Conduits

Chapter Thirty-Six

Until now, the Reverend and his followers had all attempted to remind Clara that God would judge her... in the end. If she kept walking the path of a conduit, one day their god would judge her. There would be a booming omnipresent voice, blinding lights, a choir! It was a lot of flourish for a junk sinner like her. Of course, these last bits were Clara's eye rolling exaggerations. Comical. Laughable.

Reality was the ground coming up to hit Clara in the face.

At her end, judgment was the hundreds—probably thousands—of eyes sighted on Clara at this moment. Those pairs of eyes belonged to soap box preachers, children, husbands with their wives, and the His Hand soldiers. All here. All their eyes judging her and Wendy. All of the followers had decided on who and/or what a conduit was. And they didn't want those type of people in their community. In their world.

At her end, Clara's judgment lay in the hands of the His Hand. Not God.

Clara took an inhalation at the wrong moment and began to choke. They had cinched the noose tight. Not enough to strangle. Snug. Strangulation and death would occur by her weight's downward pull when they kicked the box out from beneath her feet.

It seemed everyone in the compound had made an afternoon picnic out of her hanging, the followers having flocked to the park like a gaggle of gulls. They sound like the sea birds too, squawking with pieces of trash in their mouths. In order to give each follower—from small to tall—a view of the proceedings, His Hand soldiers ushered the crowd to encircle the park's gazebo completely, and they placed Clara and Wendy back to back.

Wendy's fingers searched for Clara's fingers. Clara laced her own with the other conduit's and squeezed until she felt her knuckles pop. Neither let go.

A short time ago, Croo had led them both from the church into the park. He did the girls the courtesy of making the trip seem as much like a stroll rather than a death march. Wendy's quiet sobs were enough to spoil that illusion. The chilly gust of wind that grazed Clara's face, tossed her mane of black hair, and sent a jolt of cold along her spine also reminded Clara this was no jaunty walk around the park and back to the safety of her home with Mom and Leo.

Not long after entering the park, Clara spied the gazebo and the crowd around the freestanding structure where many walking paths joined and ringed the central piece of the park. The gazebo's base was made of brick with whitewashed wooden columns ringing the outside to holdup a conical top similar to a turret, with flying doves crafted of iron at the peak. It was a place for weddings. For celebrations. A central ornamental piece of the compound. The gazebo was not unlike the Lady in the Fountain inside the Linden Grove gates, in the middle of the market square.

Home. Tears welled up in Clara's eyes at the memory. She would never again see the Lady wading through her fountain, the children playing in the waters by her stone feet.

A tomato hit Clara in the jaw. The rotten fruit—the meat soft and rancid—brought Clara back to the park. An apple connected right below Wendy's eye.

Croo did his best to keep the mass of agitated followers back, placing himself between the conduits and his follower brothers and sisters. More fruit flew, especially when Croo took several of the produce against his broad back. Clara was too busy shielding herself with her raised arms to look for Rose. Was Clayton out there somewhere? Did he have his own fruit to throw? Was this what he wanted for her?

By the time Croo managed to navigate the girls safely through the crowd and up to the gazebo—a pathway parted for them with the help of His Hand soldiers—Clara felt sticky and bruised. The dark skin around Wendy's right eye was turning yellow with a bruise.