Christa Wolf, CASSANDRA: A NOVEL
AND FOUR ESSAYS

𝖎𝖎.
FAITH IN A BOX

THE EVENING FILTERS MULTI-COLOURED LIGHT through the Coventry Church windows as Sierra watches, from the safety of her pew, as the rest of the congregation begin to leave. The stained glass paints her in shades of red, purple, blue; tender and bruising, it suits her.

Coventry Church is a gaping mouth and it swallows Sierra whole, closing its wooden-door jaw behind her as she enters and takes her seat. She discovered Coventry Church about a year after Jason's death; it was one of few places of worship in Gotham City that welcomed working women and children, leaving its doors unlocked to let them sleep in the narthex overnight. This was what had drawn Sierra out of East End and into the neighbouring Coventry: shelter. Selina had abandoned her again in favour of her real family, her sister Magdalena, leaving Sierra to fend for herself. And feed the cats.

She had still been Nine Lives, then. She tasked herself with protecting those who sought a safe night's rest on the cold hardwood floor—after sleeping through the day she would arrive before the others, perch herself on the gargoyle outside, right above the door, and watch over the entrance until daybreak. These nights she always spent on edge, skittish and teething, desperate for a fight. But she knew, even then, what was important. It took her a long time to step foot in the church, and even longer to do so in the daylight hours.

That said: it was nearly dark. Even now, she had something to fear.

Sierra tries not to think about it and, instead, focuses on a man about ten rows in front of her. Eli Bendix stood in the aisle, leaning slightly against his pew; he was in the middle of a conversation with Father Jane, who often ran the sermons on Saturday evenings. Eli, if anything, was dependable. He was wearing almost exactly what he was last time Sierra saw him, just over a month ago: a knit turtleneck under an Oxford shirt that was tucked into pressed slacks; all this under a tailored overcoat, everything black, everything clean. The only thing he wore that wasn't black were his shoes: brown leather boots, laced and shiny.

He was completely covered as he always was and, with the fervour—read: perversion—of a repressed Victorian man, Sierra wished he wasn't. Coventry Church was one of many places Sierra encountered Eli when she actively tried to be a human being, and a good one at that: never had she seen him without a dozen layers of clothing, and never had she seen him without his gloves. Hot dinner nights at the church, he wore two semi-opaque blue gloves on each hand to serve thick, steaming casserole to the homeless. Running after-school sessions at the Coventry Community Centre for busy parents and their children—even when he crouched down to help a kid with their homework, take their pencil and show them how to solve the sum, his hands were covered. At the East End animal shelter too he kept them on, bathing stray cats and dogs, removing ticks and de-worming with disposable latex gloves.

Sierra had watched his hands work, kept from him by the cold, sterile air between them. He was good with the animals, and Sierra relished in her privilege to observe him and his gentleness. His existence was a tonic for every poor, pathetic thing in that shelter. His patience was infinite and indiscriminate for the sick, the abused, and the abandoned. When the truly lost causes had to be euthanised, Eli always spent a few minutes with them beforehand, patting them, preening them, offering them a rare moment of affection before the on-call vet sent them off to the afterlife with the rest of Gotham's neglected. Even rabid dogs were calmed by his presence.

Sierra counted herself among them.

She liked to study him, both when he was aware and when he wasn't: he might not have known, and she would never make it known, but she saw him in the bleeding hours, the cusp of night, when he vacuumed the narthex floor, mopped it. When he put out the blankets and bedrolls, hauled boxes of tampons and wipes; turned on the hot water urns and organised the cups, coffee sachets, tea and hot chocolate. It took the people of East End a while to warm up to his hospitality—and the church's—but what mattered to Sierra was that he did it in the first place, and he did it quietly. Never asked for acknowledgement, for reward or recompense. Never asked for anything at all.

She wanted him.

Sierra admired him for a little while longer, savouring the relative quiet of the church now that most of the congregation had seeped out into the night. There was a deep relief in this silence, and a deeper relief still in his face. Dark-haired and green-eyed, Eli had the unspoken likeness of a certain someone Sierra could acknowledge but didn't want to. Besides, she told herself, it wasn't like he wasn't handsome in his own way; sharp-edged in all the places that mattered he had the good looks of a passing stranger, those high cheekbones, that chin. That symmetry. He had a nose that put Sierra's, hooked and pierced and otherwise the greatest nose in Gotham, to shame. He was excruciatingly beautiful. He was wholly uninterested. He was the sudden hero in Sierra's sad, pathetic story.

She wanted him.

