"Curiosity is the lust of the mind."

Thomas Hobbes

CHAPTER 1

Reverend Thaddeus Morrow, Rector of the Morris Island Free Church of the Revelation, gets to his feet and surveys his congregation. They are sweating freely. This pleases him. The wooden shutters of the Church are wide open, but the day is windless. The heat of the late summer rises off the marsh outside and seeps in like a miasma.

Not a person makes a move to mop their faces, though a few hold handkerchiefs in their laps. They know better than to seek comfort when the Reverend is watching.

He gives them a full minute of his survey, time enough for the last words of the hymn to die out. Silence takes hold, a silence broken only by the creaking of the ceiling fans overhead and the calls of the marsh fowl. When it is time, Reverend Morrow clambers into the pulpit and places his hands on the lectern. High above the congregation now, he surveys them. His gaze flits from head to head until he finds the three he is looking for.

Franklin and Marion Oates sit side by side, Franklin in his best plain suit (without tie), his wife in a cream long-sleeved dress. Franklin is hatless, as is correct, and Marion has her head covered, also as is correct. Both are in their early fifties and Morrow knows them to be good God-fearing folk. They had proved that when they came to him five days earlier to sacrifice their daughter. It is a hard thing to give up a child, but in doing just that, the Oates had reminded Morrow of Father Abraham, ready to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, at the altar, to do God’s bidding. God had rescued Isaac. With His Grace, Morrow hopes that they might do the same for young Emma.

They had arrived unannounced. Franklin had knocked on the door of the Rectory just after lunch. It was the hottest part of the day, when all sensible folk should be indoors. Morrow had offered them refreshments. The couple had refused; sitting side by side on the sofa, they looked ill at ease. Franklin had done the talking, his wife still as a statue except for the wringing of her hands in her lap.

Morrow had rejected Franklin’s concerns at first, but, as Franklin produced the evidence, Morrow had to agree that Sin was afoot.

“Sunday,” Morrow had said as he showed them out. “We will deal with the matter on the Lord’s Day.” At that, Marion had burst into tears. Morrow had given her a tap on the shoulder, nodded at her husband, and closed the door on them.

Morrow’s gaze now moves sideways, resting on the object of their concerns. Young Emma Oates, just nineteen a month ago, sits beside her mother, head bowed, staring at the floor. Her dark hair is bound in a bun and concealed under a scarf. She wears a plain long-sleeved blouse, and a gray skirt that only reveals her ankles.

Her modesty appears that of a God-fearing woman, but Morrow knows that Evil often wears the face of Innocence. A lustful person might describe as Emma as beautiful: her eyes were hazel brown, her nose delicate, her lips full. In the last year, she has blossomed into womanhood. Despite her plain clothing, the swivel of her hips and the thrust of her breasts are a recurring distraction every Sunday as the Oates walk into church—Morrow had noticed the men’s eyes follow Emma as she walked down the aisle. It had worried him a little, but he had thought nothing more of it. After all, the Oates were good God-fearing folk, and Emma was a good God-fearing child. Until he knew she was not.

The Free Church had purchased Morris Island five years ago and all of its three-hundred odd inhabitants were Church members. The waters of the Copahee Sound protect the Morris Islanders from the depravities of the Mainland not a mile west. Contact with the outside world, though, was unavoidable. And Evil is ever present. The Reverend was vigilant. He watched for Evil in every turn of phrase, in every movement. He had expected Evil to appear one day, but not in this form.

He takes a breath. His sigh is clearly audible over the PA system. He begins.

“Brethren. It is with a sad and heavy heart that I speak to you today. It was my hope that I wouldn’t have to tell you this, but the Evil One is everywhere. And today, he is here.”

Morrow pauses. He waits for the murmuring to die down.

“I read you a passage from the Book of Revelation. Here John writes to the Church in Thyatira, a Church that, while abounding in love, had lost their sensitivity to error and compromised their morality and uprightness.

‘Nevertheless, I have this against you: You tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophet. By her teaching, she misleads my servants into sexual immorality and the eating of food sacrificed to idols. I have given her time to repent of her immorality, but she is unwilling.’

Morrow pauses again. A few of the congregation have handkerchiefs held to their open mouths. Others make the sign of The Cross. Some look like thunderbolts had struck them.

“We have a Jezebel in our midst. In our fair field, a poisonous weed luxuriates. In our healthy body, a malignant cancer has formed. We harbor an enemy amid Fellowship.”

Marion Oates’ shoulders are shaking now. Franklin Oates sits stock still. And young Emma, now, now, she is paying attention. Her head rises. She is looking about her, noticing for the first time that all is not as it should be. Her lips are parted.

Morrow raises his right arm, finger extended.

“Emma Oates. Rise to your feet. Rise. And confess your Sins. Confess to your brothers and sisters, so that you may find forgiveness. Come, child. Get up.”

CHAPTER 2

Emma’s head jerks up when the sound of her name pierced her reverie. She had been pretending to be deeply engaged in prayerful contemplation as the Reverend began his usual weekly drawl. It would be an hour of haranguing invective, quotes from the Bible hurled at the congregation like lances. Emma knew what to expect; she had thought herself safe as she mulled over the week to come.

Emma was one of three Islander children given special dispensation to attend college in Charleston. All three had been warned of the dangers of the Mainland. But none of the three had found Charleston and the Mainlanders to be anything like what they had been told.

