The nun limps toward the prayer box and Thomas sees the scar.

The exact same scar in the exact same place his sister had it 40 years ago.

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1985 New Mexico desert.

Thomas Red Elk sits beside his rusted camper, 58 years old and broken.

He spreads a yellowed newspaper across his lap like it’s a sacred relic.

40 years old this paper, but he treats it like yesterday’s news.

The headline reads, “Indian boarding schools forging America’s bright future.” Below it, a photograph.

Three young girls on chapel steps, dark hair braided, white dresses pressed clean for cameras.

Behind them, slightly out of focus, a priest in black robes holding a Bible.

Thomas knows every detail.

The way Sarah’s hands fold in her lap.

How Naomi’s left shoulder tilts from an old injury.

The serious expression on little Eva’s face that makes her look older than eight.

Those weren’t their real names.

The boarding school stripped those away along with everything else.

Sarah was born Nasi.

Naomi was Elisi.

Eva was Ailen.

His baby sisters torn from their family when the Bureau of Indian Affairs came with papers and promises and lies.

Thomas takes a long pull from his beer.

The bitter liquid washing down even more bitter memories.

He was 14 when they came for the children.

used their father’s arrest as justification.

Their father had resisted when government officials tried to seize their ancestral lands.

Their mother died giving birth to Ailen left the children vulnerable to federal assimilation policy that swept through Indian country like a plague.

Wards of the state they called it as if being made orphans was some kind of gift.

St.

Gertude Indian boarding school became their prison.

Boys and girls kept strictly separated.

Thomas rarely saw his sisters except during mandatory morning mass and evening devotions.

Even then, speaking in Navajo was forbidden, punishable by days locked in the basement, or worse, the beatings that left marks hidden beneath uniforms.

But the worst day came in 1945.

World War II was ending.

Discrimination against indigenous people remained sharp as ever.

The school prepared for weeks for a press visit.

They lined up children like products in a store window.

The youngest ones placed prominently because their wide eyes and frightened expressions photographed well.

His sisters were chosen specifically what the priest called their innocent beauty.

Their obvious fear that newspapers would interpret as reverence.

The reporters came with bulky cameras and notepads, asked scripted questions about gratitude and salvation.

The priest nodded approvingly.

They took dozens of photographs, including the one now spread across Thomas’s lap.

The next day, his sisters were gone.

He didn’t realize it first.

During morning mass, their usual spots in the girls section remained empty.

Evening devotion came.

They still hadn’t appeared.

Panic set in.

He approached the guardians, asked desperately about his sisters.

They refused to answer.

Instead, they beat him for his insulence, locked him in the basement for 3 days, told him to forget he’d ever had sisters at all.

But Thomas couldn’t forget.

At 18, he escaped.

The school’s half-hearted search efforts lasted only a few days.

No missing child flyers, no real police investigation, just the quiet understanding that one more Indian boy had disappeared into the vast American landscape.

And no one in authority particularly cared.

For 40 years, he’s wandered the Southwest in his camper, following whispers and rumors, showing that newspaper photograph to anyone who will look.

He’s survived on odd jobs, construction work when his back could handle it, small repairs for cash, occasional handouts.

Whispering rock has been his home for the last decade.

Not because he found any trace of his sisters, because he finally gave up.

The beer bottle makes a hollow sound.

Last drops disappearing.

Thomas curses under his breath, folds the newspaper carefully, places it back in the passenger seat where it lives.

His hands are steadier when he has something to drink, steadier when the memories aren’t quite so sharp around the edges.

The liquor store is only 10 minutes away.

Marta will be working behind the counter like she always is.

The bell chimes as Thomas enters.

Marta Dayne looks up with a smile that holds genuine warmth.

60some, gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, kind eyes that have seen enough of life to understand suffering without judgment.

Tommy, she says, slight Spanish accent.

Let me guess.

The beer ran out again.

He manages a weak smile.

Marta’s one of the few people in Whispering Rock who treats him like a human being rather than just another drunk Indian to avoid.

You know me too well, Marta.

He selects six bottles from the cooler, carries them to the counter, reaches for his wallet.

His heart sinks.

The crumpled bills amount to less than half what he needs.

He forgot about the gas money from last week.

His next disability check isn’t due for another 5 days.

Marta watches him count and recount.

Her expression grows concerned.

Tommy, you look sick and tired.

When was the last time you had a real meal? He shrugs, embarrassed by his obvious poverty, by the way alcohol has become the center of his existence.

Money’s tight right now.

I’ll come back when my check arrives.

But Marta leans forward, hands clasped on the counter.

I know this isn’t easy for you, what you’re dealing with.

I’ve seen the newspaper you carry, seen the pain in your eyes.

She pauses.

Maybe you could come to church with me this Sunday.

You look like you could use it.

His first instinct is to refuse.

He learned Catholic teachings at the boarding school, memorized countless prayers and biblical passages.

But he never found comfort in religion.

If anything, Christianity reminds him of everything that was taken.

Church isn’t a place for someone like me, Marta.

I’m not religious.

I don’t think your God would want me there.

But Marta’s eyes sparkle with determination.

Tell you what, if you come to church with me and stay for the entire service, I’ll buy you these six bottles of beer.

And if you’re still not convinced it helped, I’ll throw in two extra bottles.

Thomas looks at her skeptically.

You’re trying to bribe me with alcohol to go to church? Isn’t that against Catholic rules or something? Marta laughs.

A sound like silver bells.

Maybe it is.

But sometimes God works in mysterious ways.

And sometimes people need practical incentives to open their hearts to possibilities they hadn’t considered.

Eight bottles for sitting through one church service.

Reasonable trade.

And Marta’s sincerity is hard to ignore.

Okay, but I’m doing this for the beer, not for salvation.

Marta’s smile widens.

That’s honest at least.

Holy martyrs of the desert parish is a modest building, adobe walls, simple wooden cross above the entrance.

Thomas parks his battered camper next to a pristine sedan.