As if the enormity of her desire had somehow alerted him to her presence, Eli looked away from Father Jane and toward Sierra—he recognised her immediately. "Sierra!" he called out. Long, slender legs saw him abandon Father Jane and reach Sierra almost instantly; when he came to a stop and stood straight he was a good height taller than her, about 6'4" to her 6'0". Sierra angled her head to look up at him, that Wayne Charities smile already settling on her lips, soft, easy, fake. Eli Bendix took it and returned it with a smile of his own, though his was infinitely more genuine.

"Sierra, hey." He smiled again, and Sierra could feel, spiritually, her eye begin to twitch. "I didn't see you last week. Or the week before. Or..." He finally stopped smiling, thank God. "Or the week before. Is everything alright? How have you been?"

Sierra nods a little too quickly. "Everything's fine." A pause, as she realises that Eli expects—as most people tend to expect—a pleasantry in exchange for the one that he's offered. "I'm fine. How are you? I haven't seen you since, well—" To her own surprise, a genuine laugh left her lips, "last week. Or the week before. Or the week before."

"I've been fine as well. I missed you."

Sierra stared. Just like that she was reminded she was a person. It was easy to forget when you've lived so many lives and lost them, too. Jason had left a void in her, a hole—in both her life and her heart. Hungry, it ate away at her insides, devouring blood, muscle, organ, bone. She'd mothered it at first, let it give her a purpose, like a child mending a baby bird's broken wing: she hadn't felt something so motivating since Talia, since the League. But she was only fifteen and there was only so much she could give. The only thing she could find to fill that hole was God, which was also the only she could find that was as insatiable as her grief. God would never be satisfied with Sierra, Sierra would never be satisfied with herself, it was a sick cycle but it worked out perfectly for all parties involved.

She would've made a perfect Christian if she wasn't always trying to kill herself. Or fuck every single man she met.

"Big night?" Eli's voice—piercing but still, somehow, kind—pulled Sierra back to the tangible.

"Sorry?"

"Big night?" he repeated.

"Is it that obvious?"

"I mean..."

"Oh, ouch."

"I like your scarf."

Sierra looked down, scrunching her nose. The scarf she wore was one of Danny's, maybe, nothing like the expensive ones she usually favoured, designer cashmere or silk. "It's not mine."

"Oh, I know. It very clearly belongs to a man."

"Mine now."

"Is it your boyfriend's?"

This elicits another genuine smile. Sierra shook her head. "You know I don't have a boyfriend."

"So you stole some poor guy's scarf."

"I could've gone dumpster-diving in the charity bin. It's not your place to judge me, is it?"

"It's not my place to judge anyone."

"Mhm—"

"—except for thieves."

"It was a fair trade, don't you worry."

That amused Eli. "Okay. What exactly did you trade him?"

Sierra made a noise, halfway between a snort and a sigh. "Like I told you, it was a big night. I can barely remember."

"I can wait for your memory to kick in. Dinner?"

"As long as you're paying."

✟

THERE WAS A CERTAIN VERSION of herself Sierra had become used to assuming over the past few years: vindictively beautiful, viciously intelligent, and violently sexual. These labels weren't ones she'd chosen—it's just what happens when you grow up already perceived as a woman, especially a beautiful one, especially a beautiful one with a full chest, thin waist, and wide hips. Bittersweet blessings that coloured everything she did. If she were one of her male contemporaries, she could have been Gotham City's Humanitarian of the Year. Instead, she was Most Beautiful Woman in Gotham.

For three years running.

Most Beautiful Woman in Blüdhaven too, on a technicality.

Eli saw through all this, because 1) he didn't come from Gotham, and 2) well, he seriously did just see through it. Sierra did often wonder if he found her attractive, but the baseline answer with the vast majority of heterosexual men was that they did indeed—find her attractive, that is. So when she started feeling self-conscious, like the super well-adjusted young woman she was, she just thought about all the men on social media who, when stopped in the street for a thirty-second video and asked, said that Sierra Reva was their relationship hall pass.

Eli didn't even have social media, only a completely blank Facebook account so he could use Messenger for work. Sierra was eighty-percent sure he had a flip phone; she saw him check it (or something equally archaic) briefly before putting it back in his coat and sitting down at their table. The restaurant they'd picked was a midscale Thai chain, situated in the Coventry-facing side of East End that Sierra frequented for her various beauty appointments. They asked to be seated at a table at the very back of the restaurant—by habit, Sierra always chose the table in the back of any given establishment, wedging herself into the furthest corner from the door so she could watch everything. Every table, every patron, every exchange.

Competitive people-watching? If only. She sought one of three things wherever she went, simply by habit: a defensible position; an exit; or a battleground.

