The Selection
by Nina Kerr
I was taught to bleed before I was taught to pray. I had first been given a blade at eight, and I still remember the soft sting as Morgana’s rough fingers traced my forearms, leaving a crimson trail in their wake. Her breath had been warm against my ears as she whispered the words I would go on to repeat every day for the rest of my life:
My blood proves my devotion; my pain allows for purity.
Morgana had smiled after, her deep brown eyes twinkling as she’d sopped up the blood dripping past my fingertips.
Three days before the selection, I found myself repeating this process yet again. Morgana worked quietly, her hands practiced and quick, the way a Mare’s hands ought to be. The linen cloth she held quickly darkened as it absorbed the filth flowing out of my veins. Today’s would hopefully be the final cleansing I’d have to endure.
“You’re ready, Sunny,” she finally smiled.
“To burn?” I asked cautiously, careful to rid my voice of any semblance of dread.
“For whatever God has in store for you, my love.”
She said it with clear restraint and it was evident that she was trying not to overexcite me. Her words were gentle, although they were dripping with jealousy. Morgana had been ready once, too, but God had passed over her. I was twelve during her selection; the disappointment on her face as Chester Sweis announced the name Rosalind Knight would forever be burned into my memory.
Morgana had become a Mare instead. She'd made herself useful, raising the daughters and preparing them for the very ceremony that she had been unable to complete.
I would not fail like she had. I refused.
Across the room, Tova sat at the frayed wooden bench, perfectly still with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Tova knew she was perfect. Her hair reflected the candlelight, white as the dress she wore, its ends curled cleanly at her chest. Her skin was beautiful, untouched by the sun or any sort of labour. A porcelain colour that almost glowed. I couldn’t help but glare in her direction as I wondered, not for the first time, if God had taken special care when crafting her, if he had made her perfect on purpose.
Chester stood before her, his large frame dwarfing hers. The sun slipping through the cracks in the wall reflected off his dagger.
I looked away before the blade touched Tova’s skin.
…
The Church of Sweis existed for one, simple reason; God had demanded its creation. That was the explanation given to us as children, and we were told not to request details. Chester said that his father, Enoch Sweis, had heard God’s voice atop this very mountain. His voice had risen from the ground, stretching through the branches of the trees and filling the space around Enoch. God had praised the Sweis’ purity, and called for its preservation. Their bloodline would always matter more than any bodies. This was the awakening.
Males were seen as carriers of both strength and seed, their bodies mere vessels destined to carry out God’s earthly tasks. Sons were to be raised in a family unit, trained to work, provide, and most importantly; obey.
Daughters were raised communally; we were to be assessed, monitored, purified, groomed for perfection. We were expected to conceive by the age of seventeen, to carry on the sacred Sweis bloodline.
Each year, on the anniversary of Enoch’s awakening, Chester would select the purest among his daughters of a certain age. Her earthly body would be burned, allowing her soul to be returned to our Saviour as an offering of gratitude.
It was an honour, we were told year after year as we watched the fires. We watched as one of our sisters was strapped to a post and set ablaze, skin blistering, hair igniting, her screams audible for miles as they transformed, becoming almost animal by the end. The crowd would surge after that, desperate to collect her ashes. Mares rubbed them into the infants’ gums, daughters turned them into soap, fathers rubbed them into their palms before work.
I could remember being pushed through the crowd as a child, Morgana’s fingers digging into my shoulders as she scrambled for ash.
“Remember,” she’d whisper to me, “Remember what purity looks like.”
…
Tabitha Balor spoke to me the night before the selection. We sat outside one of the nurseries, staring as the dark sky swallowed the soaring mountains to the North, their peaks barely visible thanks to the moon’s enchanting glow. She was already in her nightgown, its lace collecting the dirt and grime at her feet.
Poor Tabbi will never be selected with a face like hers, I thought as I braided her hair. Tabitha, or Tabbi, as she preferred to be called, had been born the day after the selection of my ninth year. I remember shrieking when I first saw her. Her gums, pink and glossed with saliva, were visible though a gaping hole ripping through her philtrum and connecting with the gape of her mouth. Chester had called it a punishment from God. Two sisters were burned the following year as a demonstration of our repentance.
