Broken Princess Read online

  "I'll come again tomorrow morning," the doctor promises. "Then we'll see if you're ready."

  He gives me a smile, but his eyes are clouded with emotion. Worry? Anger? Fear?

  He's so hard to read, especially for a new believer. It usually takes them a while to get used to hiding their thoughts and feelings, but this man is already adept at it.

  "I'll accompany you to the Prophet," Rose announces and steps out of the house, leaving the doctor and me alone for one last moment.

  "What's your name?" I ask him.

  "A- Martin," he corrects himself, using the name the Prophet has given him.

  I smile at him and then immediately straighten my expression just in case Rose returns.

  "Stay safe," he mutters and leaves.

  What a strange thing to say. Shouldn't he believe that this is a safe place? That this is where all the Angel's chosen children live until the ascension? It's the best and safest place there is.

  The Angel. I've not prayed to him in days, both because of my pain and the tiredness stopping me from thinking straight.

  The Angel is our shield and our refuge.

  The Angel is our shield and our refuge.

  I repeat the mantra over and over again until sleep takes me once again, letting me drift off to a place of peace.

  It's late afternoon by the time I get my next visitor. When the sound of the door opening wakes me, I assume its Rose bringing food, but the footsteps aren't hers. Those are heavy, familiar steps and my heart shudders in fear.

  Andros.

  He kneels by my side, his knees pressing into my back. I stay curled up on my side, not daring to move.

  "How are you, my gentle little bird?"

  His voice is sweet and melodic. Once I would have turned around and kissed him. Now, that thought alone makes me want to throw up.

  He runs a hand over my side, stopping when he reaches my hipbone. He grips it tight.

  "You haven't apologised to me yet," he says quietly, steal lacing his words.

  Apologise? What for?

  I don’t voice that question. It wouldn’t do any good.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper obediently. Speaking hurts.

  “Good girl. What will you do to make it up to me?”

  I cringe. He’s going to want to use me again. Continue his art on my back. Bury himself in me to forget about his anger.

  I know the answer. It’s not the first time I’ve had to say it. “Anything the Angel requires of me.”

  My voice is barely a whisper, but he seems to have heard it. Instead of answering me like he usually does, he suddenly takes his hand from my hip and slaps my side.

  “No. Not what the Angel requires. What I want. You serve me, the Prophet. I’m the Angel’s servant, but you are mine. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll do whatever I want.”

  I can’t do that. Serving the Angel, I can do. Explaining all his violence as the Angel’s will, I can do. But being told that he’s doing it just for his own pleasure… it’s too much. The glass palace of illusions I’d built up so carefully is beginning to crack.

  “I serve the Angel,” I croak. “The Angel wouldn’t want you to do this to me.”

  There. I said it. And signed my death warrant at the same time. I close my eyes and await his wrath.

  But it doesn’t come.

  There’s just silence. Andros doesn’t move. His hand doesn’t return to my hip. He’s not hitting me. Not calling me names. He’s just kneeling there, not saying anything.

  My breath is getting quicker. I’m scared of what’s about to happen. We’re in new territory here. I’ve never questioned him before. I was never brave enough. I don’t know what’s changed. He almost killed me; I should be even more frightened of him now. Not defiant.

  “You think the Angel doesn’t want me to punish you?” he finally asks, his voice soft and almost gentle. “You’re wrong. He shows me visions of you every night. In each one of them you’re screaming in pain. This is exactly what he wants. You’re taking the sins of this community upon yourself. By being punished, you’re making sure that the others don’t have to suffer the same fate. You’re so generous in your pain, sweet little bird. It hurts me to punish you, but we both know that you want it. And so does the Angel. He tells me to do it. I have no choice.”

  Cold shivers wash over me. The Angel wants it. He wants me to suffer, he’s been wanting it all along. It wasn’t Andros. Yes, Andros enjoys it, but that’s not why he does it. Not just.