She sought threats, too. Searched for them to the point where she had to re-evaluate her sanity (separate of the other reasons she should re-evaluate her sanity) because it had been a long time, a very long time, since she last faced a real, physical threat. The League had taught her to never turn her back—from the moment she first became Talia's, she had been a target, snapped and sliced at by nonbelievers, all those who wished to take her place, each challenger hoping to spill blood or at least catch her skin in their teeth.

Revisiting that time in her life, even for a moment, was enough to make her breath hitch in her throat and her mouth go dry.

But Gotham was not the League and she was no longer Talia's. This is present tense, now, Sierra, you are here, you are eating inauthentic Thai food in East End, Sierra, you are okay, you are alive, you are with your friend Eli and you are safe.

Eli who, as it turns out, didn't actually want to hear the gory details of Sierra's so-called Big Night (thank God.) Instead, he pours her a glass of water then one for himself and sits back, somehow without slouching. He takes a menu, the space between his dark brows creasing as he draws them together. "What are you going to have?"

"I'm not sure. What about you?"

"Also not sure. I'm not too hungry."

Sierra smiled wryly, then sipped her glass. "What are we doing having dinner, then?"

Eli looked up from the menu, his gaze lingering on her lips for a moment before settling on her eyes. Meeting her midair. "What else would you rather be doing?"

"Well—"

Eli gave her a look, "Down, girl."

"I didn't even say anything."

"I know."

"I don't think you do."

"I do." Eli put down the menu, watching Sierra with a small smile. "So just don't. I have a question."

Sierra sighed, closing her eyes. "Promising. Please, ask away."

"Do you think this is too spicy for me?"

Sierra sat up, opening her eyes and leaning in to see what Eli was pointing at. "The Thai green curry?" She laughed. "Um? No?"

"No? Are you sure?"

"I think so?"

"Sure-sure?" Eli ran a hand through his hair, "Because last time we got together—"

"—that was not my fault, Eli—"

"—super embarrassing—"

"—should I ask the server to bring a glass of milk for my little white baby at the table?" Sierra grinned.

"Okay, ouch. Too far. I am not a baby."

"You so are. Is applesauce too spicy for you too? What about whole wheat bread?"

"You are awful."

"Aren't I?" She beamed. "I can ask for milk for you, if you want—"

"I will get you."

"—ask for a little glass with a pink swirly straw."

"Can you do green?"

"I can try." Sierra laughed. "How about we split the curry?"

So they split the curry. Eli managed the heat, even with Sierra's near-relentless teasing, flashing that boyish smile in victory once the plates were cleared. Sierra had swapped her water for a cherry Coke; Eli reached for it, taking a tentative sip to taste. Sierra watched him, and the way his lips kissed the glass.

"How have you been?" He put down the Coke and folded his arms across his chest. Sierra mirrored him, unconsciously at first then on purpose, as if she were strong enough to keep him, tall, broad Eli, out. Him and his good intentions.

"You already asked me that."

"I know."

"And I already answered."

"I know." A pause, he wet his lips with his tongue. "I'm asking you again, just to be sure. How have you been?"

"Fine, Eli."

"You haven't been going to church."

"Stalker, much?"

Eli ignored her. "You haven't been at the shelter, either."

"Stalker indeed."

"Sierra."

"Eli."

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You know how I worry when you disappear."

Sierra already had another smart-ass thing to say lined up; at Eli's earnestness, she fell quiet. What else to say other than I'm sorry?

"I'm sorry."

Eli shook his head, dismissing her apology. "I just don't want you to slip through the cracks, Si."

"Eli—"

"If things are getting bad again, you can tell me."

No-one can help me. "I'm fine, I promise." But she didn't feel fine; she felt small, stupid. Like a child again, like some silly little girl.

"Fine isn't enough. I need to know you're going to be okay. And that—" a pause, to lower his voice slightly, "—that nothing bad is going to happen to you."

"I can look after myself."

"That's not what I mean. You know that."

There was a long silence. And there was a whole world around them, it felt like, a whole world Sierra was not, and never would be, a part of.

"I'm trying to be good, Eli."

"I know you are."

"I just—" she looked away, searching for something to stare at. Sighing, she settled on the wall. "I need someone to tell me what to do."

"Don't tell me that's why you go to church. Faith isn't something you can keep in a box, lock it up and away until it serves you."

Silence. Then: "It's not the only reason. But it makes things easier."

"How?"

"Routine. Community. You." Sierra was quick to add, "I don't have many friends. And I—" don't like to be alone? "It's not good for me to be alone."

