CHAPTER 2

PROPHET RONALD HANSEN III closed the door to his bedchamber and stepped out onto the wooden walkway.  Katherine, one of his wives, was still asleep.  The sun was just rising over Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains.  From his viewpoint on the second floor of his personal residence, the Lion House, he watched a golden eagle working the currents wafting up the red sandstone hills across Shell Creek to the north.  The eagles made a nice living off the ground squirrels, prairie dogs, rock chucks, and rabbits.  Hansen loved to watch them working, admiring the economy of their movements as they changed direction and altitude effortlessly.  The male of the species was small compared to the larger females whose wingspans often reached seven feet.  That fact, the prophet had once joked to the Elders, “May account for their monogamy.”

The prophet shook his head.  With such order and beauty in the world, how could it have reached its current state of pollution?  Outside the boundaries of the Hansen’s holy compound, the world continued in its sinking spiral—downward into a cesspool of sin.  How many men in the world are true to the wives of their youth?  How many?  Almost none!  Gentiles pointed accusing fingers at the compound and spoke of “moral issues.”  But Hansen had married, loved, and protected all his wives, while men in the outside world frolicked and fornicated, divorced and remarried without conscience and left in their wake bastards, disease, and brokenness.  They polluted their bodies with alcohol, tobacco, and drugs; they polluted their minds with pornographic filth; they polluted their race by marrying dark-skinned and cursed peoples.  So who has the moral problems?

Hansen descended the stairs and walked across the compound as it began to come to life, like a small city stirring in the dawn. The sister-wives who prepared this week’s meals scurried around as the smell of frying bacon and hot buttermilk biscuits wafted through the outdoor dining area.

Hansen loved eating outside in the summer because it allowed the entire family to break bread together at one time.  In the winter months the meals had to be served in cadres of no more than twenty-five women and children, because that was all the two long tables in the inside dining room could accommodate.

Now, on the outside dining patio, a plain woman in an ankle-length dress placed clean, white china plates on one of the half dozen oak tables that were bolted to the concrete pad.  Overhead, a latticework shaded the patio.

“Good morning, Sarah,” the Prophet said, as he attempted to pass by her.

“Ronald!  Good morning to you, dear!  What a beautiful morning!

Sarah set the stack of plates down and positioned herself in Hansen’s pathway.  Hansen could not walk past her without being obviously insulting, so he stopped and waited for Sarah to get to the point she always got to.  She would have to get there in her own way.

“So have you been on your morning walk, Ronald?”

“Not yet, Sarah.”

“You are looking very handsome this morning, Ronald.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

Silence.  Hansen hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “You are looking very pretty yourself, Sarah.”  He immediately regretted the politeness.

“Am I really?” Sarah asked, drawing close to him.

Although he tried to avoid it, he could not force himself to ignore her heavy movements, her obvious adoration, her fawning manner—behavior that once endeared her to him, now repulsed him.

“Ronald, you haven’t visited me in some time.”  She pursed her lips in a mock pout.  Hansen felt his stomach tighten.

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long, Sarah.”

“Six months.”

“No!  Really?”

“Six months and three days,” she said and smiled.

He was trapped.

“Well, I have been busy.”  Then hurriedly, “But not that busy.  You will see me soon, rest assured.”

“For sure?”

“Sarah,” a trace of irritation now, “what did I say?”

She stepped back, her eyes involuntarily widening.

“Oh, of course I believe you.  I didn’t mean to question…”

Hansen lifted his hand in a dismissive motion.

“Sarah, I don’t want to be rude, but I really have to be somewhere.”  He glanced at his watch.

Sarah’s face reddened.  She looked at the stack of dishes.

“Yes, Ronald.  Of course.  You run along.  I have my work to do.”

He hesitated.

“And…and you do such a fine job, Sarah.  I appreciate all you do.  We all do.”

Now she waved her hand.

Hansen, his face now coloring, strode away.

These were the encounters he hated most.  And the ones he least understood.  It seemed as if they happened more and more these days.  He smiled to himself.  Most men would be elated to have more than a dozen women anxious for sexual favors.  Well, not all of them were anxious.  Melissa was not anxious.  This further confused him.  Melissa, the one he really wanted, didn’t want him anymore.  He dropped that thought immediately.