Rebecca was the second daughter of the Olsens. Chad, Rebecca’s brother, ran the ferry and helped their father Mark out with their lobster traps. Rebecca was short and curvy, having inherited her mother’s full figure, but unlike her mother, was as quiet as a mouse. Rebecca took the longest to fit in, but soon she was heavily involved in the Computer Club, where her skills for mathematics and programming made her a star.

Luke had found it easier to fit in. It helped that he was rangy, with perfect teeth and a movie star smile. Luke joined the swimming team and, almost a year on, was vice-captain, having seen the team to several victories over local colleges. Word had it they were favorites for the State Championships.

Luke was twenty-one and an only child. His father had died five years ago, soon after the family arrived on Morris Island, and his mother Elsa had raised him. Elsa allowed Luke to stay on the mainland with her sister’s family during the week, Luke returning home at weekends and for holidays. Emma had only seen him occasionally at college as they passed in corridors and on the ferry home on Fridays.

When he got on the ferry, Emma and Rebecca noticed that Luke looked different going home from what he looked like at college. On the Mainland, he wore skinny jeans, branded sneakers and T-shirts. On the ferry back, he dressed modestly, in the customary long-sleeve shirt, buttoned to the neck, and plain slacks. Emma had also heard from her new BFF, Elena, that Luke went out drinking in the evenings. And that he had had girlfriends. Several girlfriends.

Elena’s family was well-to-do. Elena’s mother was Ukrainian and had married into the Chalmers dynasty. The Chalmers ran a chain of successful seafood restaurants dotted all over Charlston. Elena had inherited some of her mother’s smoldering good looks, her fine bone structure, blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes. When Elena first tried to make friends with her, Emma had been suspicious, even stand-offish; Emma couldn’t understand why someone from the very upper classes of Charlston society would befriend a dull thing like her. Emma soon realized that she fascinated Elena in the way a brand new doll might fascinate a child.

They soon became fast friends, Elena using her wealth to cement their relationship. Where the other students would adjourn to the canteen or the parks to eat their packed lunches, Elena would whisk Emma away to ‘Chalmers’ Seafood Inn’ two streets away, where they would always receive a rousing welcome and a prime table overlooking the Boulevard. It was over one such meal, lobster cooked in its shell and glittering with butter, that Elena had told Emma about Luke.

Elena had giggled at Emma’s horrified face.

“What?” Elena had said. “He’s really cute. And he’s got a great body. All the girls want him. You know he’s on the swimming team, right? I’ve seen him. At practice. In the pool. You should look.”

Later, they had snuck into the pool. They huddled just inside the door, ogling the boys as they did their laps. Luke, emerging from the pool, had seen them and given them a wave. Whether it was Emma or Elena he was waving at had not been clear but that hadn’t stopped the two girls bursting into giggles behind their hands.

It was Elena that had given Emma her phone, an old iPhone 6, complete with a SIM card. “Oh, I don’t need it,” Elena had said, waving it away. “I’ve got my 13 now. So much better. You keep it.”

On Morris Island, the phone was useless. There was no reception and anyway The Reverend had banned mobile phones. Emma took every spare moment at college to discover the limitless Internet. Instagram had been a revelation. Elena had her own account where she posted selfies of herself in bikinis and lingerie. Elena had over three thousand followers.

“Of course my parents don’t know!” Elena had laughed. “They’d have kittens. You should try it.”

They’d been upstairs in Elena’s luxurious bedroom, on the third floor of the Chalmers family townhouse. The third floor was Elena’s alone, and it had more floor space than the whole of Emma’s house. They’d had an hour to kill before Emma had to head for the ferry. “Seriously. You’ve got a beautiful body. Come on, let me see you. It’s just us, silly!”

Elena’s hands had been all over Emma, unbuttoning her blouse. Emma lifted it over her head and let it drop to the floor without thinking. She stood in the middle of the floor, feet bare on a deep carpet, the sunlight playing over her skin, as Elena circled her.

“Yeah, I knew it,” Elena had said finally. “You’re gorgeous, Emma. That ass. Those tits. My God, the boys would go crazy if they knew. Listen, let’s try something. Lift your head like this. Put one arm here. The other there. Cock that hip. Don’t worry, I won’t show your face.”

Two minutes later, and Emma’s body had been posted on Instagram. The two girls huddled together, Emma’s eyes widening in amazement as they watched the Likes mount.

“See!” Elena had shrieked, holding her phone out. “I knew it. One hundred and fifty-three likes, babe. In ten minutes.” She had grinned at Emma. “That’s with all that gross underarm hair and that grandmother underwear. With a little attention, you can be amazing! Leave it to me.”

Emma began leaving Morris Island early each weekday, telling her parents she was in a study group. The Oates were uncertain, and slightly worried. However, Emma’s grades were good, her behavior at home exemplary and with little Levi, Emma’s younger brother, being such an unexpected gift from God late in life, Emma’s mother and father had their hands full. It was Elena that had arranged for Emma to have her first Brazilian. It was Elena that had given Emma her unused lingerie. And it was Elena that had introduced Emma to the thong.

Emma had laughed as Elena held it out. “That’s not underwear, Ellie! That’s just, just cloth. Like a handkerchief.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Elena had said. “Just try it on, Miss Holier than Thou. All the girls wear them. So much more comfortable than your Mormon knickers. Come on, girl!”

Emma had done so, blushing as she stood in front of Elena’s mirrored wardrobe, pivoting this way and that. Emma had wondered at the sight of her buttocks, bare with just a flash of scarlet fabric separating them, running down to cup the mound between her legs. Elena had circled her, snapping away. The post got a thousand likes within an hour. Emma wore the thong all the time now. Part of her loved it, but there was a small voice in the back of her head that warned of Sin. That small voice became easier to ignore by the day. After a while, that voice hardly sounded. Except on Sundays at Church.

