Children of Paradise: A Novel Read online

  Though the thunder rolls away into the distance, still the dark clouds deluge the compound. Usually, Adam likes to stick his hand through his bars and collect the ropes of rain as they lash his arm. But the lightning and thunder have made him shiver. Rain beats on everything. Adam listens to the drums, and finally begins to relax and unfold. Soon he dozes. People expect the preacher’s door to open at any moment and for him to add his bellow of disapproval to the general upheaval. But his door remains closed. His personal nurse and assistant, Pat, tiptoes into the living room and finds him fast asleep, curled on his side with his hand over his ear. She picks up the cover he kicked off and drapes it over him, and he does not even stir. She leans in to make sure he is breathing, and she smiles. She opens the front door with less care this time and reports to the guards in a normal speaking voice that the preacher is fine and asleep, and in his present condition he can sleep through an air raid. She sits with them on the front porch and watches the rain lash the life out of things and choke gutters and pour down walls and well up in drains and spread outward and create instant rivulets that snake in every direction. As the thunder echoes in the distance and the rain continues to spread sheet after sheet, the children run out into the open and turn their heads to the sky and spread their arms and drink the rain, bolting left and right to catch as much as possible. The guards hold up their arms in protest, but the children prove too many for the guards to corral. A few of the children obey and turn for indoors but just as soon run back outside again and sprint from the guards and rejoin the large group dashing around and screeching. The downpour washes the children, the leaves, grass, and vines. All appear sprightly, polished, and renewed.

  —Mom, can I go out?

  —No, Trina.

  The air smells fresh and lighter to breathe. The rain switches off, and the children move from running in the rain to playing in the instant mud pools. They run through the wet and mud and stop looking for a prefect, guard, or adult to shout at them. They dive into the freshly filled pond. Trina stares, wide-eyed, from a window as Ryan and Rose and many more of the children gather in the pond. Trina makes a move for the door but sees her mother shaking her head disapprovingly.

  —Mom, can I go out? Please.

  —No, Trina.

  —But all the other children are out there having fun.

  —Use your head, child.

  Her mother taps her skull as she speaks:

  —That kind of fun will only bring them trouble.

  —I never get to have any fun. I’m the only one left out of everything.

  —Trina, that’s nonsense, and you know it.

  —But it’s true. Why can’t I go out and play with the other children?

  —You know why? You know how things can take a bad turn in this place.

  —Just this once, Mom, please.

  Trina runs to her mother and hugs her. Joyce keeps her arms by her sides.

  —Please, Mom.

  Trina stares into her mother’s face. Joyce keeps shaking her head.

  —Please, Mom. Please.

  —I said no. Practice your flute.

  Trina’s big black eyes fill with water, and rather than loosen her embrace, the child holds on even tighter. Joyce feels her conviction dissolve.

  —Please, Mom. I can practice later.

  Trina tightens her hug even more. Joyce finds her arms leaving her sides, seemingly powered by their own need to return Trina’s affection. All the sensible arguments for keeping Trina safe under her watchful eyes turn to powder and dissolve as she embraces her daughter.

  —Okay. But I thought you were hungry.

  —I am hungry, and I want to play. I’ll practice my flute later.

  Trina kisses Joyce, who smiles and kisses her back.

  —Promise.

  —I promise.

  —And remember, not a word to anyone about Father’s business.

  —I won’t. Thanks, Mom.

  Trina dashes from her mother’s arms. She sprints into the muddy fray. Joyce walks over to the window. She tries to keep track of Trina, but her child quickly disappears into the thick of other children all covered in mud and not distinguishable by name or face except in varying degrees of height and whether the mud-slicked creature wears a dress or a pair of shorts.

  Adam opens his eyes and shuffles up to the bars of his cage and presses his body against it for the best view of the children. Maybe another child will trip into his cage. The children splash in the mud and pelt each other with clumps. Ryan and Rose greet Trina. They hug briefly and hop on the spot, beside themselves at the prospect of all this fun.

  —What kept you? Ryan knows but asks Trina anyway.

  —You know my mother. Everything’s too dangerous until it isn’t.

  Her answer makes Rose and Ryan laugh. A few others gather around. Trina, since her resurrection, is the most popular child at the compound. The children spontaneously grab her. They lift her off the ground. They swing her and count one, two, three, and fling her into the water. Her limbs fly as she splashes down untidily. She springs to her feet with a broad smile and triumphant waves of her arms, which produce raucous laughter all around. Adam somersaults in appreciation and rattles his bars and leaps about as if he, too, frolics amid the throng and has several hands swinging him into the pond. Trina stands up and falls back into the pond. She stands in the muddy water and looks at Adam, who somersaults and claps. She keeps her arms by her sides and her back and legs straight as she falls backward, shouting:

  —Timber!

  Again, Adam somersaults, claps, and hoots. A third time and a fourth, and each time the same appreciative gymnastics and applause and gutturals from Adam. More children join Trina in the pond. Ryan organizes the children in lines and gets them to count to three, and a forest of young trees fall into the water and Adam somersaults, claps, and guffaws.