“I will miss you,” she said, her dark eyes gleaming up at me, lisp prominent as she spoke. The hole in her face was now lined with small, crooked teeth.
“You won’t,” I said curtly. “The others will care for you.”
“It won’t be the same,” she whispered, staring at the ground as she did. “Are you certain God will choose you?”
“Yes,” I nodded, although I wasn’t.
…
Selection day arrived with the ringing of the bells at dawn. The scent of incense wafted through the breeze, its thick aroma sticking to the back of my throat. Morgana was at my bed before the sun could even peek over the mountains. She held a small glass, the water inside clouded with the unmistakable colour of ash.
“Drink,” she said, her face firm but careful.
I obeyed, taking the glass from her rough hands and tipping it back without a word.
…
We had been arranged into a line, dressed in identical white robes, bare beneath them. Chester stood before us, slowly moving down the line as he examined us one by one, inspecting every detail. His fingers pressed into skin, tracing scars and muttering words of approval or disapproval. Many wept as he got to them.
Foolish, I thought, God will not reward your fragility.
When he reached me, Chester’s gaze lingered. My heart raced as I was examined, although my eyes remained steady, staring into his.
“Minimal correction required,” he murmured, lifting his gaze from my scarred arms. “You’ve demonstrated notable discipline, Ms. Coval.”
I nodded, pride surging through my chest as he moved on.
Tova stood two places away from me. She wasn’t standing as straight as I had expected, swaying slightly with a hand pressed carefully over her lower stomach. Her fingers were trembling as she looked up at Chester. He took her hand and she gasped, stumbling backward. The sound was sharp and heavy, as if it were coming from deep within her. A second later, the blood began to spill, a stream dripping from beneath her robe. It started as a stain, slowly spreading across the white fabric.
Soon, blood was pouring out of her.
Tova stumbled again, collapsing in on herself this time. She grasped at the air uselessly as she fell into a pool of her own blood. This was different from the blood that had come from our arms. It was thick, heavy, and it smelled. The crowd recoiled at this as if they’d been struck. A child screamed.
Chester stepped back, horror flickering over his face before hardening into something closer to disgust. Something dark.
“She was carrying life,” he said, his voice cold and void of any emotion.
No one said anything. The crowd’s attention was on Tova, on the growing amount of blood collecting around her. I jumped backwards as her blood began to creep toward my feet.
Two men emerged from the crowd, each grasping one of her wrists. They dragged her away, her heels leaving blotchy, red streaks in the grass. Tova didn’t scream; she didn’t cry. She just looked confused, her mouth opening and closing silently like she wanted to ask a question she didn’t have the words for. Her eyes darted before finally landing on me. They were pleading, desperate as she stared in my direction. I didn’t look back.
Tova died that afternoon.
…
Chester announced my name as the sun set that evening. The crowd rejoiced, dancing and clapping on the ground where Tova had bled out mere hours before. Morgana wept openly, clutching my face before wrapping me in an embrace so tight I struggled to breathe.
“You’ve been chosen, Sunny,” she whispered in my ear. “You’ve been chosen.”
…
I was washed until my skin burned, all my sins scrubbed away one last time. Morgana braided my hair tight, and Chester personally anointed my body with oil. His hands were soft as they massaged my limbs. I was dressed in robes so white it felt sacrilegious to touch them.
Morgana led me out onto the platform. The post stood waiting, its wood freshly sanded.
As my wrists were bound, I felt the warm wood against my skin. The crowd pressed toward me, faces dripping with devotion. Children were pushed to the front as I had been many times before. I turned my head to the left, not wanting to watch the post be lit. Tabbi was at the front of the crowd, face streaked with tears as Morgana held her close to her chest, grinning back at me.
The fire caught quickly. Pain consumed everything else, ripping through me so ferociously that any thought was completely dissolved. As my flesh burned, I felt lighter, freer than I had ever been before. I understood what Chester had meant when he spoke of transcendence. I was finally holy, free of a body that could betray me as it had betrayed Tova.
As I was consumed by the flames, one final thought lingered: Purity was never about blood. It was about control.
Still, my ashes soon rose.
And the crowd reached for them.