Immediately feels self-conscious about the contrast, but Marta appears at his elbow, her face bright with welcome.

Thank you for coming, Tommy.

I think this might be exactly what you need.

Inside, afternoon light filters through simple stained glass windows, casting colored shadows across wooden pews.

Thomas follows Martya to a pew near the back, conscious of his worn clothing.

The faint smell of beer that probably clings to him.

He slumps into the hard wooden seat, arms crossed, waiting impatiently for the service to end so he can claim his promised beer.

When the congregation stands for the opening hymn, Thomas reluctantly rises, mumbles along to words he half remembers.

When they sit, he sits.

When they kneel, he remains seated, drawing disapproving glances he ignores.

Then something catches his attention.

To the side of the room, just below the altar, stands a group of nuns.

But they’re different somehow.

Not the nuns from this church.

Usually the nuns aren’t there.

Marta whispers.

They’re wearing different colored habits, longer ones, too.

Seems like there’s something special happening today.

The nuns wear black robes that reach the floor.

Their faces partially obscured by their head coverings.

Something austere about their presence.

A severity that reminds Thomas uncomfortably of the boarding school.

But there’s also something else.

Most of them appear to be indigenous women.

their features familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

Here’s where it gets disturbing.

When the service nears conclusion, Father Murphy makes an announcement.

Before we dismiss today, I want to let everyone know about a special opportunity.

The sisters from the Handmade Sisters of St.

Dina are visiting as part of their annual tour.

They’re here to offer healing revival prayers.

Martya nudges Thomas gently.

You should approach the sisters.

It would be good for you.

Thomas shakes his head.

Let’s go back.

I fulfilled my side of the promise.

But as they move toward the exit, Father Murphy approaches.

He recognizes Marta and smiles warmly.

She introduces Thomas.

It’s wonderful to have you here, Thomas.

I don’t think I’ve seen you at our services before.

Thomas finds himself responding despite his intentions to remain aloof.

It’s been a while since I went to church.

Used to do it at a boarding school.

Almost forgot all those Bible teachings.

But what you said today gave me some inspiration.

Something in Thomas’s manner encourages Father Murphy to continue.

Perhaps the pain behind his eyes, the way his hands tremble slightly.

As they talk, Thomas opens up in ways he hadn’t expected, confesses his struggles with alcohol, his battles with pain that never seems to end, though he carefully avoids mentioning his missing sisters.

That wound is too deep to share with a stranger.

When Thomas finishes, the priest speaks quietly about the visiting nuns.

The sisters live very solemn lives.

They’re devoted entirely to prayer and Catholic teaching.

They’ve taken vows of silence and celibacy.

They don’t interact with the public except during this annual event when they visit churches throughout New Mexico.

He gestures toward the black robed figures.

You don’t even have to speak to them.

Just write your prayer request on one of the forms.

Light a candle.

Put your request in the box where they stand.

They’ll pray for those requests when they return to their monastery.

Then in a few weeks, they’ll write replies to deliver God’s message.

The church will return those papers to you.

Thomas considers this, intrigued despite himself.

So, the nuns will write exactly what God tells them for each individual prayer request.

That’s right.

Father Murphy confirms.

Maybe he could ask God about his sisters, about where they might be.

It seems worth trying.

No real commitment required.

He walks to the front of the church, his footsteps echoing on tile floor.

At a small table, he finds prayer forms and a pen.

His handwriting is shaky as he writes his name and his request.

Words coming from a place of desperation he rarely allows himself to acknowledge.

Guided by one of the silent sisters, he lights a candle, the flame dancing in still air.

He awkwardly crosses himself, the gesture feeling foreign after so many years.

He approaches the box where the five nuns stand guard.

Up close, he can see that most of the nuns do indeed have indigenous features.

The site fills him with conflicted emotions, reminds him too vividly of the boarding school, of the way indigenous children were forced to participate in their own cultural destruction.

The prayer box is nearly full.

Thomas presses his folded form down firmly to fit it inside.

As he does, he looks up at the nun standing closest to the box feels compelled to speak.

If you’re right about this, he says quietly, “If your God is stronger than our traditional spirits, then he should be able to tell me where my three missing sisters are.

If he does, I’ll be a devoted Catholic for the rest of my life.” Thomas smiles slightly, hoping to connect with these women who share his heritage, but none of the nuns smile back.

However, he notices their expressions shift subtly when he mentions his missing sisters.

Something in their eyes, perhaps empathy, but he can’t interpret it.

As he turns to walk back, Thomas glances over his shoulder one last time.

He watches as the nun, who caught his attention lifts the heavy prayer box to carry it to a side room.

She limps noticeably as she walks, favoring her right leg, nearly stumbles under the box’s weight.

When she reaches the door and pulls it open, a gust of wind from outside catches her habit, causes it to flutter against her face.

For just a moment, Thomas catches a clear glimpse of her left temple, and his heart nearly stops.

there, partially hidden by her habit, a thick raised scar running along her left sideburn.

The sight hits Thomas like a physical blow.

Naomi bore a scar in the same place, a momento from the day she tried to protect little Eva from a particularly cruel nun wielding a wooden ruler.

Thomas had learned about the incident weeks later when Naomi whispered the story to him after morning mass, her voice shaking with remembered pain and fear.

Thomas starts to call out, his mouth opening to form his sister’s name, but the door closes with a soft click before he can make a sound.

The moment passes, leaving him standing frozen in the middle of the aisle, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

Another sister approaches, gestures silently for him to move along, pointing to the small line that’s formed behind him.

Thomas mumbles an apology, forces his feet to carry him back to where Martya and Father Murphy wait, his mind reeling with the impossible possibility that he just saw his long lost sister.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, his voice slightly unsteady.

“I saw one of the nuns limping.

It caught my attention.

Reminded me of something from the past.” Father Murphy’s expression grows concerned.

Are you all right? You look pale.

The moment has arrived to share what he’s kept buried for so long.

Father, I need to tell you something.

I had three sisters.

