The Priestess turns to face us. The embroidered gold skulls in her vestments catch the small amount of light filtering into the dark, rough-hewn church. She lifts her hands to quiet us, holding a thick wax candle and a stamped tin pot of incense on a chain.

She clears her throat. "Brethren and sistren, we are gathered on a significant day. This winter solstice marks the five hundredth year since the Great Death." She paused for effect. Resinous incense smoke swirled around her middle aged, stern face. "Five hundred years ago, humanity was destroyed by forces beyond our comprehension. The Church of the Great Death was created by the few survivors to carry the message of the Sacred Silence."

I, Humility Goodman, shift uncomfortably in the bare, oak pew. The surface is worn smooth and glossy from the fidgets of generations of church goers. The dark, musky scent of incense wafts over us. I look around the church, all too familiar by now. The walls are bare logs, stacked high with small openings for windows. Glass is precious, and few buildings have it. Outside the small panes, the Montana winter brings small snowflakes down on endless plains.

My father asked me to put on my best clothing today. The rough linen collar, fastened with wooden buttons, digs into my neck. I adjust it for momentary relief. I should be thankful for the shirt, because it keeps my even rougher wool coat away from my skin. My red scarf drapes around my shoulders, as it does on all the others. Red is the color of remembrance. I've always wondered what we were really remembering, because I sure don't know.

The priestess continues. "Our Sacred Silence keeps us in good health and safety. It is not just an idea but a frame of mind. It is a way of life. Let us recite the five precepts of the Sacred SIlence." She sets her candle on the wooden lectern in front of her with a heavy thunk, and hands the incense to a waiting church elder. She bows her head. Curly, sandy blonde hair falls in front of her deeply tanned and ruddy features. She raises her hands, palms upward, and the loose sleeves of her vestments hang down. She starts to recite, and the congregation murmurs along with her.

"The five precepts, handed from generation to generation:

Faith guides and bonds us

Simplicity lives only in the present, with the gifts we are given

Community looks after each other

Family provides for us

Silence preserves our way of life without change"

We raise our heads, and she smiles. A broad, slow smile. The wide, warped planks of the floor creak under her leather shoes as she walks to the side of the low stage. There, a board is covered in a stack of large, loose paper secured with square nails. She flips the paper, tossing the pages over the board to reveal her chosen hymn. "Let us sing together, from 'simple gifts.'"

The congregation squints to see the spidery letters on the hand-pressed paper. We sing together.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

A short while later, we rise at the end of the service. Creaky knees and elbows stretch and heads roll to release the tension. We walk to the doors of the church, and my father and I retrieve our brimmed, rough wool hats from the rows of pegs by the door. I snug my hat, and prepare for the blast of frigid air when the large, heavy doors open. In the summer, the pegs are lined with straw hats. In the winter, wool. To my right, Prudence Smith fishes the long strings of her bonnet from her narrow shoulders and ties them. She notices my stare, turns, and smiles briefly. Prudence's younger sister, Constance, climbs down from the childrens' loft with the sound of creaking stairs and raucous children.

My father and I walk with Prudence, her sister, and her father to their home. My father walks in silence, as he usually does. He is tall, with a dark beard and broad shoulders hardened by manual labor. Our thick leather shoes crunch the snow, a mix of fresh and trodden old. The mass over with, I look forward to the celebration afterward.

Prudence and her father walk ahead. They talk idly about the weather. Our breath trails behind us in long white clouds. The plains around us stretch forever, punctuated by a long winding river and ending in the faraway snow-capped mountains. The snow-blanketed world absorbs our voices, hushing them and removing their echo.

My father, Increase, turns to me. "Do you think they will have duck?"

I nod. Prudence's father, Fear-Not, is known in our village for his duck hunting prowess. "I'll be surprised if he doesn't."

He smiles. "We haven't had meat in a few weeks. Enough rye and barley already! The migrating ducks have been taunting me. I salivate when they fly over."

