Songs for a Mockingbird

By Bonnie Compton Hanson

All they wanted was a peaceful, simple life away from the troubles of the world, where they could worship God freely. That's why they moved to a quaint farm in Iowa. But that was before the guards, the guns and the big iron gate forced them all to live as slaves under the control of Harve and Agnes Osborn.

Young idyllic Melinda joined this group in college to understand God. She reluctantly moved to the farm with her husband Josh, but soon finds herself living and working in a grueling cult with her family. Years later, after she is told of the death of her husband and the fate that awaits her and her young coworker Shannon, she realizes she must escape. But escape from the cult is difficult and the road to freedom won't be easy.

Melinda must now start a new life in a nearby town with the help of a local family. Unfortunately, the leaders of the cult have other plans that will jeopardize the lives of Melinda and her family as well as the lives of many of her new friends.

Can Melinda find the strength and courage to fight back and save those she cares about? Or will she become another casualty of the devastating plans of the cult.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781934684023

Book preview

Him.

Chapter One

B-r-r-r-K! B-r-r-r-K! B-r-r-r-K!

Dear God, what was that?

Heart pounding, Melinda Currie looked up from her needlework. Not another shot from a guard’s AK-47, please!

The radiant colors of the blouse she was embroidering and of the other garments piled high on her workstation contrasted starkly with her own drab gray scarf, apron, and shapeless robe, now dark with stains and perspiration. Blonde curls, soaked with sweat, hung limply over her forehead.

She pulled back the edge of her scarf to hear better above the whir and clatter of the dozen electric sewing machines all around her, operated at breakneck speed by a crew of similarly-dressed women. Not to mention the loud buzz of flies and bugs attracted by the pungent smell of this converted poultry shed on a sweltering summer day. Had she just imagined that harsh sound, or—

No, there it came again. But no one else seemed to notice it.

Peeking furtively through a knothole in the bare plank wall, she was almost blinded by brilliant June sunshine. Choking heat and dust rose in shimmers from the barren earth outside this building. Far away she could glimpse white clouds, blue sky, and rolling fields of knee-high corn on neighboring farms—picture-perfect Iowa farmland in all its down-home glory.

But mostly her view was blocked by her own farm’s hodge-podge of unpainted wood and concrete buildings, crammed in graceless squalor around this sewing workroom. The commune headquarters of the End Times Disciples’ Fortress of Faith.

What new danger had arisen out there? Were the Prophet and his guards target-practicing at the fenceposts again, or at birds hapless enough to land on the drooping clothesline?

Or did that grating sound mean that another accident had just occurred in the barn where her dear husband and son—

No! She held her breath and prayed. Then breathed again.

Of course! Her cornflower-blue eyes glistened with sudden recognition and relief. Leaning toward the diminutive thirteen-year-old sewing frantically beside her, she whispered, Psst, Sister Deborah. Hear that?

Her co-worker looked up. Hear what, Sister Abigail? she whispered back, using Melinda’s commune name. Then listening she added, "Oh, that awful noise? What is it?"

Melinda resumed her needlework. A mockingbird, dear.

A mockingbird? But, Sister Abigail, mockingbirds are supposed to be happy. That one’s not even singing. It-it sounds like its little heart’s broken. What’s wrong?

Melinda sighed. Sister Abigail. Would no one ever call her by her right name again? And when could she ever call her young co-worker Shannon Obermeyer by hers? Some cat probably robbed her nest, dear, so right now she has lost all hope. That’s why she’s lost her song. But one day she will sing again. Then, even though it seemed impossible, she added, And someday our hearts will too.

The young girl’s dark eyes filled with tears. Oh, I hope so, Sister Abigail. Oh, I do hope so.

But someone had heard them: their silver-haired, hawk-nosed, ever-ready-to-discipline supervisor, Sister Dorcas. In honor of her position, she wore the only white scarf and gown in this roomful of threadbare gray garments. Rushing over with her vengeful Rod of Righteousness, the wiry older woman beat them both on the head.

Lazy wretches! she shouted. You know no one is allowed to talk during Hand Ministry hours. For punishment, no noon rations today for either of you. Stay at your machines and pray that God’s Prophet will forgive you!