  The Angel wants me to be punished.

  I’m the one to carry all sins.

  I should be happy to save others from being punished for their sins.

  I should be proud.

  Then why am I crying?

  8

  I’m no longer allowed to leave my hut except for midday and evening prayers. For those, Andros himself comes to pick me up and then brings me back to the hut afterwards. He’s not letting me talk to anyone. He’s not letting the doctor check on me either. Maybe he’s scared that Martin will see the new wounds and bruises.

  The three new men are still wearing their bright red robes that increasingly make me think of blood. It will take months until they’re ready to be initiated and progress to the white robes the rest of us wear for formal occasions.

  I now wear mine all the time. Andros has taken away all my normal clothes.

  That day when he told me that it was the Angel punishing me, it changed things. He’s treating me differently. It’s like we’re sharing a secret, a mission that puts us above everyone else. I’ve always been different, the circlet on my head the visible proof for it, but now, the way he keeps me apart from the others separates me even more from the community.

  He’s put a smaller statue of the Angel into my bedroom and makes me look at it when he whips me. He says I should be grateful to be given such an important role. I am, sometimes, when the pain lets me think. It’s always there now, the pain. Before, I had respites, days when he didn’t come and break open old wounds. Now, he comes to me daily.

  Last night, he entered me several times. He wants me to bear his child, and once the child is born, it will take on all our sins so we can ascend. I don’t know what that means, how an infant can take over the role I’m doing right now, but I know that I don’t want to bring a baby into this community. I’m hoping that my prayers and determination will stop me from conceiving.

  The only things that keep me from going insane are the gifts that continue to reach me in one way or another. It’s mostly food; apples thrown through the window, sweets hidden in dry bread rolls, even a piece of chocolate wrapped in a towel. Whoever is giving me these things hasn’t given up. There are no more messages, no more promises, but the simple existence of the gifts gives me hope.

  Nothing new happens for a month. Life goes on. Prayers twice a day, copying the Angel’s messages in between meals, and visits from Andros in the evening. Sometimes, in the morning, he tells me what the Angel showed him in his dreams and makes me write it all down. A lot of it is about me, and the sins I’m suffering for.

  Jeremy had heretic thoughts. Laya needs to be beaten.

  Jasmine was late for prayer. Laya needs to be whipped.

  Bryan broke a plate. Laya needs to be kicked.

  The monotony of it is almost soothing. Every day is the same and only the mode of punishment changes. Andros systematically works his way up and down my body, letting the wounds heal just enough to be able to place new ones on top. It’s a miracle that I haven’t died of infections yet. He doesn’t let the women come in to clean me anymore. I have to do it myself, twisting in pain so I can wipe the dried blood of my back.

  But now, after his talks of a baby last night, I feel that things are about to change. It makes me scared. I can deal with the present. It’s become predictable. I can prepare for what’s going to happen, and that makes it more bearable.

  “The Angel showed me how to prepare you all for ascension,” Andros says suddenly. He’s hugging
me from behind, his sweaty body touching mine. He stayed last night, which means I didn’t get any sleep. His presence keeps me from being able to drift off.

  “It’s almost time.”

  My heart begins to beat faster. Ascension! That means leaving the confines of this world and joining the Angel in Paradise. The pain will be over.

  “When?” I ask quickly before I can stop myself.

  “Soon. I need to start making preparations. Ascending on my own is easy, but to take you all with me, I need to get more guidance from the Angel.” He kisses my neck and I manage not to pull back. “You will finally be able to fly, little bird. We will fly into Paradise together to sit by the Angel’s side.”

  I smile, for the first time in weeks.

  “I’m ready,” I tell Andros, and turn to look at the Angel statue above us, looking down on us in all his glory.

  It turns out that Andros needs supplies for the ascension that we don’t have in the compound, so he leaves for a few days. It’s been a long time since he last did that, and the mood in the community is anxious, hesitant. We’re insecure without our Prophet, and nobody is confident enough to take charge, not even Eamon, who Andros named his deputy while he’s away.

