Grace began riding her cow, Vanessa, cross country in the summer of 2018. She set out one warm morning from the California desert and rode until Vanessa’s speed dropped to a slow gallop. No one had asked her to. In fact, no one knew about the trek except Grace’s older sister, Penny. 

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This hadn’t happened by accident, but it wasn’t exactly a plan, either. 

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For the last four years, Grace had been working at the local coffee shop, serving disheveled lattes and lukewarm cappuccinos to freelancers and amateur documentarians. In the evenings, she wandered the streets of downtown San Diego, taking photos of old cars and puddles filled with orange sunset. 

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She was staring at a homeless woman, draped in trash bags and a hotel lobby rug, when the idea hit her. An insane, but amazing thing. She was going to buy a cow and ride it as far as she could, maybe east. She decided right then and there, just like that. It felt like a delicious idea, sexy and unreasonable and god damn fun, to be frank.

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One Tuesday morning, two days after quitting her job, Grace placed a thick leather saddle atop her new wet-nosed, slick-haired partner. She climbed up and clicked her heels into the cow’s ribs. Vanessa grunted angrily. Maybe she would hate this, Grace thought.

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It wasn’t as if Grace knew how to ride a cow or even if cows could be ridden. She hadn’t told the farmer why she was buying her, only that she needed a cow with enough energy but who had “experience in the field.” The old man squinted at Grace for a moment before pointing out into his side yard, sighing deeply. Grace had paid $1,600 for her, plus $40 for the saddle. 

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They bobbed their heads together across the dry, prickly dirt, taking a break every couple of hours for water and grass chewing. She was a brave pioneer, she thought, and this was her expedition into a foreign territory no one had thought to examine, not in their wildest dreams. No, this was fresh. This was revolutionary. 

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At dusk, they stopped in a valley outside of San Bernardino. There was an RV park a mile or so down the road where lights twinkled and the salty smell of cooking meat drifted into Grace’s campsite. She tied up Vanessa to a small, withered tree and draped a blanket over her smooth, broad back. This was her child, and she needed to make sure she had what she needed to make it out here. She needed enough heat and water and food and safety. They both did. 

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She made a fire out of the dry tree limbs and some sticks. It was cold now, and she wrapped herself in a thick woolen blanket. She lay on the dirt and stared up, for what felt like hours under the big, navy blanket of pulsing stars and silky streams of light. 

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Grace had grown up in a small town in the South, with parents that had friends who had boats waiting for them in harbors. She had sisters and brothers, both older and younger, who lived within a short drive from each other. They called her a few times a year to invite her to a child’s birthday party or a holiday get together. 

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Her family had no idea she was a barista. She had told them that she was a photographer, and when they asked about her work, she sent them pictures she found on the internet. It had been this way since she left, four years ago. It felt impossible to tell anyone that she wasn’t who she was supposed to be. Her friends back home who still lived in that small town sent her messages of funny news about the city, but Grace couldn’t remember who was who anymore. 

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Now she lay alone in a field with a cow who hated her.

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She slept in a small frayed green tent she had borrowed from a co-worker. It smelled like sand and sweat, and there was a hole at the top, so that she could see two or three twinkling stars peering in from that big dark sky miles and miles above her. 

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She woke up right before sunset. The cool morning air whipped across the tent, creating a loud flapping that had ripped her, suddenly, from sleep. She scrambled out of the tent. The valley roared and whipped in a bowl of dense, endless blackness. Sunset dripped and peeked through the mountain caps in the distance. For a moment, Grace felt as if she was in a dream, alone in the wilderness, on the run from some evil gang or natural disaster. As if no one could remember her, the girl who has escaped.

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Vanessa was gone. She scanned the horizon, squinting deeply in search of any mass standing out against the bitter brightness. Nothing. 

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No, she can’t be. This can’t be happening, Grace mumbled to herself. She was just here, gnawing on a patch of tall, dry grass, only a few hours ago. Did cows sleepwalk? How did she untie herself from her strap? Did she need something? More food? Had something eaten her? Had someone taken her?

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Grace put on her jacket and a pair of pants and set out in search of her newly lost friend. 

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The tightly packed dirt cracked under her boots. She scraped through dry brush and sharp waist-high branches for half an hour, circling her camp in silence. She shouldn’t call Vanessa like a dog, she thought. That’s just silly. Cows don’t know their names. The morning sky phased into an eggshell blue all around her now, only illuminating more of the same. How far could a cow get in an open field? 

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After an hour of hiking through the open plain, she made her way back to the tent, highly discouraged and dreadfully thirsty. She licked her dry, scabby lips and felt the inside of a hollow, chalky mouth. This was it, she thought. Just when she had felt a sense of freedom and rebellious purpose, her circumstances ruined themselves and held her captive. She was helpless, after all, and all she could think about was her mom and dad sitting in their reading nook, scrolling through social feeds in silence. She imagined her sister and her husband pouring cereal and slipping binders into backpacks. She thought about her ex-boyfriend, Liam, waking up in his apartment with another woman, probably someone from work who was an artist and who could do a roundoff and knew how to bake.

