their way to work. Those not asleep moved out of their way and offered them seats. Only two girls accepted, Stephanie and Helen. Adrianne and the-girl-who-didn’t-talk-too-much stood nearby holding the poles like everyone else. A wide bubble of emptiness surrounded them in the otherwise crowded car. Adrianne loved this time of the day when she could make believe she was like normal people.
An early morning mist lay over Memorial Park, the center of the city, another world, almost another place in time. And so quiet. The gentle crush of grass under sandaled feet, the swish of dew across the hems of dresses, the flap of wings overhead as a large bird flew into the trees and disappeared from view were sounds that scarcely disturbed the silence. With pathways and walkover bridges spanning slim, slinking creeks and cascading river falls, this place of green was designed to be more like a forest than an urban manicured garden.
In the old days, a small town had been located here. The city forced the residents out when it decided that the public needed a place where every citizen could sit on a spot of grass or under a tree. The park became also the place for the essential ritual of which Adrianne was a part, the keeping of the eternal flame. In the center of the park, encircled by a colonnade of Corinthian columns, stood a marble structure open to the elements with the cauldron of Vesta at its center.
The previous shift of sisters bowed gracefully to them. They looked so tired. Adrianne said hello, but none of them seemed interested in reciprocating. The rain and wind from the night before must have made their time tending the flame difficult. They quickly left, their white cloaks waving in the wind.
“What’s wrong with them?” Helen asked.
“Who knows?” Stephanie said.
The Sisters began their cleaning duties. If an occasional piece of cinder, a leaf, or an acorn had fallen inside, these had to be swept away in keeping with their mandate that they maintain the area spotless. Dirt could be seen on the Sisters only while they tended the flame. The structure held only two small rooms off to the side and out of sight, a bathroom and a closet where bundles of kindling were kept. Adrianne went inside and picked up an armful of wood. She lightly tossed some of the branches onto the flame while Stephanie sprinkled on blessed water.
“Adrianne, how about after our shift we hit Twenty-five?” Helen said to Adrianne.
“Shh,” Stephanie said.
Helen gave Stephanie a dirty look and quieted. She waited until the others had turned away and whispered to Adrianne, “Well, how about it?”
Vestal Vestments — V-squared, or Twenty-five — was a clothing boutique specializing in fashions for ladies of the Order. A maturing society made the veil less and less important. Soon, even the long dresses would not be worn. It was becoming acceptable to wear jeans and a T-shirt. They could appear in public like ordinary young women, as long as they dressed only in white. The younger Vestals only wore formal wear in public on special occasions or when performing their ritual duties.
“God, Helen, we were just there.”
“Oh, come on, pleeeese,” she sang. “It will be fun.”
“Sure, fine. Whatever. After lunch.”
Helen smiled with her eyes and returned to sweeping nonexistent dirt from the marble floor.
People came here for many reasons. They had lost a loved one or had some misfortune in their personal lives. They were thankful for some blessing, like the birth of a child. Or they were tourists who wanted to take pictures for the folks back home. It was customary to find a small stick in the park and attempt to hand it to one of the sisters to burn in the cauldron. It was almost a game. The sisters would pretend they didn’t notice anyone. Then — when they felt like it — one of them would choose a random person from the many standing on the grass outside the structure and take his or her stick. They were often so
Learning to Kill: Stories