AN: Well hello, this is my first ever published story. I wanted to sort a few things about before you begin reading. The Twelve Tribes is a real church/cult that originated in Chattanooga- my only experience with the members is through their restaurant, Yellow Deli. Most of the information I used was found on wikipedia, and some of it is made up by me. In addition, you should know that the story takes place before Sookie returns, or at least this chapter does. Xx
The flowers were blooming, the smell of cut wood was in the air, and the sun was out, shining brightly above the house of the tribe when Amira walked away. She hadn't told anyone that she was leaving, that would have gained her a beating with a balloon stick or a wet reed. Everyone, including her parents, would have forgiven her if she promised not to try and leave again, but she didn't want to be in The Community anymore. She had spent her whole life within the compound's law, never having gone to school, never having contact with anyone outside of her Tribe, never even touching a piece of technology.
That was the way the Twelve Tribe's lived, even in such a modern world.
Growing up, Amira had the company of the other tribe member's children, most of them around her age. As she grew, exploring the world and learning everything that was available to her, she realized that those other children didn't share the same view as her. They wanted to live by the law of the Yellow Tribe; they wanted to wait for Yahshua, they wanted their second coming and the thousand years it promised with their precious lord. All Amira wanted to do was learn.
There had been stories passed back and forth between her parents and other adults in the dark, when she was supposed to be asleep, but those stories didn't prepare the young girl for what the real world really was like.
Her tribe house, a compound she had never once left, was located in the woods of Tennessee, three or four miles away from the small city of Chattanooga where the original church had started in 1972. She walked along the tree line, watching out for other members coming back from their respectful jobs. The Yellow Deli was owned by her tribe, run and operated by folks she saw everyday of her life. Many of the members worked there, but she was still too young. Still in home schooling.
Amira's mother and father had been among the first group of Tribe Members. They had persevered through all of the controversy associated with their church. Through it all they had kept close to their leader, Elbert Spriggs, even living with him for a while in Vermont. Her mother was a small woman with brown hair and mousy brown eyes; her pale skin was striking and smooth. Amira's father was a large man, well over six feet tall. His whole body was toned muscle and tan skin. His dirty blond hair hung to his shoulders and he had an impressive beard that brought out the color in his blue eyes. The young girl looked like a combination of her parents; at five feet six inches, she was taller than all but one woman at the compound, her sandy blond hair had never been cut, hanging down to the small of her back in soft waves. Her skin was creamy and smooth, just like her mothers, but her eyes were bright blue like the summer sky.
The trees on the side of the road began thinning out, giving the girl little cover from the warm spring sun. She stepped onto the dirt road that their singular car traveled many times as a day and hoped that no one would be either leaving or coming back to the compound. She had chosen to leave at eight in the morning on purpose; the Yellow Deli opened at 6, meaning all the workers would be there already, the wood shops opened at 7, meaning that most of the men would be working, and the woman rarely left. No one should have been coming back at that time, not unless something was forgotten or there was a problem. Amira prayed neither happened.
Yahshua had been listening to her.
The young girl made it to the solid, paved road without encountering a single person. She smiled at her luck and turned her head in both directions.
There were world maps on the compound, she could tell the names of every single country in the world and where they were located, even how far they were from the equator, but she knew not which way Chattanooga would be. The limited number of cars on the road all seemed to be heading to her right, so Amira decided that would be the way she would travel.
It took her several hours to get to the small city, and by the time she was there, she had seen more than enough of the world.
The people that milled around her didn't seem to appreciate anything; Cars blared their horns at the people who chose to walk instead of kill the environment, civilians yelled into their personal phones angry to such an extreme that Amira was fearful of them, and even the animals out and about seemed to be angry. Nothing was calm; nothing was right.
This was not the world that the young girl had imagined. She wanted to meet the people who created technology or wrote books, the women who advocated for civil rights, and the homosexuals who wanted equality for all. That was the world she wanted, not the angry one she was standing amidst.
She told herself to look for the good things, not focus on the bad, and eventually she found the simple pleasures. A woman walked hand in hand with her daughter, chatting away about how school had gone. A few college students sat at a table outside a café and talked about how much they liked their English professor. A couple sat on a bench, holding hands and looking at the world pass by them in simple happiness.