Of sixty-five children born to his wives over a period of thirty-one years, thirty were still home.  The others were married and living outside the compound.  Two sons and their families lived within the compound itself; another six children and their families lived nearby.  Some of the kids, in spite of Hansen’s best efforts, had thrown the traces and left the faith.  All of them were still on friendly terms except three children born to Alma, his first wife, who had left him in the fifth year of their marriage.  She and her children had left the faith—eventually becoming “born again” Christians—and viewed Hansen as a cultist.  None of the eight grandchildren born to Alma’s children had ever been permitted to see their grandfather.

***

Across the compound’s common area, Hoyt Akers was waving at Hansen.  Akers was Hansen’s helicopter pilot and a faithful member of the church.  He walked toward the Prophet and nodded politely.

“Mornin’ President.”

“Good morning, Hoyt. How you doing?”

“It is well with me, President.”  He then smiled and added, “It is well with my whole house!”

“That’s good, brother Hoyt, that’s really good.” Hansen said.

“President, I got something I want to bring up in the council meeting this morning.”

“Of course, brother.  What is it?”

“Well, I think the Lord is giving me another mate.”

“Really?  Who is it?”

“Maggie Balsom.”

The Prophet stared at Akers.  Akers dropped his eyes to the ground.  “At least that’s what I think the Lord is saying to me.”

The Prophet smiled and let his arm fall around Akers. “Well, brother Hoyt, you bring that up in the meeting and we’ll hear from God on it.”

“Yes, sir.”  Akers said.

“Don’t look so glum, brother.  God will have His way.  Do you believe that?”

“Yes, sir.  I do, sir.”

“Things will work out fine, brother.  Whether or not God has Maggie for you I cannot say, but life goes on no matter what.  Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll see you in the meeting.  Now excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

As Akers drifted off, Hansen walked quickly back to Lion House.  On the ground floor porch he passed ten doors on the west side of the building, turned right, passed three more bedroom doors, then stopped and knocked lightly.  He waited five seconds, as was his custom, and turned the doorknob.  The doors to the bedrooms of his wives were never locked.  No one within the compound except the Prophet ever so much as approached this part of the Lion House, which was nestled within its own brick walls—actually a compound within a compound.  The Prophet entered.

“Melissa?”

The woman standing across the room was tall and slender.  She had dark eyes and long midnight-black hair, looking to Hansen, a decade younger than her thirty-five years.  Her silk nightgown hung gracefully over her hips.  The gown was split up the side to the waist, revealing a long, slender leg.  She looked at the Prophet with a directness that few women—and no men—affected in his presence.

Inclining her head she said, “Ronald.”

“Can we talk, Melissa?”

“Certainly.”  She moved over to a chair, sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and pulled her gown over the exposed leg.  She resolutely placed her hands on the arms of the chair.

“You look peaceful, Melissa.”

“I am at perfect peace, Ronald.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I find that a little strange…”

She did not answer.

“I find that strange because we have not been together to honor the marriage bed for six months.”

“Has it been that long?”

Hansen laughed softly and shook his head.  “Melissa,” he said.  “You just get better and better.”

She said nothing.

“Melissa, I want you to come back into full favor in the family.”

“At what price?”

“The same price we all pay.”

She shook her head slowly.  “I told you I can’t do that, Ronald.  I am your wife.  At least I have been…

“You are my wife!”

“All right.  All right, I am your wife, but…”

“Melissa, I don’t want to hear your objections again.”

“Well, then what do you want?”

The Prophet stared at her and worked his jaw muscles.  “I’ve already told you what I want.”

“Then,” Melissa said, “I think we have nothing to talk about.”

“Melissa!  Melissa!” His eyes flared in anger.  He took a breath and waited a moment.  “Melissa,” he said in a softer voice, “don’t make me go down this road.”

Melissa sighed.  “I don’t have a choice.”

“Nonsense.  Of course you do.  You simply need to return to the Principle…”

“Ronald, I can’t do that.  I think you know that.  You should know it.  You should know me…”

“I think I do know you,” the Prophet said.

“Perhaps you do.  If you do, then you know I cannot return to the Principle.”  She gathered the gown together at her throat.

The Prophet was silent for a full thirty seconds.  Then he said quietly, “Melissa, do you know me?”

She said nothing.

“Do you know me?” he repeated.

She sighed.  “Yes, Ronald.  Yes, I think I do.”

The Prophet looked down at the floor.  He stared at the dark Berber, following the patterns with his eyes.  A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the carpet.  He looked up at her.  He stood and continued to stare at her for a few seconds, tears rolling freely down his otherwise expressionless face.  He shook his head, turned, and walked quickly out of the room.