CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Luke

Our community came together on Sundays for a day of prayer and fellowship, including a shared feast where the women prepared meats and special desserts. After a six-day workweek, I was assigned barn duty instead of a day of relaxation. I'd be absent once again. Franklin hadn't forgotten his threat to get back at me.

The meals during the week included a lot of starches like rice and potatoes so the community could control the food costs for the four hundred or so of us. Having meat was a rarity on days other than Sunday. If meat was served during the week, usually it was lunch meat or canned such as Spam. I wasn't a fan of meat that came from a can.

My job, mucking the barn, was worse when horses and several milk cows inhabited the building in the winter months. Luckily for me, most were free-ranging during spring. Mucking—or cleaning out the stalls—is basically just cleaning up poop, dirt, and a lot of pee-soaked straw. The job required a strong body. I had that in abundance, and because of that, and the fact that Franklin had me high on his list of sinners, I was getting an unfair number of bad chores.

The worst part? I'd be out there working hard, sweating, and suffering in the heat, while everyone else enjoyed fine company and delicious food. I said a silent prayer that my mother would be able to bring a plate home for me.

My quiet thoughts while working were invaded by a strange sound in the barn. Instantly, my skin crawled and my eyes darted to the barn's door, anticipating Franklin and his house of horrors. The door was closed. No Franklin. I released a huge sigh of relief and leaned against the wooden rails of the stall I was mucking.

Then I heard what sounded like whimpering or crying, so I stepped out of the stall and made my way to the center of the large interior, struggling to see in the dim light. Still complete silence. Pausing another moment before returning to my task, I listened closer, but heard nothing. The anxiety built inside my stomach as I had flashbacks of what this barn had held for me over the past few years.

Naturally, my thoughts turned to my actions in Franklin's office. I had behaved in a way I didn't recognize. Thinking, but not truly understanding, that Franklin perversely desired me, I had shamelessly put my privates on full display. His reaction to my bold move turned out exactly like I thought it would; I got my way in my request to transfer to the furniture store.

Another cry, this time definitely coming from the loft, forewarned me of the location of something, or someone, directly above me. I hurried to the wall, choosing to keep my shovel with me, just in case. Scrambling up the ladder, I noticed something moving in between bales of hay, stacked eight high in some places.

The loft was even darker than the main floor when the doors at each end were closed like they were now. Pausing to let my eyes adjust, I listened carefully for the location of what I'd assumed was hiding up here. As my eyes refocused to the darkness, I noticed tiny beams of light from holes in a roof that had seen better days, enabling me to make out shapes and shadows.

No sound. My skin crawled as I listened for more clues that I was not alone. Finally, another gentle cry like an injured animal might make. I stepped cautiously toward the northeast corner of the loft, moving between two stacks of baled hay, my shovel firmly in my grip.

"You better not be a rabid coon," I hissed, under my breath, ready to smack its life out.

My temples pulsed as I made my way through the narrow aisle of bales. Stacks that were seven and eight high on either side of me hid my approach. Few men in our community could lift sixty-pound bales, over and over, for half a day at a time, so the job fell to me. I knew the layout of the bales because I had done the stacking once the elaborate set-up of ropes lifted them through the large loft door. Ropes I despised for many reasons.

"Hello?" I spoke, hoping for a friendly response. Praying Franklin hadn't lured me to his den of terror.

Silence. Currently, the loft contained the first harvest of spring hay. Hay we'd sell, as well as use the coming fall to feed the animals. Four steps ahead, and then a right turn, would be a dead-end. If someone was there, I'd be stuck with the results of my search. At the dead-end was a small, but open area, where we maneuvered the individual bales when we opened the loft doors to drop them outside for feeding the animals during winter months.

"Anybody here?" I asked, no longer whispering.

Pausing, I waited for a response from the darkness.

"It's just me," a voice I recognized spoke.

I hurried around the corner, finding Josiah sitting on the floor, huddled against a wall of bales with his knees drawn to his chin. Ropes were still tied to his ankles and wrists, alerting me to a hard truth. I wasn't the only one.