  Strangely enough, I miss him. I miss his visits, even the pain that he gives me. What’s happening to the sins while he’s not passing them on to me? Will this mean that our community’s ascension will be delayed? I’m tempted to punish myself, take the whip and splash it across my back like Andros does, but I don’t know the sins of our people. Andros does, he dreams of them or they come and confess to him, so I need to wait for him.

  At the first midday prayer without Andros, I stand among the others, not in the centre with the Prophet. It’s a strange feeling to be back in their midst, but I don’t mind it. Even Heather’s hate-filled stare doesn’t bother me. We’re close to ascension, that’s all that matters.

  The Angel is our shield and our refuge.

  I chant as loud as I can, my voice lifting to the heavens. We are the children of the Angel and he will welcome us with open arms, that’s what has been foretold.

  After prayer, I head back to my house like I’m used to. There are several books waiting to be copied, and I want to be done with them by the time Andros returns. Just before I reach my hut, someone steps into my path. He’s wearing the red robe of the new followers, but it’s not the doctor. Instead of Martin’s moss green gaze, silver blue eyes capture mine. It’s the same man I stumbled into when I had to run naked across the square. I blush at the memory.

  His hair is shorn close to his scalp, but its striking white-blond colour is still obvious. It’s like he’s wearing a halo.

  “Apologies,” he mutters, breaking eye contact and looking at the ground. “Your husband gave me a task but I’m having trouble completing it. I was wondering if you might be able to help me.”

  I want to say no, that he’ll have to wait until Andros is back, that it’s not proper for me to be with an unmarried man, a novice at that. But then he lifts his eyes again and I can’t help but nod.

  “How can I help?”

  From the corner of my eyes, I see Eamon approaching us, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension on his face. “It’s alright,” I call to him, “the Prophet sent him.”

  Eamon gives me a sharp look, but then nods and walks away, leaving me alone with the man. I don’t even know his name. He could be either Noran or Owen, but it would be impolite to ask.

  "Can we go inside?" he asks, pointing towards my house. It only really consists of one large room, which is split into a living and sleeping area. There's a small bathroom with a toilet and a sink as well, but the tap doesn't always work and we shower in the communal wash house anyway. I think of the bloody towels and the angel statue above my dirty mattress, and decide that I don't want him to see that. He's still new and probably wouldn't understand it.

  "Let's talk here," I say quickly, turning so my body is blocking the way to my door. "How can I help?"

  He takes a book from beneath his robe. It's the book, the Angel's words.

  "I've been reading the chapters the Prophet assigned us, but I have a few questions that make it difficult for me to continue without knowing the answers. I thought that you, as the Prophet's wife, might be able to explain?"

  He's right. I know the scriptures better than anyone - Andros excluded - both from copying them dozens of times and from listening to Andros telling me about his visions. Back when we first met, he told me of his dreams and it was me who urged him to write them down. I know most of the book by heart.

  "Which chapters are you referring to?" I ask, but before he answers, I suggest, "Let's go to the office. There are other books there that I might be able to give you for further reading."

  He follows me to the community buildings. I haven't been in the office for weeks now; my work has been brought to my house. It feels strange to be back.

  I knock on the door, expecting Heather to open, but she doesn't seem to be back from lunch yet.

  I let the man go in first and look around, checking if anyone saw us go in. It's strange, I feel guilty about doing this, even though it's nothing forbidden. On the contrary, I'm helping someone learn more about the Angel's message, so that should be encouraged, right? Yes, I'm alone with a man, but we're in a public building and not in my house. This should be fine.

  I take a seat at my old desk while the man has already sat down on a bench by the window. He opens the book towards the end, and points at a page that is full of notes and underlined passages. He really has been studying the Prophet's words.