They’ve been missing for 40 years.

They were taken from our boarding school, St.

Gertude Indian boarding school in Cottonwood Bluffs.

The priest’s eyes widened with sympathy.

Taken? What happened? It was 1945.

There was a press visit.

Reporters taking pictures to show how well the assimilation program was working.

After that day, my sisters just vanished.

The school officials wouldn’t tell me anything.

When I kept asking questions, they beat me and locked me up.

He pauses, gathering strength.

I checked on the boarding school years later.

It’s abandoned now, falling apart.

But the pain of losing them, it’s never left me.

Thomas’s hands tremble as he speaks.

We came from an indigenous Navajo family.

First, we were separated from our father when they arrested him for resisting land seizure.

Then, I was separated from my sisters.

I’ve been searching for them ever since, but I’ve never found any trace of where they went.

Father Murphy places a gentle hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

I cannot imagine the anguish you’ve carried all these years.

What guidance are you seeking? How do I forgive? Thomas asks, his voice cracking.

How do I move on from all of this? The anger, the loss.

I drink to forget, but it never really goes away.

Father Murphy is quiet for a moment.

Have you ever heard of Abraham from the Bible? He waited decades for God to fulfill his promise of a son.

Abraham had to learn patience and faith even when everything seemed hopeless.

Sometimes God’s timing is not our timing, but his answers do come.

The priest gestures toward the front of the church.

I truly believe you should wait for God’s answer to the prayer you just made.

Many members of my congregation have received responses from the handmade sisters.

They found them to be remarkably accurate and meaningful.

Perhaps this is how God will finally speak to you about your sisters.

Thomas feels a spark of hope, but his mind is full of questions.

Father, can you tell me more about these nuns? Who founded their order? Why do most of them appear to be indigenous women? Father Murphy’s demeanor shifts noticeably.

The founder was Father Milford.

He passed away many years ago.

His son, Father Milford II, continues the ministry now.

He pauses.

We are not allowed to talk about this.

They are a sacred mission.

But why are most of the nuns indigenous? Thomas presses.

And where is their monastery? I’d like to visit them to understand their work better.

The priest shakes his head firmly.

I can’t provide information about their monastery location.

The Handmmaid Sisters are a very private and reclusive Catholic mission group.

They operate what they call a sanctuary for women in prayer and penance.

They’ve taken strict vows of silence, practice extreme modesty, no contact, no visitors.

They’re completely cut off from the outside world, except for these annual church visits.

Thomas senses there’s more Father Murphy isn’t telling him, but the priest’s body language makes it clear the conversation is over.

Back at the liquor store, Marta keeps her promise, hands him eight bottles of beer with a gentle admonition.

Try not to finish all eight in one day, and maybe we can go to church again next week.

Thomas nods absently, his thoughts still on the limping nun and her distinctive scar.

Back at his camper, he notices a piece of paper tucked under his windshield wiper, a flyer announcing the handmade sisters of St.

Dina’s annual church tour, a schedule of upcoming visits to various churches throughout New Mexico.

Thomas folds the flyer without reading it thoroughly, opens one of his beers.

As he starts the camper’s engine and takes a long swig, he drives past Holy Martyrs one more time.

This time, he sees the five nuns emerging from the church, climbing into a plain white van.

A young church volunteer carries several boxes, presumably containing the prayer requests, and loads them into the van’s rear compartment.

Curiosity overwhelms Thomas’s original plan.

He pulls out the flyer again, hoping to find an address for the monastery, but there’s nothing, just instructions to visit the churches on their tour schedule to submit prayers.

Since Father Murphy refused to provide the monastery’s location, Thomas decides to follow the van, see where these mysterious nuns actually live.

His curiosity is fueled partly by hope of uncovering more about the limping nun, but more deeply by a need to understand why so many indigenous women have joined this secluded Catholic order.

Maybe someone there has seen his sisters.

Maybe they’ve even become part of it.

It’s about 1:00 in the afternoon when Thomas begins following the van out of whispering rock.

He stays well back.

Keeping several car lengths between them, the van heads east toward the mountains.

As they drive further from town, the landscape becomes increasingly desolate.

Scrub brush and yellow grasses stretching toward distant peaks.

After nearly an hour, Thomas spots something unexpected in the distance.

A large compound surrounded by chainlink fencing topped with what appear to be prayer flags.

A sturdy gate blocks the entrance.

Beside it stands a small guard house.

Thomas pulls off the road, parks behind a cluster of desert brush, watches as the white van approaches the gate.

A young Native American man emerges from the guard house, stoic and alert, scanning the area suspiciously before opening the gate.

From his concealed position, Thomas studies the compound.

This is nothing like the peaceful monastery he imagined.

The buildings look worn and utilitarian, more like a prison or detention facility than a place of spiritual contemplation.

The presence of fencing and a guard only reinforces this impression.

As the gate closes behind the van, Thomas remains hidden among the brush, his beer growing warm in his hand as he tries to process what he’s seeing.

But I haven’t told you the worst part yet.

Thomas remains parked behind the desert brush for nearly half an hour, watching the compound, contemplating whether he should approach the watchmen at the gate.

The afternoon sun beats down on his camper’s metal roof.

Outside, nothing moves behind the chainlink fence except the occasional flutter of prayer flags in the hot wind.

While he waits, Thomas reaches into a small cabinet beside his makeshift bed.

Pulls out an old wooden cigar box that’s traveled with him for 40 years.

Worn smooth from handling, corners rounded, finish faded to dull brown.

Inside are the few precious items he managed to salvage from his old life.

The first item is a collection of brittle school photographs, edges cracked and yellowed with age.

Most show groups of children in identical uniforms, faces solemn and distant.

But there’s one photo he treasures above all others.

A candid shot of his three sisters sitting together on the dormatory steps taken by a sympathetic kitchen worker who gave it to him in secret.

Beneath the photographs lies his most precious possession, a piece of turquoise set in silver, suspended from a leather cord that’s grown soft and dark with wear.

