The Testaments (24 page)

That night we slept under a bridge. It crossed a ravine, with a creek at the bottom. A mist was rising: after the hot day, it was chilly and damp. The earth stank of cat piss, or maybe a skunk. I put on the grey hoodie, easing the arm down over my tattoo scar. It was still a little painful.

There were four or five others under the bridge with us, three men and two women, I think, though it was dark and it was hard to tell. George was one of the men; he acted as if he didn’t know us. One of the women offered cigarettes, but I knew better than to try to smoke one—I would cough and give myself away. A bottle was being passed around too. Garth had told me not to smoke or drink anything, because who knew what might be in it?

He’d also told me not to talk to anyone: any of these people could be a Gilead plant, and if they tried to ferret out my story and I slipped up, they’d smell a rat and warn the Pearl Girls. He did the talking, which was mostly grunts. He seemed to know a couple of them. One of them said, “What is she, retarded? How come she doesn’t talk?” and Garth said, “She only talks to me,” and the other one said, “Nice work, what’s your secret?”

We had several green plastic garbage bags to lie down on. Garth wrapped his arms around me, which made it warmer. At first I pushed his top arm away, but he whispered into my ear, “Remember, you’re my girlfriend,” so I stopped wriggling. I knew his hug was acting, but at that moment I didn’t care. I really did feel almost as if he was my first boyfriend. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The next night Garth got into a fight with one of the men under the bridge. It was a quick fight and Garth won. I didn’t see how—it was a short, swift move. Then he said we should relocate, so the next night we slept inside a downtown church. He had a key; I don’t know where he got it. We weren’t the only people sleeping in there, judging by the junk and crap under the pews: discarded backpacks, empty bottles, the odd needle.

We ate in fast-food places, which cured me of junk food. I used to think it was slightly glamorous, probably because Melanie disapproved of it, but if you eat it all the time you get a sickly bloated feeling. That’s also where I went to the washroom, in the daytime, when I wasn’t squatting in one of the ravines.

The fourth night was a cemetery. Cemeteries were good, said Garth, but there were often too many people in them. Some of them thought it was entertaining to jump up at you from behind a tombstone, but those were just kids running away from home for the weekend. The street people knew that scaring someone like that in the dark was likely to get you knifed, because not everyone roaming in cemeteries was completely stable.

“Such as you,” I said. He didn’t react. I was probably getting on his nerves.

I should mention here that Garth didn’t take advantage, even though he must have realized that I had a puppy-love crush on him. He was there to protect me, and he did, including protecting me from himself. I like to think he found that hard.

“When are the Pearl Girls going to show up again?” I asked on the morning of the fifth day. “Maybe they’ve rejected me.”

“Be patient,” said Garth. “
As
Ada said, we’ve sent people into Gilead this way before. Some of them made it in, but a couple were too eager, they let themselves be scooped on the first pass. They got flushed before they even crossed the border.”

“Thanks,” I said dolefully. “That makes me feel confident. I’m going to screw this up, I know it.”

“Keep cool, you’ll be fine,” said Garth. “You can do it. We’re all counting on you.”

“No pressure, right?” I said. “You say jump, I say how high?” I was being a pain, but I couldn’t stop myself.

Later that same day the Pearl Girls came our way again. They loitered around, passing by, then crossed the street and walked in the other direction, looking in store windows. Then, when Garth went off to get us some burgers, they came over and started talking to me.

They asked what my name was, and I said Jade. Then they introduced themselves: Aunt Beatrice was the brunette, Aunt Dove was the freckled redhead.

They asked if I was happy, and I shook my head no. Then they looked at my tattoo, and said I was a very special person to have undergone all that suffering for God, and they were glad I knew God cherished me. And Gilead would cherish me too because I was a precious flower, every woman was a precious flower, and especially every girl of my age, and if I was in Gilead I would be treated like the special girl I was, and protected, and no one—no man—would ever be able to hurt me. And did that man who was with me—did he hit me?

I hated to lie about Garth like that, but I nodded.

“And does he make you do bad things?”

I looked stupid, so Aunt Beatrice—the taller one—said, “Does he make you have sex?” I gave the tiniest nod, as if I was ashamed of those things.

“And does he pass you around to other men?”

That was going too far—I couldn’t imagine Garth doing anything like that—so I shook my head no. And Aunt Beatrice said maybe he hadn’t tried that yet, but if I stayed with him he would, because that’s what men like him did—they got hold of young girls and pretended to love them, but soon enough they were selling them to whoever would pay.

