctly—was about creation and light and order. Initiation meant a new beginning, whereas darkness would arrive before this ceremony started. New beginnings should come in the morning, because sunrises enter with a purpose. Sunsets linger, as if clinging in vain to something already lost. He struggled in vain to discover the symbolism.

Inside the darkened hall, mumbled prayers produced the only sounds. Anticipation seemed to increase nervous tension in a group normally docile and quiet. Like any good Protestant, Jack preferred last–row obscurity, but couldn’t buck the system. His order in line forced him into the front row on the center aisle.

Anxiety made little sense. He should be pleased, because he would witness an initiation ceremony—not his own—and because these were his final hours of unpleasantness. All the same, he could not deny his unease and moist palms were not caused by his heavy robe.

Like many religions, this one preached love and redemption, but practiced subtle threats and persecution. For adherents of any fanatic group—whether religious cult or gun club—belief in cherished doctrine remains unwavering. True believers didn’t notice or didn’t care. Doubters were branded sinners, fortunate enough to burn in Hell. Jack would take his chances—he preferred being too hot to being too cold.

Even without enhanced perception, he would have noticed the stench in the hall. Unpleasant odors would be a lasting memory of the Disciples of Genesis, but tonight was extreme—a mixture of unwashed humans, wood smoke, and cheap incense. Woolen robes, worn all day in the Mediterranean sun, cloaked unclean bodies. Smoke from pine logs crackling in a fireplace drifted through the hall. Burning incense worsened the stench, like cheap deodorant unable to mask body odor.

Surprised by the opening trumpet fanfare, Jack flinched. Mumbling ceased; people stood straighter. All heads turned to watch the High Priest of the Disciples of Genesis parade down the center aisle, followed by his apostles. Everyone had been instructed to consider him the church’s one and only saint—despite being still alive. Jack loathed the man, not only for his arrogance, but also for his less–evident character defects. His position let him, like a playground bully, toy with troubled souls.

About eighty robed shapes crowded the vaulted hall. Eager expressions, not unlike those found on faces of children that believe Santa delivers toys discovered on Christmas morning, adorned most faces. Women outnumbered men by two-to-one. Jack wondered if they were more vulnerable, less critical, or simply available. Men and women alike—except the priest and his apostles—endured coarse robes. In any organization, big guys always enjoyed finer threads. Even in paradise, life was unfair.

The High Priest plunged into his sermon and droned for about half an hour. Others might be impressed by his speaking talent, but Jack recognized a teleprompter’s Plexiglas panels. He tried to tune out the message, but couldn’t ignore the high-pitched voice. English was not the man’s mother tongue. He barely mastered the language by reading prepared text.

Jack could not decide which sense was most insulted; the priest’s rhetoric, odor, and appearance were equally offensive. He imagined such men needing beards to add dignity or cover weak chins. The guy tried to look the part he played, aided by fierce eyes, careful grooming, and unshaved face—like an ad exec hoping to be cool. Despite not shaving, the leader of the flock insisted on too much cologne—its repelling scent spread like a reverse magnetic field.

The man’s origin was difficult to establish, and his background remained obscure. Jack had quickly discovered that inquiring minds were not welcome, and certain mysteries must not be questioned. Feigned innocence had helped little. Queries had earned him nervous glances and warnings against curiosity beyond lesson boundaries.

Jack forced himself to listen to now–familiar cant, with fading hope of discovering some nugget. He regretted not leaving last night, because nothing had warranted enduring the additional day. The concoction of religion, philosophy, and pseudo–science hardly differed from standard ingredients of other cults. At times, elements evoked communist propaganda he had studied in college: one more aspect that made little sense.

*

Movement at the side caught Jack’s attention. He glanced surreptitiously to avoid sweeping gazes of cadre posted along the walls. Four acolytes in white vestments entered and took up position on the stage.

Although called apostles, he found the cadre to be more like keepers. Holy ones should be kind and gentle, not unpleasant. Many people might not agree with the Pope, but at least he looked like a nice man. The High Priest of the Disciples of Genesis was not kind; his henchmen—that word fit better—were equally unlovable, if not less so. Jack feared tangling with any…even females. Fooling members had been easy; he remained uncertain about success with the cadre. He had always felt watched.