Thomas lifts the pendant carefully, feels its familiar weight in his palm.

His father made four identical pendants, one for each of his children during the winter before they were taken away.

The turquoise is deep robin’s egg blue with veins of darker stone running through it like ancient rivers.

Thomas turns the pendant over, traces the engraved Navajo symbols on the back with his fingertip.

Ashki Yaji, he whispers, his real name etched in traditional script that connects him to generations of ancestors.

His father told him the pendant would protect him.

Help him remember who he truly was, no matter how far he traveled from home.

The last item in the box is a folded piece of paper that looks like trash but holds immeasurable value.

an old lunch menu from the boarding school kitchen.

Cheap paper that somehow survived 40 years of careful handling.

But it’s not the menu that matters.

It’s what Thomas drew on the back during one of many sleepless nights in the dormatory.

The pencil sketches faded but still clear.

His three sisters in a moment of rare tenderness.

Naomi gently braiding Eva’s long hair while Sarah sits nearby, her mouth open in song.

Thomas had been gifted at drawing.

Sketching had been his only escape from the harsh realities of boarding school life.

He created this image from memory after an evening when he glimpsed his sisters together during chapel.

It captured a moment of love and sisterhood that the school’s rigid discipline couldn’t completely suppress.

Now comparing the sketch to his memory of the limping nun at the church, Thomas feels his heart race.

The eyes are the same shape.

The mouth has the same gentle curve.

And most telling of all is the distinctive scar on the left temple.

His contemplation is interrupted by the sound of the compound gate opening.

Thomas looks up.

A smaller car, a modest sedan, drives out of the facility.

As the gate swings wide, he catches a brief glimpse of the interior courtyard.

Two figures in black habits stand near the main building.

Even from this distance, Thomas can see their embracing.

One appears to be wiping her eyes.

The other gently stroking her back in a gesture of comfort.

Before Thomas can process what he’s seeing, a third figure, someone in regular clothes, appears firmly guides both nuns back toward the building.

The gate closes with a metallic clang, cutting off his view.

Thomas frowns, disturbed by what he witnessed.

Why would nuns in a supposed sanctuary be crying? He’s certain he’s not drunk.

He’s only had half a beer.

He’s not hallucinating.

The sedan that left is now disappearing around a bend, too far away to follow.

Instead, Thomas slips the turquoise pendant over his neck, lets it rest against his chest where his father intended it to be worn.

Climbs out of his camper.

The walk to the compound gate takes several minutes across rough desert terrain.

As he approaches, the young Navajo watchman steps out of his guard house.

his hand resting casually but meaningfully on what appears to be a radio.

“You can’t be here,” the watchman says firmly.

“This is private property.

No public access.” Thomas raises his hands peacefully.

“I’m not looking for trouble, brother.

I just want to know if this is really the monastery for the handmade sisters of St.

Dina.

I’d like to speak with Father Milford II.” The watchman’s eyes narrow.

“Who are you? Why are you looking for Father Milford? His office isn’t here.

It’s in Santa Doarosa.

Only the sisters live here.

Instead of answering directly, Thomas pulls the turquoise pendant from beneath his shirt, lets it catch the afternoon light.

The watchman’s expression immediately changes as he recognizes the traditional Navajo craftsmanship, the sacred symbols carved into the silver setting.

They look at each other for a long moment.

Two indigenous men standing in the desert, both understanding the significance of what hangs around Thomas’s neck.

In Navajo belief, turquoise is sacred and protective, a connection to earth and sky that no amount of cultural suppression can break.

“I can’t help you much,” the watchman says finally, his voice lower now.

“Even though you’re a brother.

But if you want answers, you need to talk to Father Milford II directly.

His office is in Santa Rosa.

He points toward the mountain road.

Follow this road east for about 30 m.

Don’t tell anyone I gave you the address.

The watchman glances nervously toward the compound buildings.

You need to leave now.

This isn’t a good place for an indigenous man to be hanging around.

Thomas starts to turn away, but something makes him stop.

Brother, are the sisters safe here? I saw some of them at church today.

Most were indigenous women like us.

And just now I saw nuns crying inside your gate.

Are they being saved here or something else? The watchman’s face goes completely stone.

But Thomas can see fear flicker in his eyes.

We all play our parts here, he says quietly.

My part is to keep my mouth shut and keep everyone I care about safe.

That’s all I can tell you.

His voice becomes urgent.

Go now.

I’ve helped you enough.

The drive to Santa Doarosa takes Thomas through winding mountain roads, cutting between red rock formations and sparse desert vegetation.

As his camper climbs into higher elevations, the air grows slightly cooler, though the afternoon sun still blazes overhead with unforgiving intensity.

When he finally reaches the outskirts of Santa Doarosa, a strange sense of familiarity washes over him.

Something about the landscape.

The arrangement of buildings nestled against the mountainside triggers a memory from decades past.

As he drives through the main street, his suspicion is confirmed.

He spots several weathered road signs that haven’t been updated.

Remnants bearing the town’s previous name.

Sello Seiko.

Thomas pulls over, stares at one of the old signs.

Memory flooding back.

He was here 20 years ago during his desperate search for his sisters that took him across the Southwest.

Back then, he met a kind man, a researcher or scientist of some sort, collecting plant samples in the mountains.

Thomas had been exploring a narrow canyon following a rumor about missing indigenous children when he nearly fell into a deep chasm.

The stranger grabbed his arm, pulled him to safety, probably saved his life.

The memory is bittersweet, a reminder of the few moments of human kindness he encountered during his long years of searching.

But he pushes it aside now, focusing on his current mission.

He needs to find Father Milford II’s office.

After nearly an hour of searching and asking around, Thomas finally locates the building.

It’s on a quiet residential street on the edge of town.

His heart skips when he sees the same sedan that left the compound earlier, parked directly in front.

The building itself is not what Thomas expected for a religious office.

Rather than a formal church administrative building, it’s a modest singlestory house with adobe walls and a red tile roof.