"It's not good for anyone to be alone." Eli's expression was impassive, his eyes green like moss on a grave. "But the faith?"

"Like I already said—I need someone to tell me what to do. How to live, how to be good." At that moment Sierra felt a tightness in her throat; something to do with Eli, she was sure, and something to do with the previous night. John Tyler, fighting for his life, scratching and grasping at Sierra's throat as she tied him down. Under layers of colour correcting, concealer, and foundation, the bruises had formed, and were already starting to heal.

Didn't mean they didn't hurt.

Eli looked at her straight, then at her neck, then at her face again. Perhaps she hadn't covered herself up as well as she'd thought. "And God fits into that, how?"

"I don't know," Sierra said. "I don't know."

Eli took her silence and filled it. "I think you think goodness, and God, is just something that happens to us, or something we find—in church, not ourselves. You're expecting some Messiah, some divine being or hero. Jesus, maybe, or someone similar. But God isn't Jesus, or even really a 'god' at all. He's the act of good. Doing good, being good—effecting good for others. Too many Christians, I think, don't believe they have the power to change lives other than their own. They're tempted to put the tools down and rest, let others do the good, honest work. But it doesn't stop there. And you do have that power, to help. So you do. And that's what God is."

Sierra opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Eli smiled small. "But how are you going to be good to anyone if you're not good to yourself?"

"Eli—"

"You know I'm right. And you know you deserve to rest."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything, if it's only going to be something you think I want to hear."

"Then I won't speak."

Eli ran a hand over his face, "Sierra, you don't have to go to church. You don't have to wait around for some disembodied voice to tell you to part the sea, bring back the dead. You already have the power to change. You just have to choose to."

"I don't know if that's true."

"But I know that it is. You don't have to wait for God—if anything, He's waiting for you."

Sierra was quiet for a very long time. Finally, she said, "I like how it hurts."

"I know you do." Eli reached for her, an unexpected act that almost made Sierra flinch—almost. Gloved fingers took her hand, turn it over to show her wrist; bruises red and violet on warm, brown skin. Small and tender, still hurting like the rest. Whose fingertips had been here? Sierra couldn't remember; John, Danny, or someone else entirely. Eli's, now. "This is going to hurt too."

"Good thing I'm a masochist, then."

"Not that way," Eli shook his head. "Worse."

"How?"

His thumb traced her wrist. The veins, the life. "It's going to break your heart."

"Nothing I haven't lived through before."

Eli flipped her hand back over and placed his over it. Despite Sierra's aversion to all physical touch outside of fucking, she liked the feeling. It was soft, it was real, even with the leather-thick separation between skin and skin. "Can I say something?"

Sierra slewed a laugh through her teeth. "Jesus Christ, Eli, what else could you possibly say right now?"

"I find it hard to believe you don't have friends."

"Ouch. That just proves there's something wrong with me then, doesn't it?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Look at you. I know there are people who care about you, and people who want to be close to you."

Sierra arched an eyebrow. "Why do I need them when I have you?"

"Funnily enough, I don't think I'm the one who's holding you back."

"No, you're not." How to explain it? To Eli, to anyone? I had this friend when I was younger. I'd just moved to the States—what a nice way to put it, moved—all by myself. I had no family, no home. No English, either. I could read it, sure, but I couldn't speak it well enough to fit in. This friend, this boy, he was the only person in the world who was nice to me. The only person in the world who cared.

Sierra imagines Eli nodding, ever understanding. And then he was gone. And I was alone again. All I had was this void, this absence, his absence, in the shape of him at first but I left it gaping, I left it open, and it just grew and grew. It's a wound, Eli, it bleeds and it bleeds and it bleeds and just when I think it's starting to heal I split myself back open and I bleed again.

I bleed again.

It never stops. I step onto the street and I see where we used to walk. I look at old photographs and it's like I'm there again, and he's there too, and he's smiling, and he's happy. And he's alive. But then I remember where I am, in a city that he showed me but in which he no longer exists—not in a way that matters. I'm twelve again, I'm an immigrant. I have nothing, no words, no friends, no family. No-one. It's just me. I'm all alone.

"It's hard," is what Sierra says aloud. "It's so, so hard." She expected to cry, but no, this checks out: Jason Todd has never made her sad, only numb.

"I know, Si, I know."

"Can't you help me?"

That was Sierra—always hoping for a hero. Always hoping to be saved.

"The work is good and honest because it's you. You have to do it. All I can do is be here."

"That's enough."

"It isn't. You will never be good—you will never be forgiven," Eli squeezed her hand, "unless you choose to be."