Taken Bride by Alta Hensley
5
Ember
The hike to an unknown destination from where the plane left us was brutal. The brush was thick, the trails nonexistent, and the incline so steep I had to use my hands at times to climb. For the first time since wearing shoes, I was really happy I had them on during the trek.
I had no idea where Papa Rich and Scarecrow were taking me, but I wasn’t going to ask. I knew we were back in Nevada or maybe California, simply because I recognized the terrain—the trees, the plants—and based on how long the flight was. It made sense that we would return to Papa Rich and Scarecrow’s stomping ground, but this time, it wasn’t the desert. We were in the mountains, and based on the ridges and cliffs around, the elevation was high.
The plane ride had been quiet. Neither one of them spoke to me but kept their conversation to themselves. I could tell Papa Rich was disappointed in me by how he avoided eye contact, and Scarecrow was smug, as if he knew he’d been right all along, and now he was helping clean up the mess.
The silence was far greater a punishment than if he would have just yelled. I burned down his town, and for that, I feel guilty. I know why Christopher and I did it, but that doesn’t take away the fact that it was our home. And now, because of me, Papa Rich is homeless.
“I have to hand it to you,” Papa Rich says, winded. “You picked a location that is secure. No sane man would make this climb to find us.”
Scarecrow huffs, somehow seeming to make his way up the mountain easier than both Papa Rich and me, and considering he only has one leg and crutches, the feat is definitely impressive.
As we reach the top of the mountain, Scarecrow uses his crutch to point at a dilapidated—but still standing—church on the edge of a cliff. “There it is, Ember,” he says. “Your new home.”
I brush off my hands and pick out the thorns that are embedded in my palms. “It’s so high up here,” I say more to myself than anyone else. The lower clouds surround us, filling my taxed lungs with moisture.
“They were smart back in the day. The folks built this church on this here ridge to keep a look out for Indians. You can look below and see for miles, and as you just saw from our hike, it’s not easy getting here. Gave them the upper hand against invaders, just like it will do the same for us.”
“People lived here?” I see an old church, an outhouse, and there do seem to be signs of houses from a long time ago, though the structures are not standing and are nothing but a pile of debris.
It reminds me of Hallelujah Junction simply in the fact that there are signs of the past, of a civilization once here, and whispers of the ghosts of settlers. But unlike Hallelujah Junction, there is not a full town remaining. If there ever was one, Mother Nature destroyed it.
“They built a mighty fine church,” Scarecrow says, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And it makes a good homestead for me and my wives.”
Wives? Scarecrow wasn’t married when I lived in Hallelujah Junction. And he said wives, as in plural. I still remember how he wanted to marry me. He wanted Papa Rich to find him a wife as well. Had he actually found two?
“Come on, let’s get settled in before nightfall,” Papa Rich finally says, his breathing getting back to normal quickly.
We follow Scarecrow as he hobbles his way to the white chapel that reminds me of the schoolhouse I spent most of my life in with my cat in Hallelujah Junction. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, at the same time, it seems as if time has stood still. I’m back to where I started. I’m in an old settlers’ town. I’m with Papa Rich and Scarecrow. And I am hiding from the rest of the world once again.
“It ain’t much,” Scarecrow says as we approach the door of the chapel, “but my wives are fixing it up mighty nice.”
He opens the chipped white door, and two wide-eyed women turn to face us. They cower, and I can’t tell if it’s because they think we’re invaders, or if that’s simply how they respond to seeing Scarecrow return home.
I can’t say I’d blame them for either.
I scan the room as we enter. So much of this chapel reminds me of the old schoolhouse I once loved. The musky smell, the chill in the air, and the feeling of old. I can almost hear the whispers of the ghosts that still lurk in the shadows, and it brings me to a place I didn’t realize I actually missed.
The old pews are missing, and in their place is an old wooden table, four hardy chairs to go with it, and a rocking chair nearby. In the far corner of the room, where the altar would have been, is a camp cooktop hooked up to a small propane tank. There is also a hole that has been created in the ceiling; beneath it is a fire pit that has a cast iron pot hanging over it. A green tarp is being used to try to shield some of the wind coming in through the hole, but not too much, as the hole was clearly created for ventilation for the fire.
There are parts of the open church that are sectioned off by hanging, tattered curtains. I’m assuming they’re the wives’ rooms. Maybe Scarecrow has a private space? I have no idea how the sleeping arrangements work with having multiple wives, and I can’t see behind the curtains to know how many beds there are—if there are any.
There is also a clothing line running from one end of the room to a post where other dresses, some undergarments, and some blue jeans for Scarecrow hang. The women have obviously tried their hardest to keep the place organized and as homey as possible, considering. It even appears as if the beginnings of a chimney of sorts is being worked on. I see a pile of stone and a bucket of mud near the hole. It’s a wise move, considering winter is coming, and having a fairly large hole in the chapel will make for a chilly living space.
