False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(47)

“I think together, with me as the conduit for God, we can heal you of that urge, here in the sacred wood. Will you permit us to try?” She held out her hand.

Mardel nodded, visibly shaking.

“My flock,” Mana-ma said. “God’s blessings upon you all. Let us join hands again and think healing thoughts to Mardel. Let him never again crave another drop of drink, so his mind and heart are clear to receive God’s love.”

We sent him healing urges, yet with so many people, each had a slightly different emphasis and flavor. Some wanted him to also become kinder, less prone to snap. His wife wished he would smile more. Others simply hoped he’d never again crave drinking to excess. I could feel everyone’s thoughts, see into their minds. Except for Mana-ma’s. She was closed off, wrapped up like her long, black robes.

Another flash. Another burst of pain.

We were back in the meadow.

“Excellent,” Mana-ma said, bursting with pride. “I knew it.”

She helped Mardel to his feet. “How do you feel, my son?” she asked.

“I feel … better,” he said, smiling from ear to ear.

“Do you crave vodka?”

“No,” he said, surprised. “I don’t.”

We all cheered.

I hoped that, because of the triumph or whatever the hell we did in the meadow, we wouldn’t have to do Confession that day.

No such luck. “We’ll celebrate after,” she said.

We walked slowly back to the church.

The night before, I had felt our heart flickering, stumbling unevenly as it tried to pump blood to both of us. I wondered how long it’d keep beating. Morbidly, I wondered when it did stop, which of us would die first. Selfishly, I hoped it was me. I didn’t want to see Taema without that light in her eyes.

We passed the greenhouses with the mushrooms. We wouldn’t be able to help with our chores that afternoon.

We had to wait about half an hour for Confession, slumped against the church wall. There were two people ahead of us. They came out of the Confession room, looking all contemplative. When they saw us, they stopped, rested their hands on our shoulders, and kissed our foreheads. It was meant to be comforting, but I couldn’t help but feel they were saying goodbye. We’re not dead yet, I wanted to yell at them, bashing my fist against their faces to snap them out of it.

Finally, it was our turn. I pressed my forehead against Taema’s for a moment.

“T,” she whispered.

“T.”

It gave us strength.

Mana-ma’s Confessional was a tent erected within a secluded room of the church. It was made of white silk, and within were only low cushions and a low table, in soft pastel colors. Often there was tea if you wanted it. It was meant to be calming, like a shrine to truth and Purity and release. Really, it was more like a hippie psychologist’s room.

Mana-ma was perched on her usual cushion, dressed all in black, a stain on the pale colors of the Confessional. She held a cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled at us. She seemed so damn proud. She was still buzzing from her triumph at the meadow.

Mana-ma looked like a mother—warm and generous, with laugh lines about her eyes. She had skin the same brown as us, eyes so dark they almost looked black, her hair in the same tight corkscrews around her face. No, the Hearth’s not inbred, but a lot of us are related distantly to each other, or near enough. It was hard to tell what age Mana-ma was—she always looks the same in my memory. Ageless. I used to think she knew everything. She was a Vessel for God, the embodiment of Love.

That was a lie, too.

I remember wondering what the hell she was up to, in that moment before she spoke to us. What was the point of getting us to connect? What was the drug?

“Sit, my children,” she said, gesturing.

We had to almost lie down on our sides, resting our cheekbones together so we could both look at her. Taema was nervous—even more nervous than me. I fought the urge to stroke her hair. I had to admit to myself that Taema still believed in Mana-ma, or at least she did a heck of a lot more than I did. She felt guilty knowing she might have to lie, whereas I didn’t give a fig.

We’d already lied by omission to Mana-ma, and it hadn’t sat well with my sister. We never told her about the tablet. How we (OK, mostly I) dreamed of the big, wide world and what we’d do if we could ever get to it. We didn’t tell her plenty of things. We skittered around the subject of sex and desire, pretending that we couldn’t become aroused when so close to each other. That wasn’t true.

“I welcome you into the Enclave of the Self,” Mana-ma intoned, resting her palms on our foreheads. “Close your eyes and imagine all darkness, all unhappiness, leaving you, leaving only Purity and light.”

We dutifully imagined this, breathing in and out, our chests rising and falling in tandem. I imagined I was covered in mud that dried and cracked and flaked off. The flakes scattered around me, whisking about on the wind like when paper has burned to ash. In my mind’s eye, I was just me, Taema nowhere around. When I opened my eyes, feeling her warmth, I felt no better, no lighter. Our heart was still weak. We were still dying.

“The darkness cannot flee until you give voice to it. State the nature of it and it can no longer hold any power over you. Confess, and be free. Let the darkness absorb deep into the Earth, so you may leave lighter than when you entered.”