The priest paused…Lights dimmed further…Jack returned his gaze to the front. He hoped something unusual would happen, but feared it would be more of the same.

A trumpet fanfare and spotlight focused attention on the priest, who moved to center stage. He found his words in a leather folder, handed to him by an acolyte.

Reality is not the light of day, he intoned, when man can be fooled by harsh and blinding glare from a sun that will soon die.

Jack wondered if he had heard correctly. Maybe this guy read a different science book…or might know something denied the rest of humanity.

Reality can only be seen at night, when God reveals to us the dark velvet of infinity.

Jack winced inwardly. He struggled to recall that passage in the Book of Genesis. The god of the Bible had said something like let there be light. And, reality of this place was fairly normal. He must be the only logical thinker to notice how the Disciples of Genesis followed a usual pattern of daily toil and sleep at night.

We can contemplate infinity, the priest continued, with increasing fervor. "But—like death—we will never understand.

"This should not concern us…because infinity belongs to God. As keeper of time without end, God can provide each of us with eternal life.

"The only price…belief."

The priest stopped speaking, returned the folder to the acolyte, and extended both hands to the bogus heaven—black cloth with pinholes to allow faint dots of light. From the rear, a bongo drum interrupted the silence. It started softly and then slowly increased volume and tempo. Jack recalled other religious ceremonies he had witnessed. Like it or not, Catholics have had many centuries’ head start in pageantry.

The sound stopped abruptly and interrupted his thoughts. In the ensuing silence, Jack decided the use of light and sound to mesmerize the crowd was amateurish. All the same, everyone within his range of sight seemed to be enthralled by the faux drama.

He returned his attention to the front. Two acolytes parted the curtain behind the priest, who still faced the crowd with arms raised and eyes closed. Light remained murky, but Jack discerned an inert form behind the curtains, like someone with legs spread and arms reaching to heaven. He had never seen such a statue; maybe it was a person—perhaps the evening’s main attraction. But, the scene resembled persecution more than initiation.

Light increased slowly and revealed a naked woman. Maybe they had miscalculated the time, but nakedness could symbolize a new beginning. Finally, something interesting might happen…

Jack stared at the woman, bound to a frame shaped like the Church’s stylized infinity symbol—what his former advertising colleagues had called a logo. Although her drooped head suggested sleep or unconsciousness, he decided that she must know that she was Saturday night entertainment for this weird crowd. Everything else was scripted and staged—badly, but still scripted. He eagerly anticipated her awakening. A female provided more thrill than some bare–assed guy, but he wondered what made her special for these hyenas.

The priest chanted gobbledygook—a mixture of English, French, and Latin. Jack thought he recognized a word or two of Greek or Russian. Although languages had played a minor role in his education, he could identify a dialect and stumble his way through any country with a smile and a word or two of the local tongue picked up along the way.

Flowery rhetoric explained what Jack suspected: tonight’s star attraction hung before him like a living tapestry. And, from best he could decipher, she must sign some sacred scroll before taking the big step…crossing the final bridge…entering the last gate.

The priest lowered his chant to barely audible and lifted a scroll—like those favored in biblical illustrations—from the stone altar.

Despite the priest’s verbal goading, the woman remained lifeless. Repeated litany failed to make her react. Jack guessed that she had been drugged, but someone must have miscalculated the dosage. He glanced around and found that all worshippers followed the ceremony with rapt attention. He wondered if the woman was still alive.

When the priest turned to face the crowd, concern etched his usually stern face. Aggression remained his only option: he commanded everyone to kneel and bow their heads to the floor. Jack knelt, but couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. Nothing obstructed his line of sight. And, for the moment, the cadre appeared more concerned with things seemingly gone wrong.

Although meant to be a religious ceremony, the drama could grace a cheap S&M movie. Whoever choreographed this spectacle must have a theater background, favor x–rated films, and enjoy kinky hobbies. The show contained all the ingredients: smoke, incense, weird costumes, strange music, naked flesh, and hungry looks—especially on men’s faces. Jack wondered if black leather and whips would come later…perhaps, to make the woman respond.

