The washing is so difficult to manage.Ī man who fidgets and scratches at his temple as he stutters out his name. Until he asks if I would like to take his wife’s place. He tears up discussing his late wife and I soften to him. Then a man old enough to be my grandfather. All I can see is the dark cavern in his mouth.Ī man with a flowing mane of facial hair that reminds me of a horse’s tail. He says his name, where he lives, and the size of his plot. When he smiles, all I can see is the gaping hole where his front teeth should be. The nuns lead the first group to spots marked in the dirt, a few feet in front of each of us.Ī man stands before me. A crowd of men with wide eyes remove their hats, peeking over each other’s shoulders to gawk at the barn full of marriageable women. “Isn’t this exciting,” a young girl says to me. A stranger who doesn’t know your past, your fears. Once you sign your contract, you’re free to start your new life.” “There’s a notary waiting in the next room. If at any point, you wish to choose one, step forward and alert us.” You will meet with each one of them, converse for five minutes, then we will move them along to the next girl, and the next. “Now girls, the men will be here shortly. My heart races and I can still hear that hummingbird beat its wings, ready to take flight.

Dust particles float in the air, the scent of moist wood and hay lingers. The other girls are lined up along the long wall, equal distance apart, as the nuns fuss with their dresses, their hair, and pinch their cheeks into a rosy blush. With a deep inhale of the warm air, I step into the barn. I stop to fix it, holding myself in the still afternoon where a hummingbird rattles its wings, feeding on a field thistle. The sun beats down on my skin, a soft breeze fluttering a loose curl in my face. They whisper to each other about men and marriage. The walk to the barn heightens my tension with every step.

Daughter of the King by Kerry Chaput