I knew the people in Whistle Valley, the town at the base of the mountain, thought we were a bunch of cultish nut jobs. That we were having orgies and killing goats in the name of our religion. Pastor warned us that others couldn’t fathom our way of life. They were too corrupt and sinful. Our pure souls were beyond their comprehension.
On more than one occasion people had found their way to the gate, not to be saved, but to hurl insults. To shout nasty accusations. This only reinforced everything Pastor Carter told us.
Once, a woman had climbed the fence and made her way to The Retreat. She had broken a window and crawled into one of the cabins, sobbing and shouting that we had taken her sister. Demanding to know where we were keeping her. She picked up a piece of broken glass and threatened the family in the cabin. I was only thirteen at the time and I remember being woken by the sound of the woman’s wails. Pastor Carter explained later that we would experience anger and violence from those on theoutside. That others would seek to disrupt our path. In the early hours of the morning after the woman had been taken away, our leader had led us to prayer. We had fasted. We had forced ourselves to stay awake. And when our bodies were at their breaking point, we all saw the truth.
We only had God. And Pastor Carter.
And our calling.
That was it.
We needed these reminders. Constantly.
No one understood how close we were to God. How we were his chosen flock. And our spiritual journey was tied up in Pastor Carter’s words.
I never knew what became of the woman with hate in her eyes and acid on her tongue. No one ever spoke of her again. Negativity wasn’t given a voice at The Retreat. We prayed it away. That’s how we, as a collective, dealt with things.
Though, in the deepest, darkest parts of my traitorous mind, I sometimes wondered about that woman. And her sister—whoever she was—and what became of them.
The Retreat, the settlement that housed The Gathering of the Sun, was like stepping back in time. We had very few modern conveniences. Pastor Carter said it was important to eradicate the filth that defined our old lives. Technology could be blamed for a lot of the world’s problems. Humanity’s obsession with their phones and TVs had desensitized them to the suffering around them. It had allowed Satan to take hold. God had been turned aside and we were left in a waste land of misery.
But not at The Retreat. It was a sprawling community comprised of simple wooden buildings and a large, more elaborate structure at the edge of the forest—The Sun Sanctuary—our holy place. Pretty, well-maintained gravel paths connected all of the cabins and there was a magnificent garden at the center that we all took a hand in cultivating and maintaining.
We had electricity in the community buildings and running water in the two shower rooms that was shared by everyone, though the water was often cold. We used a small solar generator to warm the water but it never lasted very long. When I was small, I was one of the last to use the facilities in the morning. Winters were particularly miserable when you had to withstand icy water to get clean. Now that I was older I was permitted to shower before most of the others, thank goodness.
We had all been made to do away with any and all items that appealed to our vanity. No makeup for the women. No hair gel or curling irons. We were not meant to focus on the physical when we needed to stay immersed in the spiritual. Because of this both men and women wore their hair long. I hadn’t had a haircut in over ten years. The men didn’t shave either. I had no idea what any of their faces looked like beneath their beards.
Strangely, the women were allowed to shave their legs. Pastor Carter claimed that God preferred a woman’s skin smooth and clean.
Once, a few years ago, Minnie had made the comment that it wasn’t God, but Pastor Carter that preferred shaved legs. An elder had overheard her and she was taken to The Refuge for a week.
I had no idea how to apply mascara or what I looked like wearing lipstick. My thick blonde hair was a bit on the frizzy side. If I were any other eighteen-year-old, I would be horrified with how out of control it was. When I was going through puberty, I had my moments. When I broke out in zits and wasn’t permitted concealer I had cried. I hated to admit it, but I succumbed to despair over the state of my appearance.
My mother had no sympathy.
Pastor Carter even less.
Three days in The Refuge had reminded me that my time was better suited to other things than primping.
I stopped worrying about my acne and hair after that.
Pastor Carter kept an old rotary phone in his house in case of an absolute emergency. Though I couldn’t remember a time we ever had to use it. It was mostly kept as a means for those seeking the truth to contact Pastor.
I hated the shrill ring. It was loud and out of place in our quiet piece of earth.
Sometimes it woke me up in the middle of the night. The loud tone echoing across the mountain and we knew it wouldn’t be long until our family grew again.
We were told to not drink alcohol or eat sugar. We dressed in clothes we made ourselves. Pastor Carter said that the appreciation of a thing came from the sweat put into its creation. That God loved us so because of the effort it took to make us.
I believed this totally. This—as with all of Pastor’s teachings—made complete sense to me. After years of being told the same basic principles, they became gospel.
Of course you can only truly appreciate something if you’ve had a hand in making it. Even if sewing new shirts for the elders and fixing the holes in my old socks made me want to scream. I never would. I did my duty. We all had a part to play. And I forced myself to be happy with mine.
We lived a passive existence.
We were non-confrontational. We chose to handle disagreements by praying. And The Refuge was always there if someone needed a reminder of their purpose. I subscribed to each and every one of the commandments Pastor set forth.
Though not all the disciples were as committed. The ugly still took root in the cleanest of places.