  But prefects must be perfect, and guards designated to guard something or other feel compelled to do their duty. Each watches the next and waits for one of them to do something, to take it upon himself to file a report with the preacher, who is nowhere in sight, and become the one who benefits, perhaps with a promotion from speaking up, while the rest would face questions and criticisms for allowing such a demonstration to take place. The young man recently promoted from a prefect to a guard, who enjoys punishing the children at every opportunity, says he has a job to do and he will do it rather than try to second-guess their leader or anyone else. He grabs his stick and runs to meet the children. The other guards, adults, and prefects follow him and pour out of doorways and from under awnings with their sticks raised. The prefects and guards lash the children on their arms and legs and make them hop and skip and cry and beg.

  A child screams with joy and a child screams in pain, and the difference is in the timbre of that scream. Decibels of joy strike the inner ear differently from those of pain. The children’s cries wake the preacher from a deep sleep. Tuned to the distress calls of children, he wakes with a start, not as a man in charge of multitudes in a commune of his own making but as a child in the Midwest, left in a tornado shelter while his father retrieves something from the house, and covering his ears and crying for his father as the ground over his head thunders. The preacher wakes and shakes off the image and staggers to the front door, his limbs not quite his. He fumbles for the handle and throws the door open. The newly washed sun blinds him with its tentacles burning through remnants of cloud, turning the puddles to mirrors aimed at the preacher’s face. He barely makes out the figures of children flailing their arms and hopping to avoid the lashes of adults and older peers, but the cries sail unimpeded into his ears, and to stop it all, he bellows at them:

  —Cease and desist!

  He shocks the guards and prefects to a standstill. Pat, his nurse, jumps to attention. He repeats the three words over and over. Everyone freezes, and some of the prefects drop their sticks. The children dive into the buildings to hide from the preacher’s voice. Many cover their ears.


  —Cease and desist!

  He keeps shouting. Anyone in the commune not able to see the preacher must hear him. All of those able to see him standing in the doorway of his house must wonder what they should do next to show him they have heard and obeyed. They have ceased and desisted. A few voices say:

  —Yes, Father.

  This spreads among them and a chorus grows:

  —Yes, Father.

  He covers his face with his hands and appears to cough repeatedly into them. His entire body shakes but he does not make a sound. He stamps his right foot then his left then his right then his left, not quite marching on the spot more like trying to drive some stubborn thing into the ground. Every adult in the place chants.

  —Yes, Father.

  Many cry openly. Others fall to their knees and sob and keep repeating:

  —Yes, Father.

  Every adult in the place chants it, and many cry openly for the upset they have caused in their Savior. The doctor and nurse and several assistants run to him. Pat grabs one of the preacher’s elbows, the doctor the other, and they steer the preacher back into the front door. The doctor places a firm hand in the small of the preacher’s back, and Pat calms him in her most soothing voice:

  —Yes, they will do as you say, Father, they will do exactly as you ask, you can relax now, let me make you a nice cool drink. You sit and put your feet up and relax, they will do as you say, you do not need to worry about them.

  Her words and her touch combined with the doctor’s prove sufficient to fade from the preacher’s mind that image of the child all alone in an underground shelter and the roar of a twister overhead from which his father never returns.

  —Tell them they must not beat all the children at the same time. Tell them the children sound like a tornado when all of them cry together. They must not beat all of the children like that. They’ll destroy this place. This place is too small, too fragile, to contain so many children screaming at once. Tell them.

  He pushes away Pat and the doctor.

  —All right, we will, Reverend.

  Pat nods emphatically and backs away from him along with the doctor. They leave him sitting with his head in his arms. The nurse mixes him a cocktail of sweet iced tea with a few drops added of what the doctor calls a picker-upper. The doctor tells her to make sure the preacher drinks all of it right away, and she must see to it that no one bothers him. The other assistants and guards agree.

  They leave the nurse in the house, promising to return soon, and scatter to the four corners of the compound with the message from the preacher that the children must never again be punished as a group, that the life of the commune depends upon it, meaning the sanity of the man and therefore their sanity, their lives. Some adults look disapprovingly at the children and blame them for this new surge of ill will in the commune. Others think the children are a blessing to the place, and as the future of the place, they are worthy of better treatment. Since it is the word of Father, it must be obeyed if they are to thrive as a community. They must love the children but not spoil them; punish them justly but not in a blanket fashion; see to it that the children do not cry as one body, since their collective distress holds a peculiar sway over Father.

