Prophet by Jennifer Bosworth

The day Rance Ridley kissed a girl for the first time, his father revealed the exact date of the end of the world.
    The girl’s name was Olivia.
    Later, Rance wondered if his father would have seen “the end” if he hadn’t caught his son lying in the field with Olivia, her lips kissed to the color of crushed strawberries.
    The two of them were thirteen. They’d known each other since they were babies, born only two days apart in the compound of the Church of Light. But Olivia’s mother abandoned her before she was weaned, disappearing from the compound as suddenly as she had appeared back when she was pregnant and destitute. Rance’s mother took Olivia in and acted as wet nurse to the baby girl, raised her as Rance’s sister. Perhaps that was why his father’s face turned red with fury when he found them and saw the way Olivia’s demure white blouse was unbuttoned, pulled loose from her long skirt. Or perhaps it was simply because Prophet Ram Ridley claimed that a kiss shared before marriage was an affront to the Almighty and should be punished accordingly.
    The prophet caught Olivia by her hair and Rance by the back of his neck, and held them apart. Olivia’s wheat-colored eyes were huge with fear, and Rance knew his father was hurting her as he wrapped her endless hair in his fist, reeling her in. Olivia’s shirt hung open, revealing most of one small, white breast.
    “My own son,” the prophet sputtered, his face now the color of a bruise. “You defile the purity of this child.”
    “Father, we were only––” Rance began to say, but the prophet yanked Olivia’s hair so violently a sob flew from her throat. Rance hadn’t seen Olivia cry since she was a little girl. She had always been strong. It was one of the things Rance loved about her. One of the many things.
    “I taught you better than this,” the prophet said to his son. “What will your punishment be, eh? The belt? Or shall it be the cellar this time?”
    Rance felt his palms go clammy. He had never done anything bad enough to warrant confinement in the cellar beneath the church, but he’d heard stories from those who had spent days locked in the dark with the dead. That’s where the compound cemetery was located, in the large cellar beneath a church so white it hurt Rance’s eyes to look upon it, where those who died could forever hear the songs and prayers of the Followers of the Light. The earthen floor of the cellar was damp and loose, and those who spent too much time below the church felt themselves sinking into the ground, like the dead were drawing them slowly into the soil.
    Worst of all, and to his shame, Rance was terrified of the dark, and had been for as long as he could remember. He always slept with an oil lamp burning, and he longed every night for electricity.
    Rance would never be sorry for what he and Olivia had done that day in the waving summer grass of the field, and he knew lying was an unforgivable sin, but the mere thought of being locked in the cellar made him quake. So he hung his head and lied. “I’m sorry, father. It will never happen again. I deserve the belt.”
    “You’ve had the belt before,” his father said. “It seems not to have made an impression on you. A day or two in the cellar should remedy that.”
    “No!” Olivia cried. She knew better than anyone how terrified Rance was of the dark. She understood, and did not judge him. “Prophet, I must confess. I brought Rance to the field. I tempted him. Punish me instead. Rance is good, and I…I am a wicked girl. I should be taught a lesson.”
    The prophet considered, frowning. And then he released Rance’s neck and shoved him away. But he kept hold of Olivia’s hair, and a smile bent his lips.
     
    To Rance, it seemed as though he were the only one who could hear Olivia through the floorboards as the white-clad Followers sang their evening hymns. On the Church of Light’s compound, worship services were held three times a day. First at