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She screamed, loud and full-bodied. Opening her raw, red throat, she let out a shrill, animalistic yell from deep within her chest. For a tiny moment, it felt good to be angry at no one. Not even Vanessa, not even herself. She tore at the ground at her feet, running her fingers violently through thorny roots and rocky soil. She rammed her fists into the dense, dry earth. She closed her eyes and breathed hard from her dust-filled lungs, through her cracking nostrils and out into the wild, free sky. 

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Cowless, hopeless, directionless. This wasn’t the expedition she wanted, but an actual tragedy. Not even the good kind of tragedy, where things mean other things and people care. No, this was a pathetic tragedy, one in which apathy ruled all and laziness was the primary theme. If you don’t care about anything, how are you supposed to feel when something bad happens? No anger. No joy. No eruptions of euphoria or spikes of lust. In this moment, with no one on her side, Grace felt nothing. 

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She waddled helplessly back to the tent. She would have to start her trek back to the city, having been gone less than a day. She could probably get her job back, she thought. Maybe she could say she was joking, or that she had just had a mental breakdown. That was better than the truth. That she couldn’t do anything or feel anything, and this was a breaking point that couldn’t even be broken properly. 

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When she finally got close enough to where her tent was supposed to be, she stopped. Standing there in the distance, near the tree she’d been tied up to before was Vanessa, her leather rope dangling from her mouth. 

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Grace ran to her, galloping through the tufts and tilted cacti to hug her. She wrapped her arms around Vanessa’s back and squeezed her tight, like a soldier returning from a tour of duty. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, staring at one another in the warmth of the desert sun. 

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She cooked a breakfast of old sausage and leftover cheese from the cafe for the two of them. It wasn’t particularly delicious, but it was edible, and after a morning like this, it filled her up in just the right way. 

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The two of them made their way across the lumpy sand, passing alongside jagged rocks and rusty signs. It was hot, but the freshly baked air sailed through her hair and across her legs and kept her going. A spirit, something light and wispy, sang to her calmly, steadily, with each bounce of Vanessa’s beleaguered gait. 

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Every step toward the horizon was closer to something, but farther away from something else. It wasn’t as scary as she thought it would be, leaving the world she knew behind. That was safe, that represented stasis, a place of finite possibilities and empty self-efficacy. She was going East, to the right on the great big graph of the world, into positive digits and out of sight. This was her way into a new home, where judgment couldn’t get her and all she had to rely on was her own strength. And Vanessa’s steady hooves, drudging through the cooked, scathing landscape. 

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Grace rode on for several days before she saw another person. It was mid-day on the third day of her journey, when she and Vanessa came upon an old, cobblestone structure. From a mile out, it looked like an old, flat castle, its sharp peaks jutting into the pale sky. A transylvanian hideout nestled among the mountains. 

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As she got closer, she realized it wasn’t a castle, but a nunnery. A dark, rusty bell dangled from a tower, ringing deeply as she approached. An alarm, warning the inhabitants of an intruder. 

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Two women, draped in faded black gowns and hoods, floated out to the edge of the building’s outer walkway. They stared at her. Both of them were small and leathery, like a pair of sweaty, aged loafers. They came into the light, squinting as they approached. 

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“Hello, child,” the slightly wider one said. “Are you all right?” She really meant it. Her lips curled up and the ridges on her forehead doubled in concern. 

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“I’m just headed East,” Grace said. “All fine here.” 

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“Is that a..cow?” the thinner one asked. “Is she, um, meant to be ridden like that?” They looked at each other. 

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“Her name is Vanessa,” Grace said. “She’s just fine, too.”

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“I don’t mean any offense, you understand. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sight in my entire seventy-seven years. And I’ve seen a lot.” 

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“Would you or your friend like some water?” Back to the wide one. “Perhaps a rest in the shade? The desert heat is deceiving. It can hit you in a wave that can knock you off your feet.” 

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She raised a hand to indicate a door at the far end of the walkway. 

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Grace studied the two women. They seemed genuine. Authentic ladies of the cloth wouldn’t steal her supplies, she thought. If so, I know where to find them. 

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“We could use some water, if you can spare it.” She nodded toward Vanessa. “She drinks more than I can carry or find out here.”

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They nuns led Grace and Vanessa to a well near the base of the mountain. There were nuns, young and old, circling around pillars and walking slowly in pairs up and down the faded brown steps that led to the main sanctuary. 

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Vanessa drank from a wooden bucket and chewed on a patch of yellow grass around the well. Grace tied her to a bench and followed the nuns inside. 