The kind of residence that might belong to any middle-class family in the area.

Thomas parks his camper across the street.

studies the sedan through its windows.

He can see it’s empty, though the engine hood suggests it’s been driven recently.

He touches the turquoise pendant at his throat for courage, approaches the front door.

His plan is straightforward.

Ask Father Milford II directly about the indigenous women in his monastery.

If the priest has been working with native communities for years, perhaps he’s heard something about three sisters who disappeared from a boarding school decades ago.

It’s a long shot, but Thomas has learned to pursue every possible lead.

He knocks firmly on the wooden door, expecting to wait for someone to answer.

Instead, the door shifts slightly under the pressure of his knocks, swinging inward a few inches.

The house is unlocked.

Hello, Thomas calls out, pushing the door open wider.

Father Milford, I’m here about the monastery.

Can we talk? No response comes from inside the house.

Thomas hesitates, knowing he’s technically trespassing, but something about the situation feels wrong.

The unlocked door, the complete silence, it suggests trouble.

He steps inside, continuing to call out as he enters a modest living room with simple furniture and religious artwork on the walls.

That’s when he notices the dirt streaks on the floor.

Long smears of mud and dust that lead from the front door deeper into the house like someone had been dragged.

“Hello, is anyone here?” Thomas calls again, following the dirt trail down a narrow hallway.

The streaks are accompanied by what look like red scratches on the white walls, marks that could have been made by fingernails clawing for grip.

The trail leads him through the house to a back door partly open to the wilderness behind the property.

Just outside, cut into the natural rock formation of the mountainside is a set of stone stairs.

Descending into what appears to be an underground cellar or cave.

Then he hears sounds that make his blood run cold.

A woman’s voice crying and pleading.

The crack of what sounds like a whip or leather strap.

And underneath it all, a man’s voice reciting biblical passages in a tone that’s both fervent and menacing.

The Lord shall punish the wicked and cast down false gods, the voice in tones.

Discipline purifies the soul and conquers the heathen spirits that corrupt the faithful.

Thomas creeps closer to the cave opening, his heart pounding.

Through the stone entrance, he can see flickering candle light, movement, shadows dancing against rough walls.

The woman’s cries become more desperate, punctuated by the sound of blows.

When Thomas sees a figure moving at the cave’s mouth, someone in religious robes ascending the stairs, he knows he’s stumbled into something far more sinister than he imagined.

This isn’t a holy place of prayer and contemplation.

This is a place of torture and abuse.

Thomas turns and runs, moving as quickly and quietly as he can back through the house and out the front door.

His hands shake as he starts his camper and drives away.

His mind racing with the implications of what he witnessed.

He needs help and he needs it immediately.

The police station is easy to find.

A small building near the town center with two patrol cars parked outside.

Thomas pulls into the parking lot, takes a deep breath, prepares to report what might be the most important information of his life.

Thomas bursts through the doors, his heart still racing from what he witnessed.

The small building smells of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, fluorescent lights humming overhead.

Two officers sit at metal desks, looking up with mild irritation at the interruption.

“I need to report a crime,” Thomas says breathlessly.

“There’s a woman being tortured in an underground cellar at Father Milford II’s house.

I heard screaming, whipping sounds.

Someone needs to go there right now.

The older officer, a heavy set man with graying hair and a sheriff’s badge, looks Thomas up and down with obvious disdain.

Slow down there, chief.

What’s your name? What exactly are you claiming happened? Thomas quickly explains what he witnessed at the modest house, describing the dirt streaks, the red scratches on the walls, the horrific sounds coming from the underground chamber.

As he speaks, he can see the officer’s expressions growing more skeptical.

You smell like alcohol, the sheriff interrupts, wrinkling his nose.

How much have you been drinking today? I had one beer hours ago.

That’s not the point.

There’s a woman being hurt right now.

You need to hold on.

The younger officer interjects.

You’re talking about Father Milford II, the Catholic priest.

Yes.

Look, I know how this sounds, but I saw.

The sheriff stands up abruptly, his face flushing with anger.

Now you listen here, you crazy Navajo.

Father Milford II is one of the most respected men in this town.

He wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone torture anybody.

And those nuns you’re babbling about, they’re all safely up at their monastery in the mountains.

Nobody’s ever seen them in town, let alone in some underground cellar.

Thomas feels his desperation rising.

Please, just send someone to check the house.

It’ll take 5 minutes to verify.

That’s a pretty big accusation you’re making here, the sheriff says, his voice taking on a threatening tone.

You’re talking about breaking and entering onto private property, making slanderous claims about a man of God.

You admit you entered his house without permission.

I could detain you right now for trespassing.

I didn’t break in.

The door was unlocked.

I heard someone in distress.

Don’t you have an obligation to investigate? The sheriff walks over to a shelf along the wall.

Religious items displayed.

A wooden cross.

A statue of the Virgin Mary.

rosary beads, several framed photographs.

He picks up two of the photos, holds them out for Thomas to see.

This here is Father Milford, the founder of the mission, the sheriff says, pointing to the first photo, died about 15 years ago.

And this is his son, Father Milford II, who continues his father’s holy work.

Thomas’s blood turns to ice as he stares at the second photograph.

The face looking back at him is unmistakably the same man from his treasured newspaper clipping.

The priest who stood behind his three sisters on the chapel porch 40 years ago.

Older now, gray hair, deeper lines around his eyes, but definitely the same person.

This town has been blessed with peace since Father Milford II had his revelation that God wanted us to change our name from Siello Seiko to Santa Dolar Roa.

The sheriff continues reverently.

We’ve had the lowest crime rate in the county ever since.

That man is practically a saint.

Thomas realizes with growing horror that local law enforcement essentially worships Father Milford II.

Any accusation against the priest will be dismissed automatically, regardless of evidence.

The sheriff’s voice turns cold and final.

I’m warning you one last time.

Leave this town.

Don’t come back.

If you make another crazy accusation like this, I’ll have you detained for disturbing the peace and making false reports.

Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you go.

Thomas leaves the police station, his hands trembling from adrenaline and frustration.

In his camper, he tries to steady his breathing.

Think clearly.

The local authorities are useless.

Worse than useless.

They’re blinded by devotion to the priest.

He needs help from someone he can trust.

Thomas drives to the nearest gas station, finds a pay phone outside.

From his glove compartment, he retrieves a worn address book he’s carried for years, flips through the pages until he finds the number.

Clyde Yazy, the researcher whose life he saved 20 years ago in these very mountains.

With shaking fingers, Thomas dials the number, waits for an answer.

The phone rings three times before a familiar voice answers.

Yazzy residence.

Clyde, this is Tommy.

Thomas Red Elk.

We met about 20 years ago near Cello Seiko.

You were doing some kind of research work in the mountains.

I’m not sure if you remember me.

There’s a pause.

Tommy.

Jesus.

Where are you calling from? Are you still in the area? I’m in Santa Rosa.

I realized they changed the name from Sel Seiko.

Clyde, I need your help.

I’m still searching for my sisters and I think I found something.

There’s a Catholic priest named Father Milford II.

I witnessed him torturing a woman in an underground cellar at his house.

Clyde’s voice becomes skeptical.

Tommy, that’s a serious accusation.

Are you sure about what you saw? I’m dead serious.

I heard a woman screaming.

The sound of whipping.

This priest reciting Bible verses about punishing heathens.

When I tried to report it to the local police, they dismissed me completely.

They worship this priest.

Told me to leave town or they’d arrest me.

Look, I don’t know, Clyde.

Thomas interrupts, his voice growing desperate.

20 years ago, you were collecting plant samples near that canyon system.

I grabbed your arm when you nearly fell into the chasm.

I saved your life.

You told me if I ever needed anything, I could call you.

Well, I’m calling in that debt now.

The line goes quiet for a long moment.

When Clyde speaks again, his tone is entirely different.

Where are you right now? Gas station on the main road through Santa Rosa.

The Chevron station.

I’ll be there in 10 minutes.

Don’t move.

True to his word, Clyde arrives quickly in a dusty pickup truck.

He’s older now, his hair mostly gray, face weathered by two decades of southwestern sun, but Thomas recognizes him immediately.

Clyde steps out of his truck, approaches the pay phone where Thomas waits.

“Tell me everything,” Clyde says without preamble.

Thomas recounts the entire story.

the church service.

The limping nun with the distinctive scar following the van to the compound meeting the watchman finally witnessing the torture at Father Milford’s house.

As he speaks, he watches Clyde’s expression change from skepticism to concern to outright alarm.

The local police won’t help because they’re basically in this priest’s pocket, Thomas concludes.

When I saw his photograph at the police station, I recognized him from a newspaper photo I’ve carried for 40 years.

He’s the same priest who was at my sister’s boarding school the day they disappeared.

Clyde nods grimly.

You’re right about the local police.

They won’t help two Navajo men make accusations against a respected Catholic priest, but we have other options.

We need to contact the Navajo Nation Police Department.

They have jurisdiction when crimes involve tribal members.

They can force local authorities to act.

You know someone there? My cousin Joe works for the tribal police.

He handles liaison work with local law enforcement.

Let me call him.

Clyde goes inside the gas station to use the phone while Thomas waits outside, pacing nervously.

The sun beginning to sink toward the western mountains, casting long shadows across the desert landscape.

Every minute that passes means more potential suffering for whoever’s being held in that underground chamber.

After 15 minutes, Clyde emerges with a grim expression.

Joe’s on his way with a team.

This kind of situation involving religious institutions and missing tribal members requires immediate investigation.

They’ll meet us at the priest’s house.

But he warned us to stay back and hide.

Let them handle it.

We’re going back there.

We need to be witnesses.

And if this woman really is your sister, Clyde leaves the sentence unfinished.

I’m not sure, Clyde, whether she’s my sister or not, but she needs help.

They decide to take Clyde’s pickup truck instead of Thomas’s conspicuous camper.

As they drive back toward Father Milford’s house, Thomas feels his heart hammering against his ribs.

After 40 years of searching, he might finally have answers.

Though the circumstances are more horrific than anything he imagined, they park behind a cluster of desert shrubs about 100 yards from the house, positioning themselves where they can observe without being seen.

The same sedan is still parked in front, lights visible through the windows.

There, Clyde whispers, pointing toward the house.

Two men in white linen garments, the kind worn by certain religious orders, are carrying a limp figure toward the sedan.

Even from a distance, Thomas can see the woman is wearing the black habit of a nun.

Her head lols against one man’s shoulder.

Dark stains visible on both her clothing and the men’s white garments.

Blood.

Thomas breathes.

Look at her face.

The woman’s nose and cheeks are stre with blood.

She appears barely conscious.

The men struggle to support her weight as they approach the car, clearly intending to transport her somewhere.

Before they can load her into the vehicle, the sound of approaching sirens echoes through the desert air.

The two men freeze, looking around frantically as three vehicles appear on the road.

Two marked units from the Navajo Nation Police Department and one unmarked SUV.

“That’s Joe,” Clyde says, pointing to a tall man stepping out of the lead vehicle.

Thomas and Clyde emerge from their hiding place.

Approach the scene.

Clyde points Thomas toward his cousin, a seriousl looking man in his 40s, wearing a tribal police uniform.

The confrontation that follows is tense and chaotic.

Father Milford II emerges from the house.

His face a mask of righteous indignation as he faces the tribal officers.

He’s exactly as Thomas remembered from the newspaper photo, though older, wearing civilian clothes stained with what appears to be blood.

This is private property belonging to the Catholic Church.

Father Milford declares, “You have no jurisdiction here.

This woman is a member of our religious community receiving spiritual counseling.

“Sir, we have reports of assault and possible kidnapping involving tribal members,” Joe responds firmly.

