Page 15 of Hellebore

“Affection between women is a sin, Heather. The devil’s work. Women are for men.”

I was confused, because I loved many women in my life – Isabel, Mother, Francesca. How could loving them be anything but a celebration?

“Why is it a sin, father?” I asked, curiosity blooming.

He stopped suddenly, gravel crunching beneath his boots that made my spine stiffen with regret. He turned to me with sharp eyes, spittle bubbling at the corner of his lip as he swallowed back his contempt.

“Heather, woman is made for man,” he spat, leaning down close to my face. “That was how God intended it. We are on this earth to continue his lineage, to fruit children that follow his lead, awaiting his return. That is our purpose. Can two women fruit children, Heather?”

Truthfully, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how children were created, only that it required a mother and father, so I dutifully bowed my head and shook it in solemn agreement.

“No, they cannot. God didn’t give them the means for it, and if he intended it to be so, he would have created them that way. When two women share a bed, they are willfully disobeying the order of things. It is selfish, a sin born of lust and greed, and I refuse to have my daughters exposed to it.”

He gripped our hands once more, wrenching us forward, causing us to stumble and heat with shame as onlookers glanced at us with concern.

“Are we going home?” Isa squeaked, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

“We are going to the chapel,” father replied, never slowing. “You will pray to God for their souls. That is our duty as the lords’ faithful servants.”

And so, we did. We spent the afternoon on our knees at the chapel altar, skin blistering against the hot stone floor, praying for strangers’ absolution. Praying for strangers to

realise the depravity of their choices, and amend their ways.

“Fornicators,” my father seethed beneath his breath, a vein beginning to swell at the edge of his jaw. “Fornicators and sodomisers are the work of the devil himself,” he stewed as we remained deathly quiet beside him, afraid to even breathe.

Father was silent the rest of the evening, digesting his anger, but somewhere inside me, a seed had been planted. A longing to know more, to understand why I wasn’t allowed to love the women I did. I hadn’t understood the difference between affection and lust, and somehow, I had combined them in my mind.

What I hadn’t realised was that where affection ended and lust began, Francesca had taken root.

“Isabel, what on earth are you thinking?” Mother’s voice echoes through the living room, the shrill of it bouncing off the walls and needling into my brain.

Isabel stands in the doorway, her slim body donned with the thin cloth of a slip dress, her shoulder bones visible beneath the reedy straps.

“I- it’s just a dress.” she says quietly, eyes downcast, fingers twisting in the fabric at her thighs.

“Where did you get it?” Mother asks, eyes narrowed.

We aren’t permitted to show our shoulders, or wear anything other than natural cloth. We receive pre-loved shoes from older children in the community, and have to hand mend any rips of tears in our dresses with needle and thread. Isabel standing here now is a quiet protest most unexpected.

“A friend,” she says, still rigid in her stance. “It’s just a dress, mother. It isn’t of any consequence.”

I step towards her, nerves flickering like a budding flame in my stomach. Even the smallest defiance is dangerous in this house – with father gone, mother still maintains the rules he set in place. Still abides by God’s governing.

“It’s okay, Isa. Come on, Let’s just get changed into our house dresses,” I urge gently, trying to guide her to the door, away from mother’s furious gaze.

“You are a child of God, Isabel!” Mother screams, her eyes ablaze, vein pulsing in her temple. “Jezebels wear those fabrics. Whores and filth. You are not on this earth to succumb to the whims of modern femininity. Vanity feeds the flesh, and nurtured flesh leads to sin. A woman submissive to God starves her vanity and keeps herself humble so that her heart stays pure.”

“I don’t understand how that can be true,” Isabel says quietly, cheeks flushing crimson as she shakes her head. “If faith can be shaken that easily, perhaps the whole concept is too fragile.”

“Isabel…” I warn, stepping between her and Mother.

“Go to your room, Isabel,” Mother seethes, her teeth clenched. “When you come down, you will have changed into something more appropriate. Your soul is at risk with your defiance. Do you want to find yourself in hell when God deems your life at its end?”

Mother points to the hallway, demanding Isabel from her sight. Isabels eyes narrow, her jaw working as she considers what to say next.

“If God is real,” she continues softly, her voice quivering despite the resolve beneath it. “He wouldn’t think the sun upon bare skin was something to be punished for. Did Adam and Eve not walk unclothed, with only leaves to cover them, before they learned to weave? Or is it only your version of the story that’s allowed to be true, when it keeps us in line?”

Her voice falters at the end, shrinking slightly under its own daring, but she stands there still. Caught between fear and defiance, her shame and her question laid bare in equal measure.