The Unworthy

Someone is screaming in the dark. I hope it's Lourdes.

I put cockroaches in her pillow and sewed up the slip, so they struggle to get out, so they crawl under her head or over her face (and into her ears, I hope, nesting there, the nymphs damaging her brain). I left small gaps between the stitches so the cockroaches would escape slowly, with difficulty, like when I trap them (imprison them) in my hands. Some of them bite. They have flexible skeletons, they can flatten themselves and fit through tiny spaces, live without heads for days, survive underwater for a long time. They're fascinating. I like to experiment with them. Cut off their antennae. Their legs. Stick needles in them. I squash them with a glass so I can linger over their primitive, brutal frames.

I boil them.

I burn them.

I kill them.

I write with a small, sharp quill I keep close, in the hem of my white nightgown, with the ink I store under the wooden floorboards. On the pages I hide next to my skin, held by the strip of fabric I use for this purpose. There are times I need them on me, close to my heart, under my grey tunic, which was worn by the men who used to live here. We believe they were priests, monks, men of religion. Austere men who chose to live as though they were in the Middle Ages. They're dead, but some of the women say they see them out of the corners of their eyes in the dark. It's rumoured that when He and the Superior Sister arrived from the ravaged earth, the collapsed world, they found neither mobiles nor computers.

Three of the Chosen entered the Chapel of Ascension. They were Minor Saints being brought to the altar, their hands resting on the shoulders of the servants guiding them. They were beautiful, as only those brushed by God can be. The air was imbued with a sweet and fresh scent. The smell of mysticism.

The sun lit up the stained glass and the Chapel of Ascension filled with small, translucent gems, forming an ephemeral mosaic.

A cloud covered the sky and the transparent colours dissolved. But we still saw, with absolute clarity, a thread of blood run down one of the Minor Saint's cheeks, staining her white tunic. We all knew who had done such a poor job of sewing her eyes shut before the ceremony. Mariel. Useless, helpless Mariel, wiping the palms of her hands on her grey tunic, her eyes shining as she gave us an afflicted look. I wonder what Mariel's name used to be.

The Superior Sister stood in the dark on one side of the altar. We saw her strike the light wood floor silently with one of her boots. War boots, like her trousers, black, military, a soldier's. We couldn't tell if the whip hung next to her other foot. It was too dark to see it. We knew He was also at the altar, behind the chancel screen, the frame of three wood panels that prevents us from seeing Him. (Only the Chosen and Enlightened have this privilege.) He spoke. He told us that to be Enlightened we would have to relinquish our origin, the erroneous God, the false son, the negative mother, the trivial ideas, the nocturnal filth that drags itself slowly and invisibly through our blood.

I looked at the veins in my wrists and brought my finger to one of the blue lines.

To purify.

He called us unworthy, like He always does, like He does whenever we gather in the Chapel of Ascension, after three days, or nine. (We never know exactly when we'll be summoned.) He uttered the word 'unworthy' again and it reverberated against the walls, as though His voice had the power to mobilize the inert stone.

The Minor Saints sang the Primary Hymn, the original hymn and one of the most important, the one that confirms the brush of divinity. We don't understand it; the hymns are sung in a language known only by the Chosen. He explained the hymn to us again, said it speaks to how our God protects us from contamination through the Enlightened, and proclaims that 'without faith, there is no refuge'.

After a dramatic silence, the Minor Saints resumed their song. I saw thousands of white petals leave their mouths, filling the air, lily petals that glimmered until they disappeared. Their voices can reach the universal notes, vibrate with the light of the stars. (That's why their eyes are sewn shut, so they're not distracted by the mundane, so they capture the reverberations of our God.) Sacred crystals hang from their necks as a symbol and assurance of their holiness. Quartzes of purity, transparent gems. The Minor Saints' tunics were bright white, stainless. We listened to their voices in silence, ecstatic and relieved, the a cappella music distancing us from the chirping of the crickets, a sound like rage that lulls you to sleep.

The three Minor Saints resumed the Primary Hymn until they began to bleed in unison. Mariel stifled a scream and pulled out a tuft of hair. We all looked at her, our eyes lingering on her head, which was nearly bald. When she'd arrived, her hair had been thick and she had been free of contamination. That's why she wasn't relegated to being a servant. We didn't understand why she insisted on disfiguring herself. Some of us smiled with pleasure because we knew Mariel would receive an exemplary punishment. Others hid their faces in their hands, feigning prayer to mask their delight.

The Minor Saints resumed their song at the altar, but we were distracted by thoughts of who among us would be chosen to clean the blood off the floor, who would have to spend the night treating and sewing the Minor Saints' eyes and who would punish Mariel. I'd had an exemplary punishment in mind for some time. I brought my hands together and pleaded that I'd be chosen to implement it.

One of the Minor Saints fainted, and the servants dragged her by the arms to the Chosen's quarters. The Superior Sister stood up in the middle of the altar and motioned to us. It was time to go. He remained behind the chancel screen, or so we assumed, because we never see Him leave. We don't know what He's like. Some say He's so beautiful it's painful to look at Him; others that His eyes are like downward spirals, disturbed. But these are all just guesses because we unworthy have never seen Him.

We rose in silence, holding in our anger, hiding our rage, because it's not every day we get to hear the Minor Saints sing. They're fragile, some can't tolerate the weight of the holy words they chant (words that ensure the bond with our God is not broken). They can't endure the sight of the sacred glimmer in the dark.

I was chosen to clean the floor and not to decide on Mariel's exemplary punishment. It's rumoured she'll have to strip naked, that Lourdes is going to stick a needle somewhere in her body. A good lesson. Simple and elegant. I wish I'd thought of it, but Lourdes comes up with the best punishments. They always pick hers.

Cleaning the Chosen's blood was the offering and sacrifice demanded of me by the Superior Sister.

The Chapel of Ascension was gloomy, though I had lit a few candles so I could see the red stains on the floor. The flames moved and the light they projected cast shapes on the stones, drawings that danced in the dark.

The Minor Saints' blood (like that of all the Chosen) is purer, that's why the servants can't clean it. I touched it slowly, trying to sense the lightness, the joy of being part of our Sacred Sisterhood, and the improper, subterranean thoughts being removed, those thoughts that remain of the fading earth we come from. I brought my bloodstained finger to my tongue and tasted winged insects and nocturnal howls. I understood that one of the Minor Saints was going to die. I was glad, because the most beautiful funerals are held when the Chosen pass. This time I'd have to get them to pick me.

While I was cleaning, a Full Aura seemed to float in, and she sat down on a pew. She didn't see me kneeling on the floor. I knew she couldn't hear me, but I kept still. I was ecstatic because I'd never seen one. I recognized her by the marks on her hands and feet, the transparent quartz hanging on her chest (the Chosen's quartz) and her white, translucent tunic. Her long hair covered her useless ears, their perforated drums. Noise cannot be allowed to distract them. I've heard that few exist. She moved her hands, touching something in the air.

Full Auras can discern the divine signals, the hidden signs He sends us in the Chapel of Ascension. That's why they have those marks. Understanding God's messages leaves traces on their bodies (wounds on their fragile skin, sores that never heal) so they don't forget his presence. She seemed to radiate a light capable of invoking the angels. I squinted and, in the gloom, I could make out the aura that crowned her. It was perfectly radiant, lances of fire surrounded her head, vibrating of their own free will. I closed my eyes, dazzled, and felt she must live in an immaculate time when pain did not exist.

She began to orate. Her voice had the resonance of crystal shattering. I couldn't understand the disquieting, fractured language. The Superior Sister entered the Chapel of...