“We need to speak with this woman and examine the premises.” Within minutes, the local Santa Rosa police arrive, forced to respond to the presence of tribal authorities.

The sheriff, who dismissed Thomas earlier, looks mortified to find himself in the middle of a jurisdictional confrontation involving his beloved priest.

Father Milford continues to protest, claiming religious sanctuary, insisting the underground chamber is merely a wine celler for holy communion.

But when the tribal officers help the injured woman from the car, her condition becomes undeniable.

She’s so weak she can’t stand.

Blood covers her face.

Her habit is torn and stained.

Thomas steps closer, his heart pounding as he studies the woman’s face.

Despite the injuries and the passage of four decades, he recognizes her immediately.

The distinctive scar on her left temple, the shape of her eyes, the way she holds her mouth even in pain.

Eli,” he calls out, using her Navajo name, Naomi.

The woman’s head turns weakly at the sound, and when her eyes manage to focus on Thomas’s face, she gasps, breaking her vow of silence for the first time in 40 years, she speaks in halting Navajo.

brother Ashki Yaji Tommy.

Everyone present, police officers, tribal authorities, even Father Milford, stares in shocked silence.

Thomas steps forward, tears streaming down his face.

This is one of my three missing sisters.

She disappeared from St.

Gertude Indian Boarding School 40 years ago.

Medical emergency services are immediately called.

Police and tribal officers search the house and underground chamber.

Returning 20 minutes later with Father Milford and his two assistants in handcuffs.

As the priest is led to a patrol car, he turns toward Thomas with venomous hatred in his eyes.

Your false ancestral gods are powerless against the true faith, he spits.

Your pagan beliefs corrupt the pure souls I was trying to save.

An officer places a firm hand on Father Milford’s head, pushes him into the back seat before he can say more.

When the medical team arrives, they begin examining Naomi with her consent.

I am no longer a nun as of this moment, she tells them firmly.

Do what you need to do.

The paramedics discover fresh whip marks on her back, arms, and legs.

clear signs of prolonged systematic abuse.

As they administer IV fluids to Naomi, Joe walks over to Thomas and Clyde standing near the ambulance.

“We searched that underground chamber,” Joe says, his face grim.

“It’s deeply disturbing.

There was communion wine down there.

It appears he was forcing her to drink it while beating her.” “But that’s not the strangest part.” Naomi, overhearing, nods weakly.

He made us drink wine to open our spirits to receive divine messages.

When we couldn’t produce the answers he wanted, he punished us.

There’s a large statue of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus, Joe continues.

But there’s also a small setup for traditional Navajo spiritual rituals.

It’s like he was mixing indigenous beliefs with Catholicism.

Naomi confirms this with a bitter laugh.

We were forced to provide responses to individual prayer requests like the one you submitted at the church.

He believed indigenous women had special connections to spiritual worlds.

We’re better at communicating with the Virgin Mary.

Clyde shakes his head in disgust.

This is wrong on so many levels.

Only the indigenous nuns were beaten, Naomi continues, her voice growing clearer.

The white nuns were never touched.

He would give us wine, force us to meditate while intoxicated, claiming it would help us receive visions.

When I refused to drink, wanting to stay sober to receive authentic messages from God, he punished me severely.

Thomas grasps his sister’s hand.

“What about Sarah and Ava? Are they safe?” They learned to play by his rules, Naomi says quietly.

They’re still at the monastery.

They’ve been faking spiritual messages for years to avoid punishment, just like everyone else.

She pauses, lost in the weight of memory.

It’s easier to figure out what answers people seek when they’ve written down their prayers.

Thomas nods, the pieces falling into place.

I think I might have seen them at the compound gate.

Two women crying.

That place didn’t even look like a monastery to me when I first saw it, Thomas adds.

Joe places a reassuring hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

We’re coordinating with state authorities to search the monastery in the mountains.

We’ll bring Sarah and Ava to you at the hospital.

As Naomi is loaded into the ambulance, Thomas climbs in beside her.

Clyde follows in his truck as they drive toward the regional hospital.

Sirens wailing through the desert evening.

The regional medical center’s waiting room is a sterile space filled with uncomfortable plastic chairs and the antiseptic smell that permeates all hospitals.

Thomas sits beside Clyde.

Both men still processing the enormity of what has just unfolded.

Naomi has been rushed into the emergency treatment area immediately upon arrival.

The medical team working quickly to assess her injuries and flush the alcohol from her system.

A life for a life, Thomas says quietly, staring at his hands.

Now you’ve helped save my sisters.

Clyde nods, remembering.

That’s how it should be.

Navajo brothers helping each other when it matters most.

They spend the next hour catching up on the intervening decades.

Clyde continued his botanical research work, eventually settling in Albuquerque with his wife and two children.

He always wondered what happened to the desperate man he rescued in the mountains.

The one searching for his missing sisters with such fierce determination.

I never stopped looking, Thomas admits.

40 years of following dead ends, false leads, hoping every indigenous woman I met might know something.

I’d given up hope, honestly.

Been sitting in that camper and whispering rock, just waiting to die.

A nurse approaches them, clipboard in hand.

“Are you the family of the patient who was brought in from Santa Doarosa?” “Yes,” Thomas says, standing quickly.

“How is she?” The police are on their way to take statements, but I can tell you we’ve successfully flushed the alcohol from her system with IV therapy.

She’s conscious and alert now.

We’re treating her injuries.

She has multiple lacerations consistent with whipping, some requiring stitches.

She’s going to need time to heal, both physically and emotionally, but she’s stable.

Before Thomas can respond, commotion in the hospital’s main entrance catches their attention.

Joe, the tribal police officer, is entering with two women in black habits.

Even across the lobby, Thomas recognizes them immediately, older now, their faces lined with years of hardship.

But unmistakably, his sisters.

Sarah is the first to see him.

She stops walking, her hand flying to her mouth.

Tears immediately streaming down her cheeks.

Eva, the youngest, looks confused for a moment before recognition dawn.

All three siblings move toward each other simultaneously, meeting in the center of the waiting room.

