In The Name Of The Father

Chapter 1

1

Isabella Martin stood rooted to the spot as Father Joseph Kümmel’s eyes bore into hers. For a while, he said no words. He didn’t need to.

She’d been considering her escape from Hilltop Farm for some time. Recently she’d made the grave mistake of voicing her doubts to another member of the community. She’d thought she could trust her, considered her a friend. But now she was standing in front of the man who’d started this, who’d brought them all here, and expected her to repent for her sins.

‘Isabella, do you ever plan your own death?’ the man said, his deep Germanic tones rumbling as he spoke.

The farmhouse smelt damp and musty, as it always did at this time of year. The room felt oppressive, little light sneaking in through the small, high windows. Although she stood alone, facing the seated Father Joseph across his desk, she felt a thousand eyes upon her. The building was known as the chapel, although Isabella had long since rejected it as such in her mind. To her, it was now just another farmhouse. In any case, it felt more like a crypt than a chapel.

She swallowed, her mouth dry, struggling for something to say.

‘No... No, I don’t.’

Father Joseph smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, but the knowing twinkle of a parent whose child has just told them they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up.

‘Do you not find that odd? After all, let’s face it: you’re going to die. We all are. Do you not think it important to plan ahead and take control over that event?’

Isabella clenched her teeth. Control was something she’d lacked for a long time, something she’d gradually come to realise she was missing. And here was the man she held responsible, urging her to take control, telling her it was within her power. Had she been wrong all along? Had Father Joseph been guiding her nobly, the only resistance coming from within herself?

‘It... It’s not something I’ve ever thought about,’ she said, desperate to gauge Father Joseph’s mood and thoughts from the look in his eyes.

‘Do you not think it is time to think about it?’ he said, c*****g his head slightly to one side. He stayed silent, looking at her. Isabella could tell he was going to say no more and felt compelled to speak next.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

Father Joseph smiled again.

‘Child, you have a strong character. A strength of will. It is that strength of will that compelled you to express your doubts, to consider leaving the community. Do you see now that you were misguided in that sentiment?’

Isabella nodded, unable to express any words. She tried to work out whether he was angry or empathetic, but couldn’t.

‘You are not to blame, Isabella,’ he said, as if reading her mind and wanting to answer her question. ‘It is perfectly natural for someone as strong willed as you to doubt. But you are also well aware of what dark forces have planted that doubt, are you not?’

She nodded again. The word wasn’t one that was ever spoken within the community. No matter how removed Isabella had felt from this place recently, she still felt a cold shiver down her spine whenever she even considered it.

‘Which is why it is time for you to take control, Isabella. You are in charge of your own destiny. You make every decision in your life through free will. It is your free will that brought you here, that put you under the wing of God’s love. You are a person in control. Do you want those dark forces to consume you from within, to take that control away from you?’

Isabella shook her head, slowly at first.

‘No... No.’

‘Then you must take the ultimate control,’ he said, sliding a coffee mug across the desk towards her with the tips of his fingers. ‘You must make the decision. Take the step that most people will never have the strength of character to take.’

Isabella looked down at the coffee mug. It looked like any cup of coffee, except there was no steam. She looked back up at Father Joseph, seeing that his eyes had never left hers.

‘I... I can’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘It is not you speaking, Isabella. You want to take control. You want to make this choice.’

‘No... No. I don’t. I can’t,’ she said, her voice faltering.

Father Joseph clenched his jaw. Isabella heard two footsteps to her side. She turned her head and saw the faint but familiar frame of Nelson, one of Father Joseph’s closest confidants. His eyes were milky and tense, his black skin still disguised in the shadows. She caught a glint of light that flashed below and just to the left of Nelson. It was only for a moment, but enough to make her realise that he was holding a gun in his right hand.

Isabella looked back at the coffee mug.

She recalled the stories one of the other members of the community had told her. Legend was that those who transgress are sometimes made to prove their devotion to the community and to Father Joseph. Long before Isabella had come to the farm, a male member of the community was apparently handed a gun by Father Joseph and told to kill one of the two of them. The man had lifted the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger, only to find the gun hadn’t been loaded. From that point on, having proven his devotion, the man had lived the life of a king. Isabella didn’t know his name, or what had ultimately happened to him, nor did she know anyone who’d ever met him. But the story remained powerful, indelible on her consciousness.

Was this what was happening here? Was this simply a harmless mug of cold coffee, intended to be a make-or-break moment for her? Either way, she now knew what the alternative was. She glanced back at Nelson, herself almost able to feel the cold steel of the gun.

She extended her arm, her elbow popping as she did so, and took hold of the coffee cup. Slowly, she lifted it to her lips and drank.

It was definitely coffee, she knew that much. Cold coffee. Knowing the taste would be unpleasant, and only wanting to experience it once, she slugged back the mug’s contents in one.

Within seconds of putting the mug down, she could feel the butterflies in her chest and throat. Her neck tightened as she began to gasp for breath. Time seemed to slow, her legs buckling from under her as her stomach began to heave, her body shivering as it began to convulse. Without warning, she vomited, the stream of liquid splattering across the concrete floor of the farmhouse, masking the sound of her losing control of her bowel and bladder.

Gradually, everything faded, became black.