I smile back. He looks me up and down. I'm 17 now. Nearly his height, with the same unruly wavy dark hair, but knobby-kneed and slender. My face is just showing a scattering of thin beard, to my delight and my father's trepidation. "Some meat would do you good. Fill you out. You're skinny."

"I know. You say that a lot."

He smiles. One of those smiles that's only in the eyes, with a flat mouth. The corner of his sun-beaten eyes crinkle. "I just worry about you, that's all. It's a hard path, being a builder"

"I know. I still have a little schooling left."

"Only a year."

"I did help the Turners rebuild when their home flooded last spring."

He nods. The noon sun looms high above us, reflecting bright white on the snow. The wind blows bitter and bitingly cold. "That is true. You did a fine job. I just worry about you, is all."

I smile. His worry shows his love, as much as he is able to show it. We cross the far edges of the town square, such that it is. The church looms large behind us, the only building built mostly above ground. The long rectangular roof of the church, under the heavy blanket of snow, is thick with green grass. The surrounding buildings emerge only as doorways buried into the rich earth. On one side of the square, a doorway leads to the blacksmith, another to the doctor, and a third to the general goods store. At the other end sit the horse tack, the restaurant, and the clothiers'.

We leave the town square, and meander down a pressed-dirt road. Constance skips, holding the hem of her plain dress. Her small feet kick the snow, scattering it joyfully. Prudence slows her walk to avoid the snow her sister throws. She turns to us and smiles kindly. Her smile is pure, and lives in her entire face. Her face is framed by her starched bonnet, laced with fresh snow white against the black wool.

She inclines her head. "Did I tell you, we have duck?" She shimmies her shoulders excitedly.

My father closes his eyes in contentment. "Prudence, I was hoping you would say that. I have been looking forward to it."

Her father, Fear-Not, hears us and turns around to walk backward. "Two, actually, Increase. Nice and fat." Fear-Not is short and ruddy, brimming with energy. The opposite of my father's laconic silence.

"Fear-Not, thank you again for hosting us. It's very kind of you."

Fear-Not waves my father's words away with his thick hands. "Nonsense. It's neighborly. And the lease we can do, after what happened to Mercy."

My father's face falls at the sound of her name. My mother died a few months ago, carrying my unborn sister. We lost them both. We buried them, one large plain pine coffin and one small, deep in the rich summer earth.

I speak up. "Well, we appreciate you all the same, Mr. Smith."

"Thank you, Humility."

We reach their home, a wooden door set into timbers. One small window sits to the side, glass pane wavy and thick. The door emerges from a small swell in the ground, cut flat. The church Silence dictates that all of our homes must be below ground, covered in a thick layer of earth. All-Faith levers the door in, welcoming us with the sound of a crackling fire and the smell of cooking food.

Prudence's mother, Charity, waves us inside. She is busy stirring a large cast iron pot of soup, suspended over the fire. I walk to her, and see the soup is full of parsnips, carrots, and onions. The bounty of the winter. Next to it, the crisping ducks swing above the fire on short lengths of chain. Their juices drip and sizzle.

Charity wipes sweat from her brow. "Welcome, Goodmans! Happy remembrance day." She gestures us to the table. "No use in wasting time. May as well eat while it is hot."

We sit on low stools around the rough-hewn table, surrounded by the earthen walls buttressed with thick timbers. Flickering tallow candles light us in fits and starts. Prudence helps her. Charity carries over the ducks on a wide board, then back to the fire. She returns with an iron pot of roasted barley tea, brown, steaming, and fragrant. Prudence walks excitedly to the table, with a small pan covered in a linen cloth. She uncovers the pan with a flourish. Inside, a loaf of bread peeks out, swirled densely with dried fruit and honey. My eyes dance with excitement. The labor of milling flour is reserved for special occasions, and honey doubly so.

Fear-Not raises his hands to us. "Thank you, Goodmans, for joining us today." He extends his hands, as do we. We hold hands around the table in the flickering candle light. "We are grateful to be with you for this day of remembering."

Something stirs in my stomach in the small warm room. A long felt feeling returns. A different kind of hunger. I do not know what we are remembering. The church does not allow us to know. I want to.