Daughters,

The first meal is always an initiation. Anyone who cannot see this is a fool. When one eats of another's food, one has entered into a bond, a contract. Eat of my flesh, and drink of my blood, and I will forever live in you. What trust goes into sharing a meal! What foolish blind trust.

They sat at the table, and they moved into their bodies what was offered them. From there, they were bound, though they little understood.

Was there deception in it? Perhaps. Aren't we all deceived, one way or another? We deceive ourselves, even. I, too, am wrapped in deception. Its threads coil round me, silence the doubts within, perpetuate the hopes for your return. For I am lonely, here. I desire to share another meal with you, with them. Whatever bond it might make of us, I would take your offering into my body.

~ the woman in the woods

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Minn glanced at the moon through her window. The small hut which she'd been given was simple yet comfortable. She'd found that it housed a sturdy little bed with a down mattress, quilt, and pillow; a large tub for washing and a smaller bucket whose purpose had taken only a sniff to figure out; and a fireplace tucked into a quaint chimney. There were no implements for food and drink, though, which concerned her. She'd entered the dwelling after watching Hank lead Peter away, and though her anxiety had peaked, she'd not known what else to do but let him go. It would've looked strange to run after him; these people, even in their oddness, hadn't given her reason to think they'd hurt Peter, and maybe contradicting them would antagonize them. Still, the boy was hers, and she didn't like the idea of him being surrounded by strangers. After everything they'd been through in the past year, she feared losing him.

An older woman had brought her a towel and a bucket of water, shown her how to heat the water over the hearth, and offered her a pile of clothing that Minn had found to be a plain brown dress with a long white undergarment. The material was so dull and scratchy and, well, unattractive that she chose to wash only the most necessary bits of herself and continue wearing her own attire. They'd be leaving tomorrow—she could bear one more day in her dirty clothes. Minn had been careful as she'd washed, removing one thing at a time and covering herself enough in case someone happened to burst in through the door or peep at the window. She hoped these people weren't the sort to behave in such a way, and yet she wasn't ready to put her full trust in them.

What to do after she'd washed was the larger question. They hadn't told her when they'd gather for their meal, and she wanted to find Peter. But even stronger than her desire to find the boy was the sense that to step beyond the boundary they'd drawn for her would risk causing suspicion or drama. So she'd sat in there, and after a while she'd napped in spite of her desire to stay awake, and then she'd woken to a knock at her door. Before answering, she glanced through the window, saw the moon overhead, and wondered at the unease percolating within.

"Minnow Bellamy?" grinned the beautiful young woman who'd knocked, whose teeth and eyes seemed to glow in the strange darkness that had descended.

Minn tried to focus on her caller yet couldn't tear her gaze from the image of people walking about with torches, lighting lanterns which hung outside each dwelling. Those farther away looked like fallen stars against the gloom, weaving in and out of sight.

"Minnow Bellamy?"

"Yes?" Minn shook herself back to attention. The woman's curved lips had begun to droop. "Can I come out, now?"

"Well of course. No one ever said you couldn't come out."

That was true enough, and yet, it'd felt like an unspoken understanding that she'd stay put. No matter. The nap had been good for her; she felt refreshed and alert.

"You're asked to supper." The woman inclined her head toward the center of the village, where the round building was.

"Is Peter—my son—is he there?"

"Sure he will be."

The woman reached out her hand and asked Minn to take hold of it. The gesture wasn't particularly worrisome; it was just unexpected, a little odd. Grown women, strangers, didn't offer each other their hands. At least, not in the regular world. But Minn reminded herself of Dorothea's explanation—they'd been here for years. The woman smiling at Minn was probably in her twenties; she'd surely never known anything else but this place. Her customs were normal to her.

Minn's hesitation caused the corners of the woman's mouth to twitch. "Come, then?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry." Minn took her hand, took mental note of its perfect dry warmth, and stepped out of her hut. She shut the door behind her, knowing she'd never find her way back to it as all the cottages were identical, and allowed the woman to lead her along the grassy walk as it narrowed between the houses. Other women joined them, talking at first and then shifting into singing what sounded like the sort of hymn one might hear in church on a Sunday. The sensation was disorienting, of being carried on a current of melody, the rhythm of moving feet, the bodies drawing a little too near one another as they entered the funnel that exited out onto the center green. Mouths sang all around, breathed hot breath too close to her ears, and there was no use attempting to find their owners and tell them to back away; it was all beginning to grow a little too tight, and she was pressed into the woman holding her hand while at left and right and from behind others pushed. Thoughts of concert crushes flitted wildly through Minn's mind, but there was no chaos in this effort; it was coordinated, as if they moved like this every night, sang together on their way to their communal meal. The whole event was bewildering, but before she could begin to stress too much about the discomfort, the woman still holding on pulled her through the opening and into the fresh night air.

When Minn and Peter had arrived that afternoon, mist obscured much of the surroundings, but standing in the circle of soft damp grass, the cylindrical building stood out against the dark with a sharp clarity. Overhead, a thousand stars dotted an indigo cosmos, and far above the many visible roofs of the houses beyond was the lumpy silhouette of the treeline, indicating the distant forest. Two posts with hanging lanterns were stuck into the ground at the doorway to the building, which itself glowed welcomingly from within.

As Minn stood staring at the serene and stunningly transformed village, she couldn't stop a strange thrill from rippling through her. There was something of the theatrical about this odd place they'd stumbled across. In some ways, it brought to mind the commune in which she and Wolf had been raised; although their parents hadn't eschewed modernity, they'd reverted to a sort of single family, everyone belonging to everyone (except for she and Wolf; no one had really wanted children, so they'd belonged in all practical senses of the word to themselves). When she and Peter got out of these woods and back to civilization, she'd certainly have an interesting story to tell. For now, why not try to enjoy the hospitality of these people? They were only human, after all, as eccentric as they were.