Emma hid her new underwear under a loose floorboard under her bed. She washed them herself in the small sink in the single family bathroom, the door firmly locked. Emma sneaked into the woods to hang them out to dry on a line she had set up in a thicket. She should never have worn it to church, but another voice had whispered to her that morning as the family was getting ready. How wicked it would be to wear the thong under her shift! No one would know. That gave her a thrill, and so she had.

It was only as the Oates took their pew that Emma’s thoughts turned back to her phone. She had misplaced it. She must have left it at Elena’s, as she usually did when it needed to be charged (it was too great a risk to charge it at home) however she vaguely remembered slipping it into her satchel as she boarded the ferry home on Friday. When she’d looked for it after dinner, it hadn’t been there. She’d even made an excuse about going for a walk to retrace her steps from the ferry through the village. But without success. There was nothing to be done, she decided. She would have to check in with Elena when she returned to college.

It is just as she reaches that determination that the Reverend calls her name. She sits there, stunned, looking up at him. She can’t help noticing that all heads turn in her direction. All except her mother and father on either side. Her mother has her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Her father sits immobile, like someone has turned him to granite.

Her own knees have turned to jelly. She sits, rooted to the pew, until her father elbows her in the ribs.

“Stand up,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Stand up. And face your punishment. You have shamed us enough. Stand up! Whore.”

The last word so shocks Emma that she leaps to her feet. She clutches her hands to her chest, staring back down at her father. His face is a picture of fury. Her glance darts over the congregation like a captive bird. Shock. Horror. Even disdain. She glances up at Morrow, standing behind his lectern, arm outstretched, finger pointed at her, like the sword of the avenging angel. She feels her cheeks burning.

Her mouth is dry. Her first attempt to speak is a squeak. Desperately, she moistens her lips and tries again.

“Reverend,” she says, “Sir. I- I don’t know what I have done wrong. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. She raises her clasped hands in front of her, like a shield. “Please. I’m sorry. God forgive me.”

CHAPTER 3

Morrow lets his outstretched arm drop to his side. He raises his voice. When he speaks, his voice is that of God is roaring at the world.

“Confess! Confess before your brothers and sisters! Have you strayed from the True Path, child? Have you been infected by immoral thoughts? Have you indulged in Sin? Answer!”

Every word hits Emma like a physical blow. He watches her quiver as a murmur rises from the congregation.

“Silence!” He continues, dropping his voice now, changing his tone to one of reason. “Know this, Emma. God loves sinners. It is for sinners that Jesus died. So, speak. Confess. That is the way to forgiveness.” He pauses. “And redemption.”

He spreads his arms again, looks skywards.

“Because, brothers and sisters, it is through redemption that we come to the Lord. So shout ‘Amen’! Shout it thrice!”

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

Each shout is louder than the preceding one, the last setting the window glass shaking. Morrow waves them back to their seats, beckons for silence.

“Well?” he says, staring at Emma. “We are waiting, child.”

Emma’s stomach is in knots, as if it were a womb of vipers. Her hands are shaking, her palms slick. She places them beneath her breastbone, pressing against the turmoil within.

“Please, Reverend. Please. I can’t bear the thought of disrespecting the Church.” Her voice catches. She takes a breath, then another. “I have lost my way. I confess it. I have had immoral thoughts. But I seek forgiveness!” She falls to her knees, hands raised above her head. “Please! Forgive me! Please God, forgive me!”

The sound of a single gasp might not have been heard—the combined volume of a hundred could not be ignored.

“No!”

“Not you, Emma!”

“God save us!”

The words rise up into the air like a flock of ravens.

Morrow shakes his head. “Hallelujah!” he says, softly. He raises his voice. “Hallelujah! She confesses. God is with us. She confesses. That is the first step towards redemption, child.” He pauses. “But the road back to God is not easy.”

He raises his arm in the air, finger pointed at the ceiling. “For the Bible says:

‘It is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy Spirit, who have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the coming age and who have fallen away, to be brought back to repentance. To their loss, they are crucifying the Son of God all over again and subjecting him to public disgrace.’

He let his arm drop to his side. “The Book of Hebrews, brothers and sisters. Chapter 6. As you well know. Those who sin crucify Christ yet again. It is as if they themselves, with their every wickedness, drive a nail into our Savior as he lies, bleeding, on the Cross. We are at a new Golgotha.”

He nods at Emma. “But it is good, child, that you confess. That, having hammered the iron spikes into the wrists and ankles of Christ, that you now drop the cruel implement. And fall to your knees at the foot of the Blood Red Cross.”

He turns and steps down out of the pulpit. He walks to the edge of the stage and stands at the top of the steps leading down to the aisle.

He nods to Samuel, an Acolyte, one of those who assists Morrow. Samuel places a mic stand and microphone in front of the Reverend. Morrow stares Emma in the eye, his gaze magnified by another two hundred. Had they been beams of sunlight, they might have melted her with their intensity.

Morrow spreads his arms, mimicking Christ on the Cross.

“Come to me, child. Approach. Stand before me. Face your brethren. And make full your confession. Tell us your every sin, so that you may be saved.”

Emma feels tears form. She reaches up to brush them away, but one escapes running down her cheek, dripping down onto her right foot, almost exactly at the point where a Roman soldier would have hammered a nail into the Savior’s foot. That was what the Reverend said she had done through her Sin. She, Emma, had crucified Christ.