Amira found her smile once again, happy to be in the world. Happy to see what she had never been able to see before. This was exciting for her. This is what she had been born to experience.
Amira left Chattanooga when her search had begun. Local college students who frequented the Yellow Deli began talking about her as she walked down the sidewalks.
"Those coots at the Deli are looking for one of their children," the talked amongst themselves. "Said she's tall with blue eyes and blond hair." They all laughed and sipped on their beverages or sucked on their cigarettes.
The young girl had paused mid-step but rushed along after listening in the on the group. She had very little money, around three hundred dollars that had been saved for when she would marry one of the boys in the tribe. She didn't want to marry any of the men she had grown up with; they were like brothers to her not lovers. Even Peter, who had secretly held her hand once while they were picking blackberries, didn't pique her interest. Thus, she rationalized, taking the money would be okay if it wasn't going to be used anyways.
Fifty dollars bought her a bus ticket to Louisiana and left her with money to spend on somewhere to stay.
Amira had prospects that she hoped would help her get a job. She could sew, dance, sing, read and write. She knew a lot about world history not including current events, and even though she didn't know anything about technology, she figured she'd be able to learn it right quick. Being the optimist that she was, the young girl boarded the gray hound bus and awaited her departure as the sun began to set over the horizon. She never wanted to come back to Chattanooga even if her parents lived there; even if it had been her home for the first 18 years of her life. They had managed before without her and they would manage again.
The problem with growing up on a compound, being born on a compound, and never leaving a compound was identity. Amira had no birth certificate, no identification, and no social security. In fact, the young girl didn't even have an address for The Community. She had thought everyone, especially law enforcement officers, would know what The Community was.
The one's in Bon Tomp obviously didn't.
A young deputy stared down at her with blue eyes a few shades darker than her own. His blond hair was neatly disheveled in a boyish way, bringing out the color of his tanned skin. The uniform all officers of the law had to wear accented his muscles.
"All I know if that my name is Amira and I am from Tennessee," the girl explained for the thousandth time. From the other side of the counter the deputy sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"Amira, I don't know what you expect me to do here," was his response. "You seem like a classic case of a runaway."
"I did run away!" She exclaimed. "But I am eighteen years old and that makes me an adult," she added. "As an adult I would like an ID and a social security card."
"This is the police station of a small Louisiana town, Amira. We can't help you with either of those things."
The young girl's face fell immediately. She had been counting on the help of a police officer to get the documentation that she needed. At that moment she wasn't even considered an American Citizen.
"I grew up on a compound," Amira told the man, or more, boy, in front of her. "That means that I have never left the compound until I ran away," she explained in detail. "I was born in that house, I went to school in that house, they were going to marry me to some boy in that house. I don't have a last name, or if I do, I don't know it, but I can tell you one thing for absolutely sure," she paused to take a breath. "I am eighteen years old and sixteen days and I don't ever want to go back to that place."
The police deputy look over the girl once again. She certainly fit the part of secluded church community. Her blond hair was down to her waist, never having been cut he assumed. The nondescript clothing she wore appeared to be home spun and it didn't accentuate her features in the slightest. The shoes she wore were brown leather boots that were laced up her ankles. If anyone appeared to have run from a cult it was this girl.
"What was the name of the community?" The boy tried again.
"Twelve Tribes. It was all over the news in the eighties and nineties because of child labor laws and such," the girl explained in a hushed whisper, as if someone would overhear her. "There are sanctions of the church all over the world, but the one in Chattanooga is the original."
"You're saying that you've never left that house?" The boy asked, and with a sigh, Amira nodded.
"I was born there and I have never been off the property."
"I might be able to help you," the officer replied, emitting a sigh of his own. "You're going to have to talk to some social workers and government officials, though."
"I'm willing to talk to anyone," the girl replied with a bright, optimistic smile. Her blue eyes lightened at the prospect of getting what she wanted. "I knew coming to the police would be the best idea!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
"It might take a while; you got somewhere to stay?"