Her female guide suddenly turned to Minn and pulled her close. "We're so happy to have you here, sister," she said, lingering almost to the point of awkwardness before letting go and turning toward the main building. The gathering place, it was called, as Dorothea had told her earlier that day.

Having been momentarily startled by the woman's intensity, Minn shivered a bit and then followed the others, keeping an eye out for Peter, whose height and attire should've caused him to stand out.

The people around her laughed and sang pieces of songs, sometimes joining one another to harmonize, sometimes starting a new or louder strain. They were all smiles, women and girls holding each other's hands, men mostly in groups with one another, all with long hair either flowing freely or, in many of the men's and boys' cases, twisted into knots at the backs of their heads. As they all poured into the hall, Minn was sure she caught many of the women looking her way, met their eyes and affirming nods, but none of the males seemed too friendly; in fact, a few actively moved away from her as they all shifted indoors. But her concern for these people's puritan ways stopped at a surface level; they could do what they wanted. She just needed to get Peter home.

Inside, the hall was as spacious as it'd been earlier, but the benches had been turned in a way that their backs met, forming rudimentary tabletops. The long, thin planks of wood had been covered with strips of white fabric, runners tatted and embroidered along the edges. As Minn was guided to a table to sit, she touched the handiwork along the cloth, admired the delicate hand-stitching in its spidery geometric patterns, tiny capped mushrooms intertwined with red branches and white berries, which with their black centers looked like strange eyes. Fat misshapen wax candles formed a row down the center of the table, atop the runner, and before each person rested a wooden bowl and spoon and a stone cup, obviously handmade. Minn couldn't help but wonder how clean the items were, but before she could think much of it, she was flanked by two women: the one at left was large, as if she were built for chopping wood, and her countenance was rosy; the other to Minn's right was elderly, far older than Dorothea and yet sprightly enough to offer a wink, which amused Minn. Across the table were women as well, young and old, a few stunningly beautiful though many others plain.

So even here, Minn realized, the men and women were separated. Her heart sank. She wouldn't be able to eat with Peter. Rising a bit, she scanned the hall, peeking over the heads of all those filling it, and she caught sight of the men seated literally on the other side of the building, across the dais in the very center, where huge tubs of green foodstuffs and bread were displayed. She thought to walk over there, to try to find him, but before she could do anything that could be interpreted as offensive, a white-haired woman stepped up onto that platform, neared the fireplace, and amidst the massive bowls of food stopped and raised a hand.

Dorothea was lit by the moonlight cascading from the opening overhead as well as multiple candles burning in hanging lanterns at the ends of each aisle and the now-lit fire glowing within. Even so, the woman was shrouded in an eerie combination of flickering gold and whitish-blue, and Minn couldn't help thinking she was at some sort of séance.

The moment Dorothea stood above them all, the people hushed, the only sound the occasional fussing of a child. "Brothers and sisters," the hale woman spoke, her voice nothing close to booming or commanding and yet arresting all the same. "We gather here this night to share in the supper allowed to us by the mistress, the mother of all. But this night is different, my friends, for tonight, we welcome our guests, Sister Minnow and Brother Peter, who've come from the impure beyond to partake in our ways for one evening."

Impure beyond? Minn couldn't help but curl a lip at that but quickly erased it when she saw one of the women across the way watching her blankly.

"They are welcome."

"They are welcome!" echoed a chorus of voices from everyone seated, startling Minn.

"Whether the meal we are to eat is common or special, we always thank you, Mother, for your gifts. Bless our food this night, and bless our visiting brother and sister. Bless us."

"Bless us!" came the resounding request.

"And now," said sister Dorothea, showing her perfect rectangular teeth, raising her hands, and looking all of a congenial old grandmother in her rustic attire and thickly braided hair, "send your servers, and let us eat."

The meal passed pleasantly. Two people from each table went to the platform at the center, loaded large serving bowls with food, and then returned to their tables and filled their peers' bowls. Minn was offered a moderate portion of herb-seasoned greens and cooked root vegetables along with a large chunk of bread. Her cup was filled with what tasted like weak wine. While she was wary at the origin and sanitation of the food and drink, Minn was too hungry and thirsty to forgo it, and soon enough, she was sated. The room around her seemed to grow a bit warmer, and the talk of the women—which was almost entirely made up of questions about where she and Peter had come from and what their lives were like—became convivial enough. More than once, Minn speculated that her commentary on the modern world might be frowned upon by some of the older people like Dorothea, but no one had told her any topic was off limits, and the somewhat bitter, watery wine lowered her inhibitions enough that she found herself incautious of her chatter.

At some point, though, as the supper came to its natural conclusion, as appetites were met (and, in Minn's case, seconds were refused), Dorothea closed the gathering with another something-like-a-blessing and, asking some to stay behind for cleaning, excused the rest.

Back out into the night Minn went, somewhat lightheaded, entirely unsure how to get back to her small dwelling and keen on discovering Peter. She stood at the exit and waited for him, indifferent to the startled-deer looks of the men who nearly bumped into her on the way out. But Peter never came, and though she asked the guileless adolescent who led her back to her cottage whether the girl could take her to him, the waif only grinned in return.

By the time Minn fell onto her austere little bed and screamed into her feather pillow, she'd seen enough smiles to last her a lifetime.