"You scared me," I admitted, letting out full lungs of anxious breath. "Why are you tied like that, Josiah?" I asked, hoping against hope that the reason wasn't what I dreaded it was.

Opening one of the loft doors to the outside, fading twilight invaded the space. My eyes traveled up from his entanglement and to the pulley system used in the loft. Designed for hay storage, also used for Franklin's sick acts.

He wouldn't look at me as he focused on the dirty loft floor, desperately tugging at the knots around his ankles, ignoring he was naked and fully exposed to me. I stepped toward him, kneeling in front of him. I placed my hand on top of his head and pushed it back. His eyes were wet, and streaks of tears were outlined where they'd fallen down a dusty face.

"Can you please leave?" he whispered. "I… I…" Josiah began to weep.

I instinctively slid beside him and cradled him in my arms. He was three years younger than me and considerably slighter in build. Josiah was rail thin, like a fence post, and at least six inches shorter than me, so he easily melted into my much larger frame.

My holding him like this would warrant punishment if anyone saw us. Members did not touch each other unless they were related or were the opposite sex and married.

His head rested on my chest while he wept softly. Small and quiet hiccups escaped his throat as he struggled to speak. I reached for his jeans and undergarments that were at his knees and pulled them up, looking away from his naked body. "Shhh," I whispered into his hair. "I've got you."

Josiah clung to me while he wept. My eyes moved across his pale body, down the open row, and along the bales of hay. The loft held many bad memories for me, usually causing nightmares for several nights. This was how I must have looked so many times. I prayed he was here because of something different from my experiences.

I shuddered at the disturbing scene. "Why are you up here?" I questioned, sliding to my right and moving his face from my chest. "Look at me, Josiah."

He lifted his face to me. Besides red and puffy eyes, one of his cheeks was swollen. He noticed me focusing on the cheek. "I fell," he said, touching his cheek.

I couldn't help myself and ran the back of my hand over his injury. "What'd you fall against?" I asked, suspecting he was lying. "This lump is hard."

"I misjudged the ladder. I'm fine now."

"You sure?" I asked, standing and holding my hands out for him to stand. "What about the ropes?" Josiah wouldn't budge, ignoring my outstretched hands. My eyes narrowed as I studied him.

"I… was playing… I mean, swinging, and I fell," he mumbled, tears developing again. He wrapped his arms around himself defensively, protecting his small chest.

"I thought it was the ladder," I pressed. He gazed up at me. "Your pants were down, Josiah."

"So?" he muttered, tugging at his waistband as he tried to secure his belt. "I crashed is all, trying to lift some bales."

"You sure about that?" I asked. "You best not lie to me." I extended my hands again. "You need to get to supper before you're missed."

"I… I… can't," he whispered.

"You can't stand, or you can't eat? Which is it?" I asked, uneasiness creeping down my spine.

Josiah adjusted how he was sitting, his face registering discomfort as he moved. He lifted his face to me. "It hurts, Luke," he whispered. "Real bad."

I knelt again, gently pressing his cheek. "Does it hurt when I do this?" He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again when he tried to answer and failed. He shook his head no. "Where does it hurt, then?" I asked.

His eyes fully released as he began sobbing uncontrollably. He put his arms around my neck, like a child would, as if he needed me to lift him from the floor, so I did. He yipped in pain, clinging to me like his life depended on it.

"Please don't tell," he said into my ear. "Please, please, please," he begged.

I positioned Josiah to where I'd been standing and looked to where he'd been sitting. My heart seized as terror ripped through my being. The loft's floor had blood on its wooden surface.

"Wha…" I began, unable to speak as the realization of his injury became clear. I moved him away from me, my hands on his shoulders, and carefully spun him around. His jeans were now bloody. Moving him around to face me again, I asked him a direct question. "Who did this to you?"

He shook his head slowly, back and forth, repeatedly. Terror in his eyes.