The shame courses through Emma as she walks up the aisle and mounts the stage. She turns and faces the congregation. Her eyes seek out her mother. Seeing her mother in tears takes the strength out of her. Emma crashes to her knees.

The small voice is back. It hisses at her.

“Confess! Confess your Sins! Confess them all! Return to The Way. It is your soul at stake! Your very life!”

She clutches her hands and bows her head in prayer. She understands now that all she has done was born of resentment at her own narrow life, that she wasn’t a Mainlander. She had watered that weed, fed it with her disobedience. She had sheltered it from discovery.

But now that weed was trampled underfoot. By the Foot of God. Perhaps this was part of His Plan, after all? Perhaps He intended her to be discovered and so to be saved? Now, despite the heaviness in her heart, she feels a sort of lightness, a shred of hope, a shard of gratitude.

She realizes she must confess everything. That is the way. That is the only way. Emma says a silent prayer, then rises to her feet. She wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt and walks up to Morrow, head bowed in submission. She cannot look him in the eyes, so low does she feel.

A line from Psalms 22 comes unbidden to her lips.

“But I am a worm, and no man. I am scorned and despised by all.”

Morrow bends down, his ear close to her face. “What did you say, child? Come stand here. Say it before your brethren.” He places a hand between her shoulder-blades and pushes her forwards. She stares at the microphone. Morrow raises his voice.

“Brethren! Silence! Young Emma wishes to address you. Go on, child.”

She draws a breath. It is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Her heart is rattling in her chest. She clears her throat and speaks.

“But I am a worm,” she says, “and no man. I am scorned and despised by all.” Her voice catches. She stops, fighting back tears.

“Hallelujah!” Morrow whispers. “Do you hear, brethren? Hallelujah! Repentance is at hand.” He raises a hand to kill the noise. “Go on, child. Go on.”

She has composed herself. Her voice is stronger. She dares to raise her head to look out. Every eye is fixed on her.

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. I can only prove I’m worthy of forgiveness through confession. I hope that with the Church’s guidance, I can earn the forgiveness of everyone here as well.”

She glances at her parents. Her mother nods at her, dabs her eyes, smiles. This gives Emma courage. The words tumble out of her.

“I received a mobile phone, something I know to be forbidden. I did not ask for it, but, being given it, I did not refuse. I have dressed immodestly. I took part in vanity. I looked at myself in mirrors. I had impure thoughts. I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I just wanted to fit in, but that’s not an excuse. And I know I must pay the price. To earn God’s favor.”

Over Emma’s shoulder, Morrow studies the faces of the congregation. Most are stunned into immobility. A couple of heads are shaking. Several have their eyes closed, their hands locked in prayer.

Marion Oates is sobbing again, her face clutched in her hands. She is bent over double, so only the top of her head is visible. Her husband offers her no comfort. He sits as a judge, arms crossed, lips so firmly clenched that the color has drained from them.

Morrow steps up to Emma so a bare inch separates his body from hers. He places a hand on each of her shoulders. He feels her body quiver under his touch. Morrow leans forward and speaks into her ear, his voice amplified.

“Well done,” he says softly. “It is well done, Emma. There is hope for you yet. This alone might be enough to redeem you. With this, our church family can excuse you. But forgiveness requires trust. Trust that you have been entirely truthful. Have you? Have you told the whole truth? Or do you still try to conceal? Is there something further you wish to confess to?”

He takes a half-step forward. The belt of his robes presses into the small of her back. He places a hand on each of her shoulders and pulls her backwards so that she leans against him. Her head falls back against his chest. He can smell her hair. Her buttocks fit snugly into his groin. Her flesh quivers against Morrow’s. She feels soft, warm, and wet with sweat.

Morrow feels himself stiffen. Instead of drawing away, he presses further into her.

“Speak, Emma. This is your last chance. Have you anything else you wish to confess?”

CHAPTER 4

Emma’s heart pounds.

He knows. Somehow, he knows she hasn’t been entirely honest. Her shame consumes her again. It is too much. How is she to admit that she has carried her Sin here, to this holy assembly?

She feels the Reverend move closer to her. His hands are heavy on her shoulders. Under his touch, she leans into him. She’s aware he’s closer than any man has ever been to her. And parts of him touch parts of her in a way that she had always understood to be sinful. She does not dare to move as something stirs between her buttocks.

Her mind tries to make sense of it. Perhaps this is part of her wickedness? Or was this part of her punishment, her redemption? Is it her fault that this is happening to her now, here? Everything else is her fault, so is this too?

There is no answer. She does not know what to do. So, when Morrow urges her to confess, she talks of the thing she knows for sure to be wrong.

“I am—I’ve worn indecent undergarments to church,” she says. Her voice falters. She sniffles and looks at her feet in shame. She feels the stirring thing lengthen and harden.

Emma’s words send a thrill through Morrow. He feels the hot, clinging heat of her youthful body against his. His penis uncoils like a cobra roused, snaking its way up his body until it butts against his stomach. It feels like an iron rod. Ever so slightly, he pivots his hips and sets it snugly into the cleft of Emma’s buttocks, where it throbs like a living thing.

She has not moved away, he notices. She must know what that hardness is. But she continues to lean against him.

His next word is an exhalation. It sounds to the congregation like disgust, but there is more in that word that only Morrow knows.

“So. So it is. Not just indecency. Not just PRIDE!” He yelled the last word. “No. It is more than that. An invitation to LUST! For why else would one wear indecent garments to Church, except to TEMPT!”