Sister Dorcas pointed to the already-filled boxes of exquisitely-sewn garments, carefully folded, packed, and ready for shipment to eager retail stores. "You know we must complete this shipment by the end of this week or the Prophet’s guards will beat us within an inch of our lives! And it would all be your fault, you— you—Jezebels!"

Cringing, Melinda and Shannon replied woodenly, as all Unanointed Disciples must at every infraction, real or imagined: As the Prophet wills, Sister Dorcas.

Just then they heard, a definite gunshot. Oh, no, did a guard get that mockingbird? Then heavy footsteps pounded the rickety wooden steps leading up to the sewing room. In strode Gabriel, the Prophet’s Messenger, lips curled, holding his still-smoking revolver.

Even on this blistering summer day, he wore the high black boots and full camouflage uniform of the Prophet’s Right Hands of Power guards. A very visible semi-automatic rifle hung over one shoulder, while holsters at his waist held a .38 handgun and a cell phone. Sweat glistened on his closely-shaven cheeks and head. A sparkling silver chain with its Sign of the Anointed pendant circled his thick, well-muscled neck. His eyes were insolent; his teeth stained from constant wads of chewing tobacco.

Ramrod-stiff, Sister Dorcas ordered, All rise!

The roomful of women leapt from their sewing machines, worktables, and quilting frames, their thin, weary faces as colorless as their long, shapeless garments. What message does our Prophet send, O Gabriel? they chanted.

But he had words for only one. Sister Abigail!

Melinda trembled. Dear God, what have I done?

She forced her bare feet across the worn wooden floor to the Messenger to hear today’s pronouncement, today’s punishment. Why had she been singled out? Had she been sewing too slowly? Did she not laugh loudly enough at the Prophet’s jokes? Had her son, seven-year-old Jeremy, spoken out of turn? Or her four-year-old daughter Amber failed at her chores?

Or did loyal, patient Josh Currie, her husband, heart of her heart and love of her life, he who had been brooding for so long, finally find the courage to say: I want out?

Head still bowed, she knelt at the Messenger’s feet.

To the others, he barked, Back to work! As they plopped down in relief—they weren’t the ones to be punished today!—he added sharply to the supervisor, Sister Dorcas, your deadline has been moved up. Now the Prophet commands that all orders be completed, packaged, on the truck, and ready to leave our compound by Evening Prayer Feast tomorrow night. Promptly—or else!

He smiled grimly. I’m sure none of you wants to disappoint the Prophet. So, until the new deadline is met, no sleep or rations for anyone! To Melinda, Rise and follow, woman. Make haste. Your Prophet calls. Then he stormed out the open door ahead of her.

If only she could fly like that little bird. Better yet, scream and scratch this guard’s eyes out. But no Unanointed Disciples of the Remnant dared disobey either the Messenger Gabriel or the other guards. Not if they valued life and limb.

But it wasn’t always so. Dear God, when did it change? Why did it change?

As Melinda slipped outside, she gave a quick glance toward the fence where that forlorn bird had perched. Thank God, no pitiful body or bloody feathers; it must have escaped! She thought back ten years, a lifetime ago, when each day held hope, even laughter. When mockingbirds really sang. Josh, of course, could remember also. But her young friend Shannon barely could, and her own children—Jeremy and Amber—not at all.

Oh, to turn back the calendar a decade or more, back to her co-ed days at palm-shaded Verdugo Valley College near Los Angeles. Back when she met and befriended a lonely campus nerd named Harvey Osborn. Scrawny, awkward Harve—with his unruly hair, callow complexion, and prone-to-violence father— spent hours playing arcade and video games in a pot-induced haze or alcoholic fog; delighted in guns, real or pretend; ditched classes; banged joylessly on his worn bongo drums; and sought desperately for something or someone to believe in. Or someone to believe in him.

Back when she was bubbly Melinda Jackson, promising art student and killer softball player, with lots of talent. And even more anger.