“Free love,” Aunt Beatrice said scornfully. “It’s never free. There’s always a price.”

“It’s never even love,” said Aunt Dove. “Why are you with him?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I said and burst into tears. “There was violence at home!”

“There is never violence in our homes in Gilead,” said Aunt Beatrice.

Then Garth came back and acted angry. He grabbed my arm—the left one, with the scarification on it—and pulled me to my feet, and I screamed because it hurt. He told me to shut up and said we were going.

Aunt Beatrice said, “Could I have a word with you?” She and Garth moved away out of hearing, and Aunt Dove handed me a tissue because I was crying and said, “May I hug you on behalf of God?” and I nodded.

Aunt Beatrice came back and said, “We can go now,” and Aunt Dove said, “Praise be.” Garth had walked away. He didn’t even look back. I didn’t get to say goodbye to him, which made me cry more.

“It’s all right, you’re safe now,” said Aunt Dove. “Be strong.” Which was the kind of thing the refugee women from Gilead were told at SanctuCare, except that they were going in the other direction.

Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Dove walked very close to me, one on either side, so nobody would bother me, they said.

“That young man sold you,” said Aunt Dove with contempt.

“He did?” I asked. Garth hadn’t told me he’d intended to do that.

“All I had to do was ask. That’s how much he valued you. You’re lucky he sold you to us and not some sex ring,” said Aunt Beatrice. “He wanted a lot of money, but I got him down. In the end, he took half.”

“Filthy infidel,” said Aunt Dove.

“He said you were a virgin, which would make your price higher,” said Aunt Beatrice. “But that’s not what you told us, is it?”

I thought fast. “I wanted you to feel sorry for me,” I whispered, “so you would take me with you.”

The two of them glanced at each other, across me. “We understand,” said Aunt Dove. “But from now on you must tell the truth.”

I nodded, and said I would.

They took me back to the condo where they were staying. I wondered whether it was the same condo that the dead Pearl Girl had been found in. But my plan right then was to say as little as possible; I didn’t want to blow it. I also didn’t want to be found attached to a doorknob.

The condo was very modern. It had two bathrooms, each with a bathtub and a shower, and huge glass windows, and a big balcony with real trees growing on it in concrete planters. I soon found out that the door to the balcony was locked.

I was dying to get into the shower: I reeked, of my own layers of dirty skin flakes and sweat and feet in old socks, and the stinky mud under the bridge, and the frying fat smell of the fast-food places. The condo was so clean and filled with citrus air freshener that I thought my smell must really stand out.

When Aunt Beatrice asked if I wanted a shower, I nodded quickly. But I should be careful, said Aunt Dove, because of my arm: I shouldn’t get it wet because the scabs might come off. I must admit I was touched by their concern, phony though it was: they didn’t want to take a festering mess to Gilead instead of a Pearl.

When I came out of the shower, wrapped up in a white fluffy towel, my old clothes were gone—they were so filthy there was no point in even washing them, said Aunt Beatrice—and they’d laid out a silvery grey dress just like theirs.

“I’m supposed to wear this?” I said. “But I’m not a Pearl Girl. I thought the Pearl Girls were you.”

“The ones who gather the Pearls and the Pearls who are gathered are all Pearls,” said Aunt Dove. “You are a precious Pearl. A Pearl of Great Price.”

“That’s why we’ve gone to such risks for you,” said Aunt Beatrice. “We have so many enemies here. But don’t worry, Jade. We’ll keep you safe.”

In any case, she said, even though I wasn’t an official Pearl Girl, I would need to wear the dress in order to get out of Canada because the Canadian authorities were clamping down on the export of underage converts. They were viewing it as human trafficking, which was quite wrong of them, she added.

Then Aunt Dove reminded her that she should not use the word
export
as girls were not commodities; and Aunt Beatrice apologized and said she had meant to say “the facilitating of cross-border movement.” And they both smiled.

“I’m not underage,” I said. “I’m sixteen.”

“Do you have any identification?” Aunt Beatrice asked. I shook my head no.

“We didn’t think so,” said Aunt Dove. “So we will arrange that for you.”

“But to avoid any problems, you’ll have papers identifying you as Aunt Dove,” said Aunt Beatrice. “The Canadians know she came in, so when you cross the border they’ll think you are her.”

“But I’m a lot younger,” I said. “I don’t look like her.”