A man leaps to his feet in the congregation. It is Farmer Giles. Giles is seventy years old, but with the muscles and constitution of one at least twenty years younger. Giles is a widower. He lives alone on his farm, refusing any help from other villagers to tend his crops and his animals. Since the death of his wife three years ago, Giles has confessed to Morrow of the crime of masturbation. Morrow set him a Path of Change. It has been a year since Giles sinned in this way. In that time, Giles became even more welded to The Path than he ever was before. He is devout in his calling out of sin wherever he sees it. Today is no different.

“Whore!” Giles shouts, full-throated. “The Whore of Babylon! She has descended! Kill the whore! Kill her!”

More men leap to their feet. Their voices join with Giles’–the clamor shakes the Church as if it would bring the building tumbling down about their ears.

“Whore! Whore! Kill the whore! Burn her! Beat her! Cut off her head!”

Some wives attempt to calm their men. One, Sister Josephine, receives a slap to the face from her husband, and she clatters to the floor, disappearing behind the pews.

“STOP!”

Morrow’s shout, amplified through the PA, stills them. They wait, like a pride of lions watching their prey.

“Stop.” Morrow says again. “She has confessed. I will decide how to deal with her. I alone. You do not decide. I do! And I will excommunicate any who countermand my decrees! I will expel you with only the clothes on your back! Take your seats! And be silent!”

The men obey. One man who had stood up and shouted at Emma is her own father.

Morrow steps back. The suck of Emma’s buttocks on his prick seems almost intentional, as if she missed his going. He turns to the choir behind him, hands falling to his groin to hide his state.

“Descend. All of you. Descend to join the congregation. I must witness the truth of this. I, alone, as God’s emissary, must bear this. I, alone, have the strength to resist the lure of the Evil One.”

The choir members troop past, some casting baleful glances at Emma as they pass. One spits at her. His spittle falls onto her ankle, where it glistens.

Morrow picks up one of the choir chairs. He places the chair in front of Emma, facing the congregation. Morrow steps behind her, turning the belt pack of his radio microphone to MUTE. He whispers to Emma.

“Child. I must see this sin. It is such a serious matter that your confession alone will not do. Do you agree to this?” He pauses. “You may refuse, of course. But that means you refuse the path to Redemption.” He sighs. “You will be driven off the Island. You will make your way in the world outside alone. What do you say? Do you agree to Redemption? Or do you wish to take that other path?”

Emma’s mind is awhirl. She had never imagined being excommunicated. That would be the destruction of everything: her life, her family, her future. She didn’t know what she would do if they cast her out. How would she survive on the Mainland? Where would she live? How would she eat?

The path of exile terrifies her. It has happened only once before. Brother Jedediah, accused of indecency with a neighbor’s son. Emma had only been ten, but she had seen them run Jedediah out of town. They had beaten him with staves and rods, his clothes torn to shreds. Jedediah had leaped into the brackish water to escape his pursuers. They stood on the shore and hurled rocks at him. The last Emma had seen of him had been Jedediah’s legs kicking furiously as he swam out into the ocean.

Emma shudders. She can’t even swim that well. The Mainland is miles away. And there are alligators.

“I agree,” she says in a small voice. “Please. I am ready to do anything to regain God’s favor. I will do as you ask.”

She feels his hand on her head, stroking her hair. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.

“It is not what I ask, child, but what God requires. There can be no compulsion here, Emma. What God requires must be accepted with a full and open heart, hard as it may be. Before we begin, I must ask you: do you freely agree?”

Emma nods.

“I need to hear you say it,” Morrow says. “Do you freely agree?”

Her voice quivers. “I agree. Freely.”

“Good. If you wish to end the process of examination, you must say the words ‘I reject God.’ Now, repeat those words to me, to show me you understand. And consent.”

Emma shakes her head. It is unthinkable. “I cannot. I cannot say those words, Reverend. It is wrong!”

“You must. Now. To show me you understand. What words must you say to end it?”

Her reply is barely audible. “I- I reject God.” She rushes on. “But I don’t, Reverend! I won’t! I will endure what you - what God requires of me.”

Morrow strokes Emma’s hair. “Good girl. There is hope for you, Emma. Hold on to that thought, whatever follows. Bind God to your heart. Feel him there. Nothing else matters.” Morrow removes his hand and places it on the small of her back. “Now. I must examine you. Bend forward. Place your hands on the chair. Do not move or speak until I say you may. Unless it is to say the words that mean the end of your life on this island.”

Morrow switches the mic back on and raises his voice.

“Brothers and sisters, let us pray. Bow your heads. Oh Heavenly Father, for what I am about to do, in contravention of Your Word, forgive me. I do this, dear Lord, so that I may bear witness to Sin. And to return this lost lamb to the True Path. In the name of our Savior. Amen.”

“AMEN” murmurs the congregation. Some heads remain bowed, but others pop upright almost straight away. Men, Morrow notes. It’s always the men.

“Get your heads down, you sinners!” Morrow shouts. “Lest your eyes be blinded by sin.”

The heads drop again. Morrow makes the sign of the Cross, then, without further ado, falls to his knees behind Emma. Gently, he grasps the hem of Emma’s skirt and lifts it to her waist.

CHAPTER 5

The sight before him takes Morrow’s breath away.

Emma’s buttocks are perfect, two pale globes, as taut and as ripe as apples. Her skin is flawless, coated with a slick layer of sweat. A scarlet band spans her waist, from which a silvery red thong dives to disappear into her cleft. He follows it with his fevered gaze, to where it emerges to cup the mound of her pudenda.