Mostly, toward her parents, whose only god, both before they split and after, was the almighty dollar. A Dad oblivious to anything but his thriving import business, golf scores, young new trophy wife, and nothing’s-too-good-for second family. Though Leland S. Jackson did send this unwanted offspring from his failed first marriage checks every once in a while, and cards at Christmas (signed by his secretary).

Plus a topnotch, chain-smoking real estate agent mother (who must always be called Claudette, not Mom), who never had time or energy left over for her daughter. Except to criticize her for dabbling around with those yucky paints that are just horrible for your fingernails, instead of learning something sensible. Besides, everyone knows that artsy-types are losers. So why do you want to hang around losers?

Melinda was always tempted to retort: "So why do you hang around with your loser of a boyfriend, Matt Scherinski?" But she never did.

Even as a child, Melinda knew the heartache of having neither parent ever show up for her school events. Not even for her birthday parties. They sent expensive gifts, professional clowns, and nannies—when what she really longed for was their hugs and kisses. She’d tried so hard to be a good girl, to win their approval by excelling at tap, ballet, gymnastics, guitar—whatever Claudette signed her up for. But nothing worked. If it hadn’t been for Melinda’s sweet Grandma Jemima Jackson, a hard-working widow who loved the Lord and called Melinda her sweetie-pie, she would never have known real love and affection during those years.

Indeed, Melinda sometimes felt neither parent would even notice if she just dropped off the planet. Unless, of course, her paintings brought her instant, international fame. Or she nabbed a rich husband. Either of which she considered about as likely as her classmate, Mr. Loser—Harve, that is—turning into Mr. Popularity Plus. Why would she want to marry anyone, anyway, after seeing what happened to her parents?

And then one day she met still another student—Joshua Wayne Currie, tall, quiet, with dark, intense, longing eyes, and problems of his own.

An orphan, who jokingly called himself "Joshua the son of none," he had bounced from foster home to foster home from pre-school to college. A certified computer genius, he won an award for designing the video game, Surf ’s Up! Produced by GottaHaveIt! Industries of Hollywood, it paid his junior year expenses and quickly became a cult favorite. Yet he was so lacking in self-esteem, so hungry for love, he could scarcely believe Melinda’s interest in him. In fact, Josh fell so hard for her, he soon followed his Little Lin-Lin around day and night.

He later fell in love with Christ just as hard and completely, the first time he heard Pastor Preston present the Gospel at the off-campus Latte’s Going On Here Coffeehouse—immediately promising to go anywhere and do anything God willed.

Back when God’s will—not the Prophet’s—came first.

Now, as Melinda hurried behind the Messenger along the weed-and trash-choked path through the Plain of Jordan area of the compound, his heavy boots sprayed her with dust and pebbles. On all sides of this open courtyard rose junk piles and buildings in total and ominous disarray. The Plain itself was strewn with paint-peeled gas pumps, broken-down trucks and tractors—plus decrepit, fly-blackened outhouses, and sanitary fills, all reeking in the stifling air. As well as several well-used Repentance Punishment Posts.

In between, at least a dozen unmarked, overgrown mounds. The Disappeared Ones: sickly infants and children, women who died in childbirth (doctors were never called), and rebellious Disciples Under Blood Atonement. All forbidden to be mentioned ever again.

The only bright spots in the whole dust-covered shambles were the towering metal lampposts everywhere, their searchlights always on. And the huge, full-color portraits that hung from each one. Portraits of Harve and Agnes Osborn: their Prophet and Prophetess.

All around her, hardworking, long-haired, bearded men in tattered straw hats and torn overalls or jeans—the Unanointed, rank-and-file Disciples—labored in fields, gardens, and repair shops under armed supervision; faces grim, muscles straining, feet bare and callused.

Even though Josh was forced to continue his original responsibilities of maintaining the commune’s computer and electronic equipment, he also had to pull full duty every day out in the fields. With scarcely a moment’s rest in between.

Now, as Melinda neared the faded red barn crudely labeled God’s Storehouse, a mother hen and her chicks scurried past. Three hogs wallowed in a mud-and-filth covered pen near the sagging front doors, usually propped open. Across their peeling paint someone had scrawled a crude pitchfork, a pentagram, and the words: Repent or Die. She glanced at the doors, expecting to see her husband and son inside with a work crew, hauling old-fashioned rectangular bales of new-mown hay up into the loft.