Amira, of course, did not have anywhere to stay. The deputy realized that after he had asked the question and immediately felt stupid for it. He arranged for the girl to stay in his sister's house. She had been gone for months and it was on the market to be sold, but no one had bought it yet and the girl would be more comfortable in a house alone than with him.
"It's so beautiful!" the girl called as she rushed out of the truck, racing up the walkway to the front porch. The house had been beautiful once, built by his great-great-grandparents before the civil war but an event a few months prior had left the house in bad condition. The walls were rotting and stained, the beautiful furniture was ruined. Yet everything was in working condition, his sister had stayed there before her disappearance and this girl would have to work with what she got.
"I'm glad you like it," the officer replied, running his hand through his hair before reaching into his pocket and retrieving the key. He opened the door for the girl, motioning with his hand for her to enter first. She sent him a bright smile and practically danced into the house.
"Are you sure I can stay here?" Amira asked when she turned to the look at the man who had helped her so much. He was handsome in a way that she had never seen before. His muscles were visible and exciting, his skin tanned with the spring sun. His hair was a few shades darker than her own, but it was manly. He was as manly as she was feminine.
"Yeah, but if the place gets sold you're going to have to go."
She nodded enthusiastically and smiled at him again. Those smiles tugged at his heartstrings.
"Deputy Stackhouse, Yahshua sent you to me," she told him, looking up at the ceiling as if she could really see her precious being the rotted wood. "You're the best thing that has ever happened to me; the nicest person I have ever met."
The officer cleared his throat, uncomfortable that the girl was paying him so much praise for allowing her to stay in his families rotting home. Sure, he had grown up there, but his parent's house, where he lived, was much nicer and full of more fond memories.
"You're welcome, Amira," he responded.
"No really," she replied, sensing his hesitance. "I am truly grateful. If you ever need anything, any thing at all, I will do it."
"I don't need anything from you," was the reply she gained. There was a pregnant pause in their conversation as the girl inspected the living room. She peered into every photograph, ran her fingers along the back of the chairs, touched the ornaments on the fireplace mantel. "I'll have the social workers sent over here in the morning. If that phone rings," he pointed to the piece of technology on a small side-table, "pick it up. I'm leaving you my personal number, in case someone calls for me or if you need anything."
He dropped a calling card on the table next to the phone and turned to the door.
"Thank you Jason Stackhouse!" Amira called to him from the door, smiling broadly in the afternoon sunlight.
"Oh," he called back from his truck. "If you need to borrow some clothes, there are some in the closet!"
Amira nodded, waved her hand to him and watched as his truck took off down the dirt road. Again, she smiled, walked backwards into the house and shut the door lightly.
"I am free!" she screamed, jumping up and down in circles with a look of pure excitement plastered on her face.
The social worker did come the next day, around noon when Amira was sitting on the living room couch with a history book she had found in the previous tenants room. She was trying to catch up on recent events so she wouldn't be so in the dark in modern society. It wasn't going so well.
The young girl told her story a few more times to the man who called upon her, telling him her name, how she was raised, who her parents were, where she had lived. He took notes in a small leather book, but when she was done with her brief life history the man nodded to himself and looked at Amira.
"I know about the Twelve Tribes and the lawsuits that have had against them," he told the girl in his southern drawl. "If you are who you say you are, then getting you an identification should be much easier. You might have to make contact with your parents though, or I could do so for you," he explained, "so we can confirm your birth date and your real name."
He left shortly after that, promising to update her on the situation regularly.
It took a whole month for Amira to finally get an ID. The social worker had picked her up at Jason's house on a sunday afternoon, drove her to an office in the city of Shreveport and the young girl filled out several forms, signed on the dotted line, and finally got her photo taken. Within an hour the laminated card was in the hands with her name printed alongside the first photograph of the girl.
"Amira Rosendale," she whispered, smile up at the man who had helped her so much. He was middle aged with salt and pepper hair. He had let himself go a bit, obviously enjoying his wife's cooking a little too much, but the man still had a pleasant, welcoming face. He slid a different card across his desk, recuperating the smile.
"Congratulations Amira," he told her. "You are now an American citizen."
Amira grabbed the card, ran her fingers over the shiny print and read to herself; "social security."