Nazi, Thomas whispers, using Sarah’s birth name as he embraces her.

Ailen, he says to Ava, holding her close.

Ashki Yaji, Sarah replies through her tears, using his Navajo name.

We never thought, we never dared hope.

They’re all older now.

Thomas, 58.

Sarah in her 50s, Eva approaching 50.

But the emotional connection transcends the decades of separation.

Thomas reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out the folded piece of paper he always carries, his pencil sketch from the boarding school.

“Do you remember this?” he asks, unfolding the drawing carefully.

The sketch shows Naomi braiding Eva’s hair while Sarah sits nearby singing.

All three sisters gasp when they see it.

The image captures a moment of tenderness from their childhood that the boarding school’s harsh regime couldn’t completely destroy.

“You drew this by candle light in the dormatory,” Sarah remembers after evening prayers when the guardians weren’t watching.

“Where is Elisi?” Eva asks, using Naomi’s birth.

“Is she’s being treated?” Thomas assures them.

“She’s going to be all right.

Joe approaches them balancing professional duty with personal satisfaction.

We need to take official statements from everyone.

We need to understand what happened in 1945.

State police are coordinating with federal authorities.

This case involves multiple jurisdictions and potential federal crimes.

They move to a private consultation room where Joe sets up a recording device.

Thomas and Clyde give their statements about the day’s events.

describing everything from the church service to the rescue at Father Milford’s house.

Then it’s Sarah and Eva’s turn to tell their story.

“What was happening that day in 1945?” Joe asks gently.

Sarah takes a deep breath before beginning.

Reporters and government officials arrived at St.

Gertrude to tour the boarding school.

We were scrubbed clean, given decent clothes, some borrowed from white church donors.

They lined us up in rows for photographs under the watchful eyes of the priests and nuns.

Eva continues, “The youngest children drew the most attention because of our innocence and wideeyed beauty.

That’s what they called it.

The three of us sisters were photographed extensively.” “After the press session ended,” Sarah says, her voice growing harder.

“Father Reginald Milford, the first Father Milford, approached us.

He was a high-ranking priest, very respected.

He told us that God had spoken to him directly and chosen us as favorites of the Holy Mother.

Thomas feels sick as the pieces of the puzzle finally come together.

He promised to guide us to meet with the Virgin Mary herself.

Eva adds said whatever we prayed for would be answered.

that our salvation was guaranteed as long as we took vows of celibacy and silence.

The boarding school guardians knew about this, Sarah continues bitterly.

They walked us directly to Father Milford after the photographers left.

We were terrified, but had been trained to be obedient.

We followed him through the back halls to a basement prayer room.

Joe’s expression grows grimmer.

What happened next? That very night, Father Milford drove us in an unmarked church vehicle to the compound near what was then called Sello Seiko.

Sarah says he left us with a cloistered order of Catholic nuns who answered to no one except their own leadership and donors.

What was your treatment like at the monastery? Joe asks.

Eva’s voice becomes flat, emotionless.

We were taught disciplined Catholic life, no talking, constant prayer.

When we made any single mistakes, we had to strip naked in front of Father Milford while he told us we were sinful and needed to beg God’s forgiveness.

He would whip us himself, saying it was like Christ being whipped.

“We made many mistakes when we were young,” Sarah adds.

The punishment was daily.

Father Milford would see different young nuns every day for these correction sessions.

As we got older and became indoctrinated into the silent life, we learned to avoid his attention, but he still used us in a different way.

Eva continues, “We were forced to pray for countless requests from clients, companies, people in positions of power who paid for spiritual guidance.

We had to drink wine and perform modified Navajo rituals, then write down whatever divine messages we supposedly received.

Joe looks up from his notes.

This was about maintaining financial support for the operation.

Yes, Eva confirms the combination of indigenous spirituality and Catholicism attracted wealthy donors who believed they were getting more powerful prayers.

Thomas has been listening in growing horror, but one question burns in his mind.

Why did no one ever find you? I searched for 40 years.

Joe answers this one.

In 1945, racial discrimination was legally sanctioned.

Local authorities didn’t care about missing Indian girls.

Boarding schools regularly relocated children without notice.

Tribal voices were systematically ignored.

Your sisters were never formally adopted, transferred, or reported missing.

The school falsified their records, Joe continues.

They claimed the girls had been reunited with family, meaning they were supposedly placed with a white Christian family.

With your parents dead and your father imprisoned, no one had the authority or resources to challenge the official story.

I kept that newspaper photo all these years, Thomas says, pulling out the worn clipping.

I suspected the journalists, the boarding school officials, random predators who might have seen the article.

I never suspected the priest himself.

A nurse appears in the doorway.

The patient in room 12 is asking for her family.

She’s ready for visitors.

They find Naomi sitting up in bed looking fragile but alert.

Her injuries cleaned and bandaged, the IV in her arm delivering fluids and medications.

When she sees all three of her siblings together, she begins crying again.

I can’t believe this day has come, she whispers as they gather around her bed.

Thomas takes her hand.

We were so close this morning at the church.

You were standing right there by the prayer box.

If only I had known.

Naomi squeezes his fingers.

God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? Whether it was the Catholic God or our ancestral spirits or both, they brought us back together.

You received your answered prayer, Tommy.

Not in words written on paper, but in action.

Ava looks thoughtful.

I still believe in Catholic teaching.

But these people, Father Milford and his followers, they perverted everything they claimed to represent, even contradicted their own teachings.

They used religion to justify abuse and exploitation.

Thomas nods slowly.

Maybe after you all recover, we can learn the right way together.

There must be a form of faith that doesn’t require us to abandon our identity as Navajo people.

But right now, I’m convinced that God, however we understand him, has answered my prayer.

As the four siblings sit together in the hospital room, three generations of trauma and separation finally beginning to heal, Thomas feels something he hasn’t experienced in 40 years.

Hope for the future and the profound peace that comes from answered prayers.

Thanks for watching.

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