My darling Josh, please be careful. When I saw you at Morning Prayer Feast, you looked so frail and exhausted. And do keep an eye out for our little Jeremy. Those old ladders up to the loft are dangerous!

But, strangely, the barn doors were closed. Alarmed, she glanced in through a broken window. The haylift was still in position, bales left where they fell. A few barn cats lolled next to a truck piled high with still more bales. But not a single Disciple in sight.

Had the Prophet suddenly called the hay crew away for more teaching? Or punishment?

Turning quickly, Melinda accidentally stepped on a loose board—which flew up in her face, knocking her down.

Idiot! the Messenger cried. Slut! You did that on purpose! Grabbing her arm, he pulled her up—then slapped her hard across the face. Right where the board had hit.

And if you think that hurts, female, he snorted, "just wait till the Prophet gets a hold of you. He’ll have you begging for mercy. That is, if you survive. Now, move!"

Chapter Two

How peaceful, how quaint, how totally American-apple-pie this barn and the large ramshackle farmhouse close by had seemed to all the Disciples when they first arrived. A picturesque covered well, inviting shade trees, rambling rose-covered fences, and acre upon acre of rolling Iowa cornfields and pastures. Like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life.

A dense stand of trees shaded nearby Crawdad Creek, clear and fish-filled, flowing into larger Rainbow Branch—with wide, willow-edged Bounty River just a few miles away. Sunflowers and daisies nodded everywhere, while mockingbirds trilled joyously from an old apple tree in the front lawn. Inviting rocking chairs waited on the wide front porch.

And so secluded—20 miles from sleepy Cottontree, the nearest small town. With bustling Big Bend City 40 miles in the other direction. And no freeways or shopping malls within 50 miles.

This is it! the Prophet had shouted to Josh when they first saw the farm, after driving cross-country with Harve’s wife, Agnes, in Josh’s old Honda. They’d been scouting a location for their new true-to-the-Scripture Christian commune, where God’s people can all be safe from worldly temptations and End Times tribulations. This is exactly where God wants us to be.

Only, back then, the Prophet was still just plain Harve, a caterpillar slowly developing his wings. That, of course, was a miracle in itself, beginning the night newly-converted Josh invited his floundering friend to the little Coffeehouse where he had found Christ. Then and there that young man without a purpose declared that God would be his purpose. Cold-turkey, he dropped his booze, grass, and 24/7 goofing off, replacing them with a sudden, fervent certainty that God had now raised up a brilliant new leader for His people. None other than Harve himself.

Melinda, who had come forward as a child at invitation time during a service at her Grandma Jackson’s church (but was never quite certain if it took), was thrilled for both young men. She too wanted so much to love and please God, but wasn’t sure how. She’d opened a friend’s Bible once, but it was too overwhelming. None of the three students had church-going families or friends—besides Melinda’s dear Grandma Jackson—or knew much about God’s Word and ways.

That’s why she joined Josh and Harve the following week at the Coffeehouse’s Bible study. She had to borrow a Bible to go, but once there she joyfully absorbed all Pastor Preston taught about God and His Word. She even dusted off her old guitar and helped lead the group in praise songs as she learned them. Josh and Harve were excited, too. In fact, Harve was so enthusiastic, Pastor Preston began asking him to fill in occasionally as teacher of the class.

Harve—now Brother Harve—threw himself into this new role. He began preaching in the streets and witnessing on campus, relishing shouting matches and threatening lawsuits with the police and school authorities. To look even more like a renegade Old Testament prophet, he let his hair and beard grow long, loose, and tangled, and sometimes wore a bedraggled white robe (converted from a bedsheet) over his knees-out jeans.