The thong has slid between her pussy lips, these glistening with juice. She has shaved her pubic hair. Another sin.

Emma’s skirt conceals Morrow from the congregation. He leans forward, inhales, and catches the scent of her pussy. It is a sweet, salty funk that sets his cock twitching again.

Quickly, before Emma can react, he sticks his tongue out and traces the course of the thong with it. His tongue sinks between her lips, dipping into her thick, cloying saltiness.

Emma shudders and stiffens as he does so. Her jaw drops. Shock courses through her. Her mind retreats into prayer. She recites the words under her breath, trying to ignore what is happening to her.

‘This must be a test,’ she thinks, ‘this must be. I am being tested. I must withstand. I must obey.’

Morrow removes his tongue from her cunt and swallows, tasting her again. He withdraws his head and wipes his lips on her skirt. He rises to his feet and switched the microphone on.

“It is true,” he says. “It is as she has confessed.”

There is another gasp from the congregation as heads pop up. Someone is wailing now. It is Emma’s mother, Marion Oates. Morrow continues.

“Brethren. There is no doubt about the crime. The penance must now be considered. That requires much prayer and contemplation. And time. But this profanity Emma wears cannot remain in our sanctified church. It is the work of the Devil. It must be removed. And destroyed.”

Morrow turns his mic to MUTE. He gets to his feet, leaning over Emma, his stomach against her back.

“Spread your legs, child. I must remove what you have on.”

Her taste is on her lips as he speaks, her scent in his nostrils as he breathes. There is a liquid ooze coating his belly where his cock throbs.

Emma’s breath hitches at the thought of Morrow’s fingers on her. “Yes, Father,” is all she can think to say. She tightens her grip on the chair and widens her stance.

Morrow straightens up and peers out over the congregation.

“Avert your eyes,” he commanded. “On your knees. Raise your hands. Pray. Chant the Lord’s Prayer.”

He looks at Farmer Giles. “Brother Giles. Come to the front. Turn and face the congregation. Keep a watch. If anyone looks up, take their names. For excommunication. I see you, Horace Wainwright. I see you, Eustace Wingbow. Don’t think I don’t. Do you risk Damnation? Avert your eyes, you sinners!”

Farmer Giles rises to his feet, and strides to the front of the Church, a look of contained fury on his face. He faces the congregation, hands on his hips.

“Well?” Giles shouts. “Didn’t you hear the Reverend, you brood of vipers? Eyes down. And if any of you disobey, you’ll feel the back of my hand. Pray. Raise your voices. Begin after me. Our Father, Who art in Heaven…”

As the opening words of the prayer rise into the air, Morrow returns to his task. He bends down so his face is level with Emma’s. Her eyes stare into his.

“This is a test of your forbearance, Emma,” he whispers. “A test to see whether you have truly repented. And can obey. I must make sure you have not brought more defilement into the Church. So, you must not move. Or make a sound. Until I say so. Your soul depends on it. Do you understand me? Remember, you can always refuse. Just say the words. But remember the consequences of refusal.”

Emma bites her lip, nods. “I won’t lapse, Reverend.” She stifles a sob. “As God commands.”

Morrow strokes her hair. “Good girl. Remain still and silent. All will be well. I will be as quick as I can.”

He retrieves another chair and sets it behind Emma. He sits down heavily.

With both hands, he grasps the waistband of her thong and tugs it down. The flimsy garment falls off her hips easily. It hangs down, suspended only by the gusset embedded within her pussy lips. Morrow yanks it off. The garment falls to the floor between Emma’s feet. Emma’s toes are curling, digging into the unvarnished wooden floor.

Morrow slides his hands down the curve of her buttocks and cups her cheeks. They feel firm under his grip. Gently, he parts them with his thumbs. The pink curl of her asshole glimmers at him from her dark valley. Morrow leans forward and touches it with the very tip of his tongue. Emma’s asshole twitches at the contact, knotting closed and pulling away.

The scent of her engulfs him. The urge to thrust his tongue into her anus is overpowering, but he fights it down. Instead, he dips a thumb between her pussy lips and twists it round like a corkscrew. He feels her clench and shudder against him. He withdraws, the digit emerging slick.

“Do not move, child,” he growls, placing the pad of his sopping thumb flat against her sphincter. “Do not make a sound.”

Without further warning, he thrusts his thumb in deep, until the heel of his hand thuds against her tailbone. He feels her body rock forward with the force of it. He feels her tremble.

He whispers to her.

“Answer me now, Emma. But say it softly. Whisper it to me. Do you repent, child?”

He thrusts his thumb harder into her ass. The ring of muscle clamps down on his digit, imprisoning it.

“Do you truly repent? Or do you reject God? Speak. Speak now.”

CHAPTER 6

Emma screws her eyes shut. She had done her best to keep them open, fixed upon her parents as they prayed for her. Emma hopes her mother will look up to give her some comfort, some sign that Emma was forgiven, but Marion Oates does not.

Emma had looked into Morrow’s eyes as he spoke to her—she saw in them a darkness she had never seen before. She knew Morrow would have to touch her around her most intimate parts. The undergarment would have to be removed. She accepted that. It was her fault, after all, for wearing it to Church, a risk she need not have taken.

She makes no sound as Morrow tugs it off.

The rest, however, she does not expect. His touch sliding into her anus is rough. His finger almost grates in. She almost squeals, but bites the cry back. She has never had anything inside her. The spasm of her anal sphincter clamping down on Morrow’s thumb is instinctive and uncontrollable.