  "In chapter nineteen, it speaks of ascension, and how it's the only way we can be with the Angel. Does that mean people dying of old age won't get to be with the Angel, even if they've been his followers all their life?"

  I smile. I feel needed for the first time in ages. Copying the scriptures is a necessary task and I don't mind doing it, but this is far more interesting.

  "That depends on the Angel's decision," I explain. "Everybody who reaches ascension is automatically allowed into the Angel's Paradise. Those who don't will have to bow to his judgement. Of course, those who have served him before they died will be treated more favourably. That he promises."

  The man nods, apparently satisfied by my explanation. He flicks a few pages further and shows me the paragraph he's underlined.

  "And the Angel told me that a great plague was to come, and he warned me that I should gather my followers and move into the wilderness to be safe from the poison infecting humanity's hearts. For this was a plague of the mind and the heart, not of the body. He then told me that the only way to escape the suffering of the human condition is by ascending to his side, gathering the courage to end our mortal existence and join the Angel in his glorious Paradise.”

  I recite the words without having to read them. They’re embedded into my heart, burned into every fibre of my being.

  “The thing I don’t quite understand,” the novice says, pointing at the final sentence, “is the bit about ending our mortal existence. How does that happen? Isn't that the same as dying?"

  Andros should be the one to explain. He's the one who introduces the concept of Ascension to the new believers, not me. It's a bit too early as well. Their trust in the Angel needs to be built up first, layer upon layer, before we can tell them what their path of salvation entails.

  "No, it's not dying," I explain with a smile. "It's leaving our earthly shell and joining with the Angel. Dying is final. Ascension isn't."

  "But..." He frowns, staring at the book. "But we're leaving this world, right? So it's like dying?"

  "Is flying with wings and flying on a plane the same thing?" I ask in return.

  He shakes his head.

  "See? It's the same with ascension. Death is like stepping onto a plane, letting someone else do the work, passively moving through the air. Flying yourself like a bird, using your wings, deciding to explore the skies of your own volition, that's different.
Ascension is a conscious process. We're not waiting for death to take us. We're taking flight on our own, so to speak, to reach the Angel."

  He looks as if he wants to ask me more, but he keeps his eyes on the book, the cogs in his head clearly working hard.

  I feel like I need to reassure him, tell him that it's not what he thinks it is.

  "Andros has seen our future," I say softly. "The Angel speaks to him. We'll be safe and happy by the Angel's side. We'll want for nothing and we'll be basking in his glory for eternity. Don't worry. It will all become clearer the more of the scriptures you read. When the Prophet is back, he will be able to pray with you."

  "Thank you." He bows his head in deference. "I should let you return to your work. But... can I come back if I have further questions? You've helped me a lot."

  A warmth settles in me, an unfamiliar feeling. "Of course," I stutter, taken aback by how thankful he seems to be. "While my husband isn't here, I'll do my best to help you understand the Angel's message."

  He smiles at me, his eyes sparkling, and leaves. His smile stays in my mind, an echo of a conversation we shouldn't have had. Not because of what we said, but because I was alone with him, a man, without a chaperone.

  9

  On the second day of Andros's absence, I'm holed up in my house again, waiting for the midday prayer bell. It's probably going to be another hour. I've run out of work to do, and the sun outside is beckoning. I wish there was a bench in front of my hut where I could sit and enjoy the sunshine, but no, we're not allowed to do things like that. It's a waste of time. If we want time for contemplation, we pray to the Angel, not sit around lazily. Even when it's as sunny as it is now.

  It's getting warm inside, so I open the window, letting in some muggy air. It's heavy with moisture, ready to turn into rain later this evening, or maybe during the night. It's been pretty dry recently, especially for Scottish summers, so the gardeners will be thankful for some rain. We grow most of our food ourselves - well, other people do. It's not fitting for the Prophet's wife to crawl on the ground picking weeds. The only times I'm kneeling on the floor is when Andros tells me to.