Then Agnes Louise Schroeder, another VVC student, began attending their Bible class also. Soon she and Harve were a twosome. A couple of years older than her boyfriend, tall and painfully thin, this strident math major made up for her lack of beauty with her megawatt enthusiasm, energy, full-throttle ambition, and lust for manipulation and control. Plus her instant determinationthat God could do great things with Harve Osborn - but only if He worked directly through her. After all, she was the only student in the Bible class with a church background and all the pat answers. So she plotted and planned. And spoon-fed him her dreams until they became his own.

Then one night when Harve was teaching the Bible class, he suddenly announced to the other members, Brothers and Sisters, God says in the Book of Joel that His young men will see visions. Well, yesterday as I fasted and prayed, that’s just what happened to me. God gave me a miraculous vision, He did, halleluia! First, I was filled with glory. Then He said to me, in a voice like thunder, ‘Brother Harve, I’ve chosen and anointed you to start your own ministry’.

Agnes jumped up, beaming. Amen, Brother Harve! Praise the Lord! What a confirmation! Why, He gave me the exact same vision yesterday, He did! Obviously He wants us to live lives of holiness and separation to Him in these evil End Times. And the only way we can do that is to leave this world-tainted Coffeehouse and meet strictly by ourselves. From now on, we true believers will be called the Blessed Order of End Times Disciples. With you, Brother Harve, our anointed pastor and leader. And me, naturally, your assistant.

That really troubled Melinda. Pastor Preston was kind and humble and loving. He not only taught God’s Word, he lived it— just as the Bible said God’s servants should do. So why should they follow Harve instead? Especially since he and Agnes seemed to be increasingly controlling, bossy, jealous, manipulative, vengeful, and far-out. Not the way Melinda understood God’s followers should be.

But Josh and most of the others were mesmerized, so finally she went along with it too. Soon they all spent less and less time with Pastor Preston, and more and more with Pastor Harve. Josh’s grades began to suffer. With less time to paint, Melinda missed a deadline for an important exhibit at the school gallery. Harve and Agnes dropped out of classes completely.

Soon their leader had an even more dramatic announcement: that God wanted him and Agnes to marry in a double ceremony, with Melinda and Josh as the other couple. And with Harve— now "Rev. Harve"—helping officiate at his own wedding.

Melinda’s mother was horrified. Attend a wedding at such short notice? Are you crazy? I have three houses to show this weekend—including one in Bel-Air, thank you very much—plus a big charity ‘do’ with Matt near Rodeo Drive. Why, I’ve barely got time to get my hair and nails done. Don’t bother calling back till you’ve come to your senses.

So Melinda married the love of her life without the presence or best wishes of either parent, although her father did eventually send a check with the note, I’ve forgotten; what did you say his name was?

She was thrilled to have Josh at long last for her very own. Their cramped studio apartment radiated joy. But even as a madly-in-love newly-married man, her dear one seemed to listen to his pastor and the pastor’s constantly-chattering wife more than to her.

Including their revelation—not long after their wedding—that God ordered them all to leave college and godless California and start a new life together as a Christian commune in rural Iowa, in America’s heartland, away from the world’s temptations and influences. With Harve himself their sole disciple, pastor, and Bible teacher.

Josh was first to sign on—even though it meant leaving families and education and all plans for the future, for somewhere far away that he’d never even been to. Grabbing Melinda in his arms, We must honor God, darling. And what better way, than by living wholly for Him?

Back then, they still had their original, normal names and made all decisions together—such as voting to have all things in common at their new commune. With each family guaranteed its own living quarters, its own privacy, its own hopes and dreams.

Melinda set up her easel and began painting the natural beauty around her. Josh plugged in his laptop and earned a little on the side helping out local businesses with their computer problems, besides setting up a computer system for the commune, complete with firewalls. Also, for his old company, GottaHaveIt! Industries, he designed Hang Ten!, sequel to his first video game and even more popular. Life glowed with possibilities—especially when Melinda discovered that God was going to send a little one into their lives, their precious son Jeremy.

This, of course, was before the guns, the guards, the gates, the gauntlets. Before their PCs, wallets, wedding rings, IDs, address books, cars, bikes, checkbooks, and other personal items were confiscated. Before all Bibles but the Prophet’s were banned—along with all books and musical instruments (except for Harve’s bongos), all pens, pencils, crayons, and paper, even Melinda’s paints. Before the children were pulled out of the local schools. Before phones were removed and contact with the outside world cut off to all but the Anointed Disciples—that is, the Prophet and Prophetess and their newly-formed Right Hands of Power 24/7 security guards, cell phones and .38s always at the ready.