As Morrow thrusts deeper in, she whimpers, a slight sound, like a puppy. It is inaudible over the chanting of the congregation. She squeezes her eyelids shut, suddenly panting.

Hot tears drip onto her hands as Morrow’s voice sounds in her ears. She makes the only answer she can.

“Yes! Yes! Father, I am sorry. I repent. I deserve this! It’s my fault. Please! Accept my repentance! For God’s sake. Please!”

It is not just for God’s sake that she pleads, but for herself. The pain in her anus is sharp and hot.

Morrow grins.

“Good,” Morrow whispers. “Good, that you repent. You know you are a whore, don’t you? You know that, I think. I can feel your filthy anus sucking at my thumb, like the mouth of a whore. Who taught you how to do that? If not the Devil himself?”

Morrow’s erection rages against his belly. He would like nothing better than to lift his robes and slap the sopping head of his cock against her sphincter, press it into the twitching muscle with both hands, drive it into the heat of her rectum, but he holds back.

Instead, he rolls his thumb inside her. He feels her wince once, twice, thrice, before he jerks it out.

He reaches down with his other hand and retrieves the thong from between Emma’s feet before flicking her skirt back down so it covers her up.

He turns the mic on again.

“Brethren. The sin is established. Satan’s whore, filthy Jezebel, stands in our midst. Pray, brothers and sisters. Pray that we may retrieve young Emma from the Evil One’s malign influence. Raise your voices! Shout to the Lord!”

The air fills with wild shouts and acclamations. Morrow calls out to the Verger, on his knees on the floor below, hands clenched in prayer.

“Brother Rufus. To your feet. Bring me a vessel.”

Rufus rises to his feet and ran off. He returns a moment later, carrying a brass vase-shaped container in his hands. He climbs up onto the stage, averting his eyes.

“Here, Father,” Rufus says in a quivering voice. “The incense container. Will that do?”

Morrow drops the thong into it.

“Take it from here, Brother Rufus. Take it outside. And burn it with incense. Scatter the ashes into the marsh. Say a prayer as you do it. Then cast the cursed vessel after it, and return with holy water. From the font.”

As Rufus runs off, Morrow steps in front of Emma, his back to the congregation, his body shielding her from their view. He silences the mic, then places his hand on Emma’s chin. He raises her head so that he can look into her eyes.

Morrow bends forward, so his face is only inches from hers.

“Taste, Jezebel. Taste the sin of your own body. Take it into your mouth and clean your sin off my fingers with your filthy tongue.”

With that, he presses his thumb onto her chin.

Emma’s eyes are closed. She sees nothing, but feels, and hears, everything. The abrupt withdrawal of Morrow’s intruding thumb. The bruised sensation of its absence in her asshole. Morrow’s speech. The wild shouting from the congregation. The soft plop of her thong landing in the container. Brother Rufus’ steps as he hurried away out of the church. Then Morrow’s words. And the sensation of his thumb pressing against her lower lip.

She opens her mouth to speak, her voice quiet. She doesn’t want anyone else to hear. There’s no danger of that.

“If you say I am a whore, Father, then I must be.” She dares to open her eyes and look up. Morrow is staring down at her, his body blocking off any sight of the congregation. She blinks, then looks away, unable to hold his gaze. “But no one taught me anything, Father. I’ve never seen the Devil. I-“ She stops. How can she say the words? “I’ve never had anything in there. In my bottom. I’ve never committed that sin. Please believe me. If I did anything wrong just now, I’m sorry. I’m just—confused. Please forgive me.”

Morrow continues to stare at her. His thumb remains where he has placed it.

She looks up at him again. “Must I? It feels wrong, Father. And dirty. Must I?”

Morrow nods slowly. “You know the answer, Emma. You agreed. At the start. Do you wish to withdraw your consent? Because you can. But remember the consequences.”

Emma shakes her head slightly, the movement sliding her bottom lip across Morrow’s thumb.

“Good girl,” Morrow says. “So do as I command you. Remember, I am God’s agent in this community. To refuse me is to refuse God.”

Emma swallows. She grimaces, then hitches her head forward, sliding Morrow’s thumb into her mouth. It is hard and callused. She looks up at Morrow again, hoping she has done enough.

Morrow’s voice is a growl.

“Clean it, I said. Use your tongue. I want it licked clean.”

Emma hollows her cheeks. She sucks at it, running her tongue over and around Morrow’s thumb. Morrow rotates it inside her mouth for a few seconds, then withdraws it.

“Good girl,” he says. “That was well done. There is hope for you yet.”

Morrow wipes his thumb dry on her skirt.

“Kneel, child,” he says, removing the chair from in front of her. Emma falls to her knees, hands clasped. Morrow turns to face the congregation and activates the mic.

“Brethren. Silence.”

It takes a few seconds for the chanting to stop.

“Look up. Everyone. Raise your eyes to me.”

Heads swivel up, hands fall into laps.

“The deed is done. The sin confirmed. That is a fact. The question for us, as a Church family, is what we do about it.”

He turns and points at the kneeling woman. Hot tears drip down onto the floorboards.

“The Evil One has tempted her and she, being young, has fallen. But I have tested her. And she has withstood. She is deserves Redemption.”

He turns back to the congregation and points at Emma’s parents.

“I do not blame the parents. It is not their fault. Indeed, you should know it was they who suspected, and brought their concerns to me. They are good, godly people. They have done a hard thing. They gave up their daughter. Because they know the True Path is not a straight one. We should thank them.”

A ripple of applause begins, rising to a roar. There are a few loud whistles. Franklin Oates stands up and waves at the congregation, his grim face split by a slight smile. Marion, his wife, dabs at her tears, and accepts a few touches from the surrounding women.