Witnessing sadistic tendencies manifested in this phony religious ceremony, Jack’s earlier disappointment began to fade. And, something interested him. A naked woman in bright light was no mystery, even if he had yet to get a good look at her face—concealed behind a shaggy blond mop. When an acolyte lifted her head for the priest to address her, the partial glimpse had revealed little.

Unable to provoke a response, the priest turned to face the audience. Before starting to speak, his expression signaled frustration. Jack bowed his head, but his eyes remained captured by a powerful magnet. He saw her head rise and her eyes open. She blinked in the harsh light. No one else seemed to notice.

Jack imagined that the woman might not be bad-looking…maybe even attractive. Then again, after what he had endured, any half-decent female would attract him. This one could be twenty or she could be forty…or anywhere in between. He couldn’t see her eyes, where telltale signs of age linger, or places they conceal evidence of cosmetic surgery.

After blinking in bright light, the woman stared at the priest. She did not appear to be taking part in or even to be aware of what was happening. Jack felt certain drugs played a role.

The priest, busy spouting a fresh batch of pious gobbledygook, missed her cameo appearance. By the time he returned his attention to her, she had nodded off.

All worshippers looked down, but Jack ignored the risk of discovery. Desire trumped fear. The main attraction had become a naked body, not the ceremony. He hadn’t touched one in a long time, and this one looked better and better. The Tree of Knowledge offered no promise, but he knew what he liked. Like most men—regardless of race, color, or creed—sex interested him more than religion.

Jack decided to enjoy a cheap thrill, because this place had provided none and had stifled those that might otherwise be available. Unlike with religion, nothing remained left to his imagination. Thankful that she had been bound to enhance his viewing pleasure, he examined her from head to toe and enjoyed seeing things for which Mother Nature compels men to yearn—anatomy featured in magazines wrapped in opaque plastic and banned to top shelves.

The woman raised her head a second time and blinked into lights directed at her. Jack had now convinced himself that she might be attractive—cleaned up and without the dazed look of a drugged person. Thick, blond hair reached to her shoulders; the current disarray added to her appeal.

Appeal?

He shook his head. No woman entangled in this garbage could be appealing. Not to him. Nakedness might fuel his fantasy, but his interest ended there. Beyond an involuntary tickle of lust, he wanted nothing to do with any fruitcake tied up with this circus—literally or figuratively. Enough intelligent women waited at home—to resist or exploit.

No one else seemed to notice the woman emerge from the trance. Worshippers stared dutifully at the stone floor, the cadre tended the flock, and the priest consulted his folder.

More movement at the side of the stage caught Jack’s attention. Out of the corner of an eye, he noticed a sheep being led onto the stage. He had heard only rumors of animal sacrifices. Finally, something biblical—

Without pronouncement, the priest plunged a knife into the sheep’s throat and caught its blood in a terracotta bowl. Animal squeals caused some worshippers to risk a glance at the priest, who carried the bowl to center stage and stopped in front of the woman. Her head had sagged again.

Jack tried to figure out why the priest continued, despite an inert victim. The guy must have some hidden agenda…or a plane to catch…or didn’t want to miss his favorite television program. As a journalist, he knew that strange actions often dictated events.

With this holy blood of the sacred lamb… the priest proclaimed, his voice rising in tone.

Attempting a dramatic flourish, he dipped two fingers into the bowl and painted streaks down the woman’s breastbone and across her breasts.

We baptize this child…and she will be known as Sister Sisteron…for evermore.

The priest added another layer of blood to the messy cross.

The cross surprised Jack. That little device came much later in the Bible. And, wasn’t it a New Testament thing? The Disciples of Genesis neither used crosses nor displayed a corpse every time you turned around.

The priest smeared more blood on the woman. Red liquid flowed down her stomach and darkened her blond hair. Stabbing scenes in a horror movie—also using animal blood?—often looked less messy. Jack watched him draw circles around each breast. This couldn’t be an essential part of the ceremony…just a way to get a cheap feel. Guys—even priests—will do anything to get their hands on tits.

