In the name of our Daughter

At thirty three, Father James Hong had more wrinkles than the souls of his thousand strong community. Sent by the Church years ago to replace his murdered predecessor, he struggled to fit in. Perhaps it was the promise of going home, to reunite with his family, that prevented him from growing roots; or perhaps, he simply could not relate to the savages he had come to save.

But tonight, as he considered his tenure as the shepherd of his forsaken flock, sitting within the sanctity of the rectangular enclosure, separated into two by a perforated conduit, through which all wrong-doings are absolved, his only role was to forgive.

Outside, the fiery ball in the sky had not even begun its fateful descent, and already the mercury had nowhere to retreat. The streets were dead. The wind howled, sweeping through the flotilla of caravans that dotted the barren landscape. There wasn't a single soul brave enough to confront the unforgiving reality of life out at the edge of civilization; except for one.

Father Hong heard the footsteps clacking down the middle of the chapel. They were slow, and steady, calm even. A far cry from the usual haphazard lumbering, aimless clamor of feet that he was accustomed to. Seconds later, the curtains in the adjacent chamber were parted. A sweet but subtle fragrance pranced around his senses. He felt his heart beat.

"Forgive me father, for I have..." The woman's voice trailed off.

"Speak, my child." James flinched internally. He had conjured the figure of grown woman.

"I'm..." she said, "about to do something terrible."

He leaned on his elbow, and scratched his fingers against the usually smooth texture of his chin. Never mind that the woman had the wrong idea about the sacrament. Never mind that she was wearing a little black dress out in the middle of nowhere. Never mind that she had set off most if not all the alarm bells in his mind. Something was not quite right, but he could think of nothing else.

He cleared his throat and said, "that's not how it works."

"Past, or future," she said, "what’s the difference? If I were to tempt a man of God with my body, right here, right now, would you not forgive me afterwards?"

James felt the hair on his arms stand. He closed his eyes and tried to resist the provocation. "What you’re suggesting requires premeditation. So couldn't you apply restraint, knowing fully what it is you wish to do?”

"The flesh is weak," she said, “the soul weaker.”

"Then you pray."

"Prayer eludes me."

"You have not tried hard enough."

"How hard must I try, before it becomes enough? At what point do you give in, and lose control?"

"You don’t,” he said with an elevated tone. “You keep trying, and trying until there’s nothing left to give. If your right hand wishes to hurt another person, you cut it off. Better to enter the gates of heaven with one hand, than to burn in hell with both.”

There was a short pause.

"Are you suggesting I cut off my breasts, and mutilate my genitals?"

He paused, closing his eyes again at the assault of imagery. A deep breath followed. He clasped his hands tightly and cleared his seemingly fragile mind. "Yes..." he finally uttered. "I mean, no—" It’s an analogy, he meant to say.

"Very well then," she suddenly said. "If this is the path to redemption..." She flicked something out of her handbag. Something that caught the light from the candle flames.

"No, wait!" he said. There was no time to think. In one swift motion, he was out in the open, and a split-second later, through to the other side of the partition. His jaw dropped. A woman, in her mid-twenties, with blue eyes that belied her fair complexion, sat with her legs scissored. Her modesty was intact, in fact, the dress revealed just enough of her milky soft skin to fill the staunchest of God-fearing women with unadulterated lust.

"I, uhm..." He diverted his gaze in that instant, but failed to stop his ears from throbbing red. “I apologize,” he said. “I thought you were…”

"Do you not like what you see?" the woman asked as she bit her lower lip.

"I do. I mean, no, I..." his articulation was in shambles. A memory from his distant past flashed across his mind’s eye. He was thirteen, at home, standing in front of the guest bathroom door, staring at his sister’s best friend, with only a towel wrapped around her beautiful head. Her smile exuded kindness, despite his gaping mouth and blank stare. He spent the next ten years falling in love with Rachel.

He was present again in a split-second, and with the same ferocious intent, backed out of the compromising position. He took a deep breath, and watched as she followed him out into the open.

“Did I embarrass you?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

"I'm sorry,” he said, “but you need to leave." He turned to avoid her direct gaze.

"Are you really going to turn me away?" she asked. "Out into the frigid wasteland? To be preyed upon by those animals out there?"

He said nothing. She could not leave, at least not until the next day. But where would she sleep? There was only one warm bed, and even though it was freezing, there wasn't nearly enough cold water to last the night.