“So,” Morrow continues. “The way forward. I must seek guidance, first from the Lord in prayer, but also from the Mother Church. In the meantime, this is my commandment.”

Morrow pauses for effect. He raises an arm to the ceiling.

“First, anyone who breaches my orders will suffer instant excommunication. You all know what that means.”

There is another gasp from the congregation.

“Second, we shall use the name Emma for this one no longer. She shall be called Jezebel. She shall receive the gift of her name again when her recovery is complete and we baptize her anew.”

“Third, none shall ill-treat her. You will keep interactions with Jezebel to a minimum. The minimum of talking. Do not look at her. Give her what she requires for life and health, but offer no comfort, no affection, no encouragement.”

“Fourth, she shall no longer live in her parents’ house. It would be wrong to taint their good household with this Jezebel. No, instead, Emma shall live with me in the Rectory. I am sufficiently trained to guard against the wiles of the Evil One. Her parents are not. Under my care, she will work, and undergo daily Inquisition and Instruction. When the time is right, I will entrust some of this work to other faithful members of this community. With hope and prayer, Emma may yet return to us.”

“Hear my words. And obey.”

“AMEN!” comes a shout from the congregation. It is Farmer Giles, fist raised. “AMEN, BROTHER! AMEN!”

As more shouts rise from the people, Morrow turns to Emma.

“All these things, Emma, are required. But none can be enforced. You must agree of your own freewill. The moment you do, you are Emma no more, but Jezebel.”

Morrow takes a deep breath.

“Before you answer, remember: you need undergo none of these things. But if you refuse, you must leave. Now. In disgrace. Because in refusing Redemption, you agree to be Satan’s whore. And that we cannot tolerate. We must drive you out of this Church with sticks and flails. We must chase you to the shore, where you must swim for the Mainland. And we must never hear of you again.”

“Who knows? You may survive out there. The Evil One who led you down this false path may send his servants to help you. But you will not survive long. If you choose Satan’s road, you will end your days as a whore, servicing those degenerates with your body. It is a fitting end for a whore. If you choose to be one.”

“So. One final time, Emma. Before this holy assembly. Tell us. What do you choose? The hard path among us that brings you back to The Lord. Or the easy path of an exile that leads to the Devil.”

CHAPTER 7

Emma’s mind is aflutter with thoughts, a whirlwind of conflicting ideas. The strongest is the instinct to refuse. Her humiliation is complete. Everyone knows of her sin. Could things ever be the same again?

Her mind throws suggestions at her, images of a new life. Perhaps she could make it on her own. Surely Elena will help. Perhaps she could stay at Elena’s for a while. Emma wouldn’t need much, just a small room, even a rug on the floor in the basement. She could work at Elena’s family business while she figured out what to do. But she would be an Outcast. She would never see her family again. Worse, God would turn his Face from her. Emma knows, deep in her heart, that God would not permit her to escape punishment. What she ran from today would find her tomorrow. Or another day. No one escaped God’s justice. That much was clear.

God denied Moses entry into The Promised Land, even after Moses had followed God’s every commandment and led the nation of Israel out of Egypt. Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, were scorched with God’s fire, even though Aaron was High Priest after Moses, the highest in the Nation. Even King David, God’s Chosen, was punished by a plague on his land, a sanction David had to choose. Emma was not one of God’s Chosen. How much worse might her punishment be?

And what if Elena refuses? Or Elena’s parents did not agree? Emma would be homeless. She shudders at the thought. She had walked past many homeless people on her way from the ferry to college. Small, stinking, shambling piles of flesh, gray and stooped, fetid and unwashed, toothless mouths calling for coins from the sidewalk. She had always stepped around them, walking faster, eyes averted. Was that her future?

Emma knows, deep inside her, that this is God’s way. God tested those who are found wanting. Those who endure are born again into a new life. The Reverend had said so. Whatever God’s path holds, that was the way she had to choose. And choose freely.

Accept the name of Jezebel, even if it branded her a whore.

Accept the trials to come, whatever they be.

Accept. And obey.

She raises her eyes and looks up. Morrow is staring at her, his eyes like coals. She speaks. This time, her voice does not falter.

“Yes. My answer is yes, Father. I’ll do whatever it takes. I know God would want me to choose this path.”

Emma bows before the church, her forehead on the floor. Her body doesn’t feel like her own. Her shoulders shake as her tears flow anew.

“Hallelujah. HALLELUJAH!” Morrow raises his voice.

The congregation takes his shout up. The people are in a frenzy. Some are weeping openly. Others have their hats in their hands, waving them in the air. The atmosphere is that of a carnival.

Morrow waves them to silence. “Peace, brothers and sisters. Peace. We have work to do yet.”

He points to Farmer Giles. “Brother Giles. I entrust this girl to your care. Take her, and her parents, to their home. Collect her things. All of them. Every last. Strip her room bare, as if she had never been born. And bring them to me.”

To Franklin and Marion, he says “Ensure she is bathed. And fed. Do not speak to her beyond the necessary for these essentials. Say no unkind word. Raise no hand to violence. Then, Brother Giles will bring her to the Rectory this evening. At 6 pm.”

Morrow turns to Emma, places a hand on her shoulder, raises her to her feet.

“Go, child. Go. Emma leaves and Jezebel will arrive. Have no fear. God is with you. And with us.”

Morrow watches the party troop out, the heads of the congregation turning to follow. Someone applauds, and soon, everyone joins in. The applause continues after the four have left the building.