Jack had a weird thought: he imagined writing an advertisement for this ceremony. He could write flowery text—Guaranteed to receive one full pint of genuine holy blood from an actual sacrificial lamb—to accompany religious graphics. Work on such a product would have provided him more entertainment than detergent or toothpaste or—

With this holy blood…

The whiny voice interrupted his fantasy.

Henceforth, there will be no turning back, the priest droned. For evermore.

Apparently stimulated by the action, the woman lifted her head, blinked her eyes, and looked around. For the first time, she struggled against the bonds. Even from the distance, Jack could discern her confusion, caused by drugs or her situation…or both. She stopped struggling and looked down at the blood on her chest. When she looked up, surprise or fear had replaced confusion. Maybe she thought she was being sacrificed.

Because he had turned to address the crowd, the priest failed to notice her consciousness. He raised his voice; perhaps he hoped volume would conceal program miscues.

The woman struggled; her expression changed to anger or aggravation. Her mouth opened, but no sound reached Jack’s ears. She made none, or it was drowned out by the priest’s tirade.

Finally, an acolyte noticed the woman. He approached the priest and whispered in his ear. Jack discerned only the slightest nod. Like a musician sliding from one tune into another, the priest ended his speech and turned to address the woman.

And now, the most glorious moment of her life…has finally come…for Sister Sisteron.

The priest raised his hands to the phony heavens and cried even louder. He stared directly at the woman—like a hypnotist might do. Jack could imagine his fierce stare, which had caused others to cringe. The woman shook her head.

"She will commit her spirit…and all her worldly possessions…to the wondrous Disciples of Genesis."

The priest accepted a scroll from one acolyte and a feather quill from another. A third acolyte offered the terracotta bowl. Another acolyte appeared behind the woman, untied her right hand, and held her arm.

The woman turned to the acolyte, who restrained her arm. She said something, before turning back to face the priest. She tried to focus on the scroll, but spotlights caused her to squint. Confusion clouded her face.

Once again, she struggled to free her arm from the acolyte, but lacked strength. Pain or frustration now distorted her face. Her head started to shake, and Jack read from her lips the word No.

It’s time for Sister Sisteron to join us, the priest cried.

He held the quill closer to her face and motioned towards the scroll; perhaps, he hoped sign language would work where words had failed. Silence filled the room, but Jack could sense anticipation. He knew that, if the ceremony proceeded as expected, anticlimax would follow—fulfilled expectations are far less exciting and less memorable than unintended circumstances.

The woman closed her eyes. Her shaking head could mean rebellion or disbelief. Or, perhaps, she hoped that something she didn’t see couldn’t happen.

She stopped, opened her eyes, and glared at the priest.

"Nooooo."

Her protest pierced the silence. Some worshippers—those brave or foolish—looked up. Like dogs, which expected to be beaten, most kept their heads bowed. Jack sensed mounting tension.

The priest berated and gesticulated at the woman. His back remained to the crowd, which made it impossible to understand his words. For some reason, loudspeakers no longer carried his voice. Jack watched the woman struggle. The priest paused, creating a strange silence.

I want my baby, the woman screamed.

Baby?

Jack glanced around, but he spotted no baby…or any children. A few more heads had looked up.

The priest thrust the scroll in the woman’s face, but failed to elicit the response Jack imagined the guy must desire. The two shouted at each other, but their sets of words didn’t mesh: they belonged in different plays. Like a crowd struggling to escape through a narrow door, only single words reached Jack’s ears in a confused jumble.

Vows…Genesis…promises…rewards…obligations…Disciples…sins…no escape…

Baby…refuse…Sophie…release…mistake…help…

Finally, the priest stopped, handed the scroll and quill to helpers, and turned to face the crowd. Next, he raised his hand like a traffic cop. He appeared calm and in control. Jack assumed the guy must realize that yelling would not work. Someone in his position must be in command, or he would lose whatever mystique he possessed. Unlike others, Jack had not been awed. Shepherds could always find a flock; disobedient or errant sheep were slaughtered…

Oops, he thought. In light of what he planned to do later, that was an unfortunate metaphor.

The priest commanded his flock to rise, possibly to underline who ran the lives of everyone in the room. After glaring for a moment, he spoke calmly.