  Trina and her dormitory companions talk in hushed tones. The young guard apologizes for having to lash at them but says it is better that he lashes them and they find out this important thing than no lash and no new crucial information about Father. He says he used as little force as possible. That an adult guard could deliver a bad lash to any one of them. The children nod and wonder if the young guard could aim for their legs next time rather than their arms and heads. He promises that he will. He leaves, and they make rude signs in the air behind his back. Trina wants to know if Ryan is the only one to get hit repeatedly by the guard who loves to wield the stick. The young guard calls the stick his rod of correction. The children avoid him as best as they can, since he finds the slightest opportunity to correct with lashes from his rod any behavior that he judges to be deviant. They return to examining and comparing the welts on each other’s arms and legs and bodies. Ryan wins first prize for the biggest welts, all down his left side. They question him about the focus on his left side. He says he tried to squeeze through a gap in the fence and half of him, his right side, made it through the gap before the rest of him got stuck. He says the guards came along at random and hit him a few times and wandered off as others queued to take a few swipes at him and marvel at the easy target he made of himself by choosing to be still rather than the usual squirming, dodging, jumping. The children agree.

  Trina worries about their leader. He cried because they cried. He appeared to be one of them. But he is their father. What would become of them if he stopped being their father? The children fret about this and about how they will be treated by the guards and teachers and other prefects from now on. Ryan says that the evening sermon should answer all their questions. Trina urges them to be on their best behavior at the meal and to complete all their chores quickly and with as little talk as possible and certainly free of any horsing around. All agree. Rose says today’s rain is the best she has seen since her arrival six months earlier. The children nod. Rose imagines that she sees her absent mother’s face in the bark of a tree and blinks and looks again and again until the image fades from that tree though it remains burned on her retina. She becomes glum. Trina asks her what is wrong.

  —I miss my mother. I wonder if it’s raining in the capital. She likes the rain. Will I ever see her again?

  Both Ryan and Trina jump to offer Rose an answer. Trina wins out by being louder with her more strident tone.

  —The capital isn’t far. I’m sure she’s thinking about you right now in this rain.

  Rose likes the idea that the same rain soaks her mother in the capital. The many other children whose parents are not living with them in the commune say that this is true for them as well. Their parents left the commune or were thrown out of it. Like Rose, they were all told they belonged to the commune and Father was their sole parent. The children bring the talk back to how good it feels to run out into the wall of rain and feel it lash the arms, legs, body, and face. And rainwater swallowed directly from the sky tastes just like fresh coconut milk. They rub their hungry bellies and lick their lips.

  —Yummy.

  Trina follows with another assertion:

  —It’s worth a beating, isn’t it?

  A few of them hesitate to agree, but most think she is right, there is nothing like running out into this kind of rain and nothing sweeter to drink than sky water.

  —Like bread just out of the oven, Ryan says. And they agree:

  —Yes, just like fresh bread.

  Trina wonders how the rain might be improved to make it even tastier. Rose says it would be great if, on the way down, the rain could hit bees and strip them of their honey, then the rain would arrive in their mouths honey-sweet. This gets everyone wild with speculation.

  —What if the clouds were cotton candy and the rain flavored strawberry?

  —Or any other flavor we could wish for?

  —How about chocolate?

  —Chocolate?

  —Yes, chocolate.

  —And strawberry.

  —And vanilla.

  —Vanilla?

  —Yes, vanilla.

  Trina thinks that, for there to be vanilla, there would have to be vanilla being transported somewhere by some flying creature that the rainwater could come into contact with on its looping, swaying descent toward their upturned faces and into their open mouths.

  The children leave for their chores and try to maintain the hush made by the preacher’s outburst. So many feet shuffle over wooden walkways and wood floors with so little noise. So many hands handle cutlery, plates, and cups with hardly a clatter and whisper, yet keep the sum of those hands, feet, and eating utensils no louder than a heavy breath, collecting trays of dirty dishes and running them under water with just a sound of a splash, and exit or enter ro
oms with a similar demeanor of, say, the wind taking the opportunity to explore an open space, or an inquisitive dragonfly or hummingbird. Those sounds. The noise of a child amounts to as much as that wind or that insect and no more; not one foot drags, not one collision of shoulders, not one foot finds that one loose floorboard in a parade of feet on the floor, not one body trips, nothing drops to the floor, not even a knife or fork or spoon. All of the commune’s utensils are collected one at a time from a tray of such things without the usual clash and scrape of metal. All this deliberate cultivation of quiet sums up the lesson to the children of their collective beating and the preacher’s outburst.

  The children chew with their lips sealed. They pick up each spoonful or forkful of food with such deliberation that they seem to be in the middle of using the fork or spoon of food to thread some kind of needle. They drink and do not slurp. They replace their cups on the tabletops with a deliberateness that slows time and kills sound. They burp and silence it by keeping their mouths shut, and only briefly do their puffed cheeks give way to that occurrence. Their joints crack and click involuntarily and make them a new breed of living thing, utterly quiet in all actions except for this noise in their joints. Bellies grumble with digestive juices, but even this is muffled and sounds like a building settling on its foundations or the air making some adjustment in temperature or pressure, if such a thing can be heard as much as it can be felt. Adults look at the children and nod their approval. A few of the parents think it might be high impudence on the part of their children to obey and in such an ostentatious manner. But most agree that this is a new set of children.