Back before everyone was given a new, revealed name (such as Sister Abigail for Melinda) to conceal his or her identity and whereabouts. Before all letters and packages from families and friends of Unanointed Disciples (like Josh and Melinda) were marked Return to Sender/Refused/Not Here/ Whereabouts Unknown. (But not Social Security, unemployment, welfare, or other checks—such as for Josh’s video game royalties; these Harve and Agnes forged signatures on and kept for themselves.) And all except for the Prophet and Prophetess and their guards forbidden to leave the compound—a rule enforced at gunpoint.

Yes, prior to the progressively stranger and harsher signs, revelations, prophecies, and words of authority that Harve and Agnes insisted came directly from God—their Orders from Headquarters—proclaiming him not just pastor to be listened to, but Prophet to be obeyed unquestioningly. Revelations that either twisted Scripture or ignored it altogether. Before their feverish warnings about fiery punishments, New World Orders, demons of rebellion, enemies in high places, governments out to get them all with evil laws and taxes, and the need to prepare for dire End Times hardships and battles.

But all that came later. On that long-ago summer day in the middle of a sleepy Iowa countryside, their leader had continued enthusiastically, I realize this place is small, Josh, and everything’s rundown and needs paint. But it’s perfect for us. We can all live together in the big farmhouse until we build our own church and school and homes for each of our families. Meanwhile, through our honest toil, we can be close to God’s earth while we get even closer to God.

Amen, Rev. Harve! his wife had shouted. Suddenly trancelike, Oh, praise the Lord! I’m getting me another vision, I am. Halleluia! Speak, Lord, your servant heareth!

A few seconds later she declared matter-of-factly, while picking her teeth, Okay, God says He knows we’re all students and don’t have much. But if we sell our cars and everything else we have, borrow money from our folks, max out our credit cards, and then pool all our cash together the way the early Christians did, we should be able to come up with a down payment. That is, if we have faith. And not having faith is a sin!

Calling back to California that afternoon, Josh had rhapsodized, Oh, Melinda, darling, it’s the most beautiful farm you’ve ever seen! Perfect for us all to live, work, and study God’s Word together like a real family of love.

She almost choked. "A farm? Are you crazy? You guys said you were looking for a small town to move to that would be safe, one with plenty of jobs. I mean, none of us have farmed before. Why, you don’t know a rake from a raccoon! "

Of course, darling, don’t you see? he countered in awe. Harve says this proves that this is indeed God’s leading, not man’s. By overcoming our own obvious shortcomings, God’s power will be magnified, and He will receive all the glory. So we can’t help but prosper!

When Melinda did finally move there, with much reluctance, she fell in love with the place, just as her husband had. With little money or farming know-how to see them through, life was soon even harder than she feared—especially that first bitterly cold winter, with constant ice and snow storms, for which none of these sunny Southern California natives were prepared. Yet because the Disciples believed in what they were doing, and trusted Harve’s leadership, and—most of all—loved God, they gave their all for that old farm.

Even when they no longer believed.

Even when Harve no longer led, but controlled.

Even when the green, welcoming farm became their gray prison-fortress.

The tall, friendly trees had long since been chopped down for wood. The flower gardens converted to dusty parking lots. The wide porch littered with greasy power tools. The front yard piled with sawdust, lumber scraps, rusted metal, old tires, and leftover cement. The creek turned into a cesspool of sewage. The farmhouse itself, now more tumbledown than ever, used only for storage, while two unheated barracks housed the Unanointed Disciples, segregated by sex. Those never-built homes for each of the families, just another one of Harve’s empty promises.

Now, nursing a quickly-swelling lip, Melinda said a quick prayer for her husband, Brother Shimron, and her son, Brother Meshach. And worried anew at Josh’s cryptic words whispered when he passed her this morning: It’s time. Now.

No,