“Your papers will have your picture,” said Aunt Beatrice. The real Aunt Dove, she said, would stay in Canada, and leave with the next girl who was gathered, taking the name of an incoming Pearl Girl. They were used to switching around like that.

“The Canadians can’t tell us apart,” said Aunt Dove. “We all look the same to them.” Both of them laughed, as if they were delighted at having played such pranks.

Then Aunt Dove said that the most important extra reason for wearing the silvery dress was to smooth my entrance into Gilead because women didn’t wear men’s clothing there. I said leggings weren’t men’s clothing, and they said—calmly but firmly—that yes, they were, and it was in the Bible, they were an abomination, and if I wanted to join Gilead I would have to accept that.

I reminded myself not to argue with them, so I put on the dress; also the pearl necklace, which was fake, just as Melanie had said. There was a white sunhat, but I only needed to put it on to go outside, they said. Hair was permitted inside a dwelling unless there were men around, because men had a thing about hair, it made them spin out of control, they said. And my hair was particularly inflammatory because it was greenish.

“It’s only a tint, it will wear off,” I said apologetically so they’d know I’d already renounced my rash hair-colour choice.

“It’s all right, dear,” said Aunt Dove. “No one will see it.”

The dress actually felt quite good after my dirty old clothes. It was cool and silky.

Aunt Beatrice ordered in pizza for lunch, which we had with ice cream from their freezer. I said I was surprised that they were eating junk food: wasn’t Gilead against it, especially for women?

“It’s part of our test as Pearl Girls,” said Aunt Dove. “We’re supposed to sample the fleshpot temptations of the outside world in order to understand them, and then reject them in our hearts.” She took another bite of pizza.

“Anyway it will be my last chance to try them,” said Aunt Beatrice, who had finished off the pizza and was eating her ice cream. “I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with ice cream, as long as it has no chemicals.” Aunt Dove gave her a reproachful look. Aunt Beatrice licked her spoon.

I said no to the ice cream. I was too nervous. Also I no longer liked it. It reminded me too much of Melanie.

That night before going to bed I examined myself in the bathroom mirror. Despite the shower and the food, I was wrecked. I had dark circles under my eyes; I’d lost weight. I really did look like a waif who needed to be rescued.

It was wonderful to sleep in a real bed instead of under a bridge. I missed Garth though.

Each night I was inside that bedroom, they locked my door. And they took care that during my waking hours I was never alone.

The next couple of days were spent in getting my Aunt Dove papers ready. I had my picture and fingerprints taken so they could make me a passport. The passport was certified at the Gilead Embassy in Ottawa, then sent back to the Consulate by special courier. They’d put in Aunt Dove’s identifying numbers, but with my picture and physical data, and they’d even infiltrated the Canadian immigration database where Aunt Dove had been recorded coming in, removed the real Aunt Dove from it temporarily, and posted my own data plus my iris scan and thumbprint.

“We have many friends inside the Canadian government infrastructure,” said Aunt Beatrice. “You’d be amazed.”

“So many well-wishers,” said Aunt Dove. Then both of them said, “Praise be.”

They’d put an embossed stamp on one of the pages that said
PEARL GIRL
. That meant I would be let into Gilead immediately, no questions asked: it was like being a diplomat, said Aunt Beatrice.

Now I was Aunt Dove, but a different Aunt Dove. I had a Pearl Girls Missionary Temporary Canadian Visa that I had to give back to the border authorities when exiting. It was simple, said Aunt Beatrice.

“Look down a lot when we’re going through,” said Aunt Dove. “It hides the features. Anyway it’s the modest thing to do.”

Aunt Beatrice and I were driven to the airport in a black Gilead government car, and I passed border control with no trouble. We didn’t even get body-searched.

The plane was a private jet. It had an eye with wings on it. It was silver, but it looked dark to me—like a huge dark bird, waiting to fly me where? Into a blank. Ada and Elijah had tried to teach me as much as possible about Gilead; I’d seen the documentaries and the
TV
footage; but I still could not picture what might be waiting for me there. I didn’t feel ready for this at all.

I remembered SanctuCare, and the women refugees. I’d looked at them but I hadn’t really seen them. I hadn’t considered what it was like to leave a place you knew, and lose everything, and travel into the unknown. How hollow and dark that must feel, except for maybe the little glimmer of hope that had allowed you to take such a chance.

Very soon I, too, was going to feel like that. I would be in a dark place, carrying a tiny spark of light, trying to find my way.