She's been plagued by nightmares of a loveless God, her skin itching at the thought of possession. Maybe it's the tea she drinks, poisoning her mind into believing the Holy Ghost is less than righteous. In this land, they say, "Come to church." In this land, they say, "Be saved." She's still learning their language, silently rebelling against their clothing and customs, their restrictive corsets, and their subdued hairstyles.
The people here are kind. Their town is small, and their children are happy. She sees how they love their parents, just as she once loved hers. Their harvests are plentiful, their sunrises as glorious as any she's seen. "There is always good where the sun shines, somehow," her mother used to say. Yet, she does not trust them. They feed her and provide a bed. They close their eyes and fold their hands in prayer beside her. They say they pray for her, that they care for her. "It was all for you," they tell her. Crosses hang above their doors, and they display heads on pikes. She cannot reconcile how such fine folks could be the same ones who did what they did. The same men who smile in the pews and kiss their wives, she has seen with torches in their eyes and pitchforks in their hands. The same horses that young boys pet and groom, she has seen trample her family, leaving them breathless. The same dirt they sweep from their floors now covers her father and mother. They wear good, clean clothes. The wives are well-practiced in washing away blood.
They tell her, "God is good." They tell her about a man named Jesus. They tell her there is power in His name. She believes them on that. They tell her to read His words and to talk to Him. She reads His words, even from the priest’s lips, but the sounds he makes do not match. These people speak one thing and mean another. They claim to be good, to be saved. They urge her to be good, to be saved like them. They claim to be good, but they lie, they lie, they lie.