"Jim," she said, and moved closer. "It's perfectly normal, and acceptable for a man to yearn for the touch of a woman. You are a man, aren't you? Capable of fulfilling a woman’s needs? Needs…” She looked away, her right hand sliding up her left arm. “...that have not been satisfied for a long, long time.”

He stood still. His stare found a strangle-hold upon the statue of a bearded half-naked man affixed to a cross. It was a symbol of his covenant with his heavenly father, the sacred promise that he had vowed to keep until his last breath.

“Jim.” Her hands slid in between his arms, and wrapped around his chest. “Please,” she said, “just one night. I'll leave the next morning, early, before sunrise, before your sheep awaken from their slumber. No one would ever find out.”

His first instinct was to pull away. But the warmth of her arms felt good. Too good. Too good to be real, he thought.

He pried her arms away and moved out of reach. “No,” he affirmed. “Leave now. You don’t belong here. Go," he looked unwaveringly into her now crimson eyes, "before I’m forced to exorcise you.”

The sly grin on her face evolved into a cackle. Her luscious pepper-red lips were now a shade of black. An aura of death lingered about her, and light seemed to bend unnaturally away. “Father James Hong, I see you've caught on,” she said with a spark in her eyes.

"The greatest lie ever told,” he said, “was not that the devil never existed, but that she was always there, hiding in plain sight."

She laughed. “That’s new. I like it.”

“What do you want?” he said flatly.

“First things first, Jimmy,” she said. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you. At that rate," she gestured to his chest, "you’re going to be the first priest who dies from a heart attack before fifty.”

“What do you want?”

“Let’s see… souls of the damned,” she started counting on her fingers. “Property, diamonds, little servant children…”

James was about to erupt when she held up a hand to stay his outburst. “A husband,” she finally said.

“Why?” he asked after filtering out every other word that threatened to jump off his tongue.

“Tell me James,” she said, “why else would a woman want a husband?”

It was a simple question, but for no apparent reason, he simply could not figure it out. But once he divorced the context from his assumptions, it leaped right into his consciousness. She wants a—

“A girl,” she interjected. “I prefer girls. Boys are so… loud.”

“And if I refuse?” He clenched his fists, his features steeled and cold.

She scoffed. “Well, that would make things… difficult.” She appeared amused at his posture. “Do you think you can punch your way out of this?”

“Well,” he said, feeling a bit foolish. “Whatever you want, you won’t get without a fight.”

The woman appeared deep in contemplation. She kept her eyes on him, like she was studying his features, or attempting to read his mind as she had apparently.

“You don’t understand,” she said after a long pause. “I’m dying.”

Both of his eyebrows raised involuntarily. He took a few moments to consolidate his rampant threads of thought. “You’re dying, and you desperately need someone to sire a child. For reasons I can only guess… no, I know why. You want someone to continue your legacy. Someone to proliferate the spread of evil and chaos.”

She smiled. “Chaos, yes! Evil…” she covered her mouth, rubbing her nose with her index finger. “Only to the extent that you believe good to be a naturally occurring state.”

“You are thirty three,” the woman continued, “young even by your standards. But for both our benefit, please hear me out..." She was standing in front of the crucifix, hands resting on the pew. "Since the beginning, before the perception of time and time itself, there was always two. The Big Bang, dramatic as it sounds, came from nothing. Light, is unrecognizable without its shadow. Reaction, literally cannot exist without its opposite. Negative, positive. Right, left. Laughter, tears. Up, down. Good and evil are just two sides to the same coin.”

"So, there is him," her eyes darted up. "And me," she concluded. "One cannot exist without the other."

Father James Hong had thought he’d seen everything there was to see out in this remote settlement. But in reality, he was floored. Every fiber within his being was in direct conflict with every piece of knowledge acquired from his intense studies on theology and philosophy. However, everything she said made sense.

“I understand,” he said eventually, although a small part of him was in disbelief. Was he about to agree to help the devil herself?

She nodded, then took a step forward, closing the gap. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Give me your hands,” she said.

He reached and grasped her palms, squeezing. A shiver of excitement traveled up his lower back, up his spine, and into the back of his skull. The temperature escalated rapidly, igniting every piece of furniture, and melting every piece of metal. The heat was intense, but the two naked individuals were unscathed by the destruction.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered.

***

“It’s done.”

He opened his eyes and snuggled within her arms was a baby girl. She was the epitome of angelic irony, the archetypal wolf in sheep’s clothing. But, she was his.

“What are you going to name her?” he asked, gently caressing the infant’s forehead.

“Lucy.”