“This here is Wife Number One, and Wife Number Two,” Scarecrow says to me.
I notice Papa Rich is taking off his jacket, putting down his bags, and paying no attention to the introductions. He obviously already knows who these women are, or he doesn’t care.
“Wives, this here is Ember. She’s going to become Wife Number Three.”
My heart stops, and I make eye contact with Papa Rich, who looks up at me when he hears Scarecrow’s statement. His eyes say it all. He agrees with me marrying him. He gave me the opportunity to marry someone else, and we know how that ended.
But I don’t want to marry Scarecrow.
I’m married to Christopher!
Even though I’m not physically with Christopher, surely our wedding vows mean something. How can Papa Rich want me to go against my vows said under God? If that’s not a sin, then I don’t know what is. And even if he wants to deny that Christopher and I are truly married—just as Louisa did—how can he possibly think Scarecrow is a good match for me? Especially since he already has two wives!
But I also know this is not the time to argue. I’m not sure if I can ever truly speak freely to Papa Rich again, but I know now is too soon. I can’t read his anger yet. All I see is disappointment and even sadness in his features, but something tells me he is on the very edge of what could turn into pure rage if pushed the right way.
I redirect my attention to the two women who Scarecrow hasn’t called by name yet. Both women have stringy brown hair that is braided loosely down their backs. They are dressed in worn and faded flower dresses that go to their ankles and remind me of dresses I once wore back in Hallelujah Junction. They are also both barefoot, and suddenly my shoes feel very foreign, out of place, and extremely restricting on my feet.
“Where’s supper?” Scarecrow asks.
Wife Number One looks at Wife Number Two, and this time there is no denying the fear in their eyes.
“We didn’t know you were coming back today,” Wife Number One says softly.
“We would have had supper ready, but we were trying to ration out the food until your return,” Wife Number Two adds, wringing her hands in front of her as she refuses to look Scarecrow in the eye.
The wives look close in age and appearance. Sisters maybe? Regardless of their relation, they both respond to Scarecrow the same way. It makes me want to step in and offer assistance somehow. Maybe I can suggest that I make supper and deflect some of the tension in the room. But before I can say or do anything, Scarecrow grabs Wife Number Two by the arm and leads her to the table and chairs.
“Bend over, dress up, drawers down,” he says as he begins to unfasten his belt.
I see her lips tremble, but she quickly complies with his order as only an experienced punished wife would do. I can’t help but glance at Papa Rich and wonder if I’m next. Is he saving my punishment for when he’s more settled? It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the strike of leather on my bare skin, but not so long that my heart doesn’t skip, and my knees weaken in anticipation.
“You know I like to come home to a cooked meal and a clean house,” Scarecrow begins to lecture as he doubles over the leather in his hand.
Wife Number Two is bent over the table, and her bare bottom is on full display for all of us to see. Scarecrow clearly doesn’t care about discretion or who sees his wife’s nudity, nor does he care that we are about to watch him whip her.
“If you don’t meet my expectations, there will be consequences,” he says as he brings down the belt onto her creamy flesh.
She yelps but holds her position, clenching the table on both sides with her tiny fists. Her sisterwife stands stoically near with no emotion on her face other than a slight flicker of her eyelids with each swat that is coming down in rapid succession now.
Scarecrow has no mercy and rains the leather down upon her over and over again. Each strike is harder than the last, and I already see angry red lashes that will surely bruise. Wife Number Two holds position and, though crying out, isn’t trying to reach back and protect herself.
She knows better.
It’s obvious that she knows better.
I can only stand and watch on helplessly. I know these two men in this room. If I try to stop it, it will just mean more of a whipping for Wife Number Two, and one for me as well. I can’t reason with insanity, and that is exactly what Scarecrow is.
This is insanity.
The deepest, darkest, cruelest, and most vile form of insanity.
When Scarecrow finally finishes the beating, he pulls away, loops his belt back into place, and hobbles his way to Wife Number One. I inhale sharply and close my eyes.
She’s next.
I open my eyes right as he takes a handful of her hair, forcefully pulls her head back, and says, “Now make us some supper, and don’t ever do that again, or Wife Number Two will pay for your transgressions once more.”
She nods and rushes to the makeshift cook station she has and begins digging in burlap bags for what looks like rotten potatoes and nearly rotten carrots.
Wife Number Two stands up and fixes her dress as she wipes away the tears from her face. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone but instead makes her way over to Wife Number One and assists in the supper preparation.
Not knowing what else to do, I also walk over, reach for a potato and a knife, and begin cutting away the rot. Swallowing back the impending dread, I busy myself in the now.
All I have is right now.