"Sadly, we have a heretic amongst us tonight…

"Our dear Sister Sisteron has not understood the importance of this ceremony or the honor for those offered the special bond…

"There is only one course of action to help her find the way to true belief and a life free of sin…

The words are clear for all to see in the holy writings of Genesis.

The High Priest placed a hand on his forehead, closed his eyes, and appeared to think. Jack wondered if he tried to remember what had been clearly written. The man’s attempt to be dramatic wouldn’t rate a role in a poor amateur play. Nevertheless, Jack ignored the woman to see what he would do.

With his right hand still at his forehead, the priest pointed to the left with a theatrical flare.

There’s a penalty for refusal…

Somewhere in the crowd someone gasped.

Now…now, she must suffer…suffer the loss and the shame of an outcast.

Behind Jack, a woman moaned.

Dramatically, the priest planted his feet to face the hall. He gazed to the heavens—either to punctuate his judgment or seek approval. Next, he twisted his upper body and pointed at the woman. Continuing to point, he turned his head and glared at the worshippers. To Jack, the man looked evil.

Heretics must be banned to the wilderness.

The sound of the entire group, either exclaiming or inhaling, filled the room. Jack recalled stories of Puritan New England, where pious superiority had produced feigned shock at the discovery sin and unconcealed pleasure at the sight of a sinner suffering punishment.

"Until she understands the error of her misjudgment…

"And, her insult to the Disciples…

As well as to all who have vowed…

The woman watched and listened, her expression alternating between confusion and frustration.

Jack’s thoughts still lingered on what the guy could mean by wilderness: something difficult to find in this age of fast–food restaurants at every intersection. The French Riviera—not the land of biblical Genesis—lay nearby. No one had ever called this area wild, unless to describe jet–set parties.

Real penalties will come later…

The priest’s arm made a sweeping gesture.

The Disciples of Genesis will get our due from Sister Sisteron.

As he watched, Jack ran the words our due through his mind.

Be gone from this Garden of Eden!

The priest pointed theatrically to the door and commanded his acolytes.

Put her out into the night…to repent.

A sound filled the room. Jack made a mental note to describe it in his article as a mix between cheer and groan—like the noise made by opposing fans, which draw different conclusions when two athletes collide. He sensed a strange reaction from the people around him: disappointment or frustration…or even anger. They had been denied vicarious pleasure of witnessing the woman’s symbolic violation and reacted like a frustrated rapist.

Jack’s thoughts remained stuck on things the priest had said about their due and more than her fair share. Cults always wanted money—and expected people to empty bank accounts and sell possessions to fill church coffers. Although widespread and rather obvious, his research had failed to reveal the reason few cult members recognized their leaders’ larceny. Of course, not only folks who join religious cults get fleeced. Scandals had surrounded the Vatican bank, and few questioned the use of money entrusted collection plates or alms boxes.

An acolyte untied the woman. Another put a hand over her mouth, but must have been bitten. He or she raised a hand to strike, but was restrained by a word from the priest. Increased music volume failed to drown out the woman’s protests, but her words made little sense. Five people carried the struggling body horizontally off the stage. The drugs must have worn off.

Jack decided that wilderness must be a metaphor. They wouldn’t put the woman outside the compound, because normal people might see her. He imagined her being locked in an animal pen or, at worst, tied to a tree. She might be afraid, but wouldn’t suffer much physical discomfort. Mild June weather and moonlight would moderate her ordeal. Moreover, humiliation from being naked might be less in the dark.

After the woman had been carried out, the priest preached obedience and belief and sacrifice and duty and reward and all the normal garbage one gets from any religion—socially acceptable or not. Try as he might, Jack could not understand the appeal of religious frenzy. All religions tried to control people; cults sought the ultimate in control—from members’ thoughts to financial assets. Then again, this was also not unlike what the Communist Party had attempted. That could explain the Russian words and the feel of propaganda to the rhetoric. Little made sense…and that would be the theme of his article.

No cult made sense to him…or any normal person. Each acted strangely in its own way. One might seek salvation in the jungle and find deliverance through their leader’s special blend of Kool-Aid.