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The sanctuary looked as if it were built by an ancient showman. Beneath a canopy of drooping stained glass lay a solid gold cross, which at this very moment was catching afternoon sunlight through a skylight. Rows of pews lined the center, and rosewood carvings capped each aisle. Statuettes of apostles and saints and people Grace was only vaguely aware of. They sat in a row near the back of the room. It was cool in here, and the air smelled wet, like an old closet filled with damp clothes. 

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It was oddly comforting, Grace thought. She had never been religious, and she even fought against it her whole life. It wasn’t something her friends talked about, despite all of their parents making them attend each week. Grace’s parents still taught a Sunday school class to middle schoolers, and dropped hints about the new youth pastor or how they ran into Grace’s old high school friend. He was doing really well, they said. He’s back in rehab and getting his welding certification. She should text him, they said. 

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“Are you a believer?” asked the thin nun. She was sitting next to Grace in the pew, not kneeling or praying, just sitting. Grace realized she had been staring at the cross for the last few minutes. Maybe the heat was getting to her. 

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“No, not really,” Grace said. “I was raised in the church, but I, uh, don’t really keep up anymore.” 

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“Of course,” she replied. “The path we take is different for each one of us. The road that leads to the Kingdom of Heaven is a windy one, laced with treachery and deceit.” 

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“We do not preach here,” the chubby nun chimed in. “We are merely guides for those that wish to know Him.” 

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“Why are you all the way out here? What kind of people make their way to the middle of nowhere for.. Worship?” 

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Both nuns sat in silence for a moment. It was still and the dank air sat on their shoulders. The chubbier nun spoke again. “We do not serve to spread His light. We serve to observe, to listen, to grow in solitude.” 

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“Like monks?” 

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“This temple was built 150 years ago by a man named Malachi Friche. He was a French immigrant who lost his wife and children in a fire in the hills of Appalachia. He came here in search of a new beginning. He found God in the quiet whisperings of the desert, and set out to build a home for the spirits that walked these lands. He carved each of the statues you see here with his hands, a knife and hammer. For more than a decade, he toiled away, pouring his sweat into these walls. He was a true man of the faith.” 

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The chubby nun ran her fingers across the feet of a small wooden carving at the corner of the pew. It was of a downtrodden angel, kneeling. His wings were in his hands, broken. He was weeping.

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“What happened to him?” Grace asked. “To the man who built this place?”

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“It is said that he was driven mad by his isolation. He began to hear voices in the hills. One night, he rode his horse up a treacherous path in the mountain behind this temple.” She turned to face the direction. 

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“He rode all through the night, into the gray early morning hours. He began to pray for protection from these demons. He asked the Lord to grant him strength to fight the creatures that stalked him each night.” 

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She turned to Grace. 

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“You see, he believed that Man was destined to return to the sky, to become angels in God’s army. He wrote many passages in his journal about what he called ‘Ascension Reformation,’ in which one could merge with the true power of the Holy Father by delving deeper into his own mind. The mind is the key to unlocking the soul. The more you learn about yourself, the more you come to know your own power. The power that lies inside us all, that the Lord put inside us when he created us. We do not receive this power from others, but from ourselves. It is only by reflecting, sharpening, ripping apart and rebuilding our human flesh in the depth of nature that we truly see what we are capable of. We see the light that floods our veins and the immortal strength of our bones, handcrafted by the Lord.” 

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As Grace listened, a dozen nuns had gathered around. Some were blue-eyed, some brown skinned, both young and old, sharp and flat faced. They watched Grace as the wider nun spoke. 

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“When Father Friche reached the top of the mountain, he built one last thing for himself. In order to ascend, he must truly remove the flawed humanity from himself. He must shed his human-born layer so that he may be pure and clean. It was there, at the summit, that he lay in a wooden altar, in the shape of a calf. He burned himself alive to be with his Creator, once and for all. To pass into the new world, stripped of his mortal flesh, free of sin.”

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Grace was now surrounded by nuns. She looked around at their faces, at their sharp, pointed eyes, locked in on her face. The room felt small and dark. They were blocking her in their circle, unmoving. Unflinching.

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“What is this?” she asked, her voice shaking. “What are you all doing?”

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A young nun spoke from the crowd. Grace couldn’t see her or hear where exactly it had come from. 

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“Do not fear, child, for your gift has been well received.” 

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Grace stood up, rushing into the crowd of nuns, shoving as hard as she could, her head down. She thrusted her body into the sea of black cloth and weathered skin. 

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“Vanessa!” she screamed. “What did  you do to her?” Where is she?” 

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Her fingers curled into fists as she tried to flail and thrash her way out. Any way out? Who were these people? Why were they doing this? 

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But all her struggle was for naught. 

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None of the nuns tried to stop her from leaving. She straightened up, heaving violently. They made a path for her as she stumbled down the aisles of wooden pews and into the main hallway from which she had come. 

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She burst into a run, darting through the pillars and past a groups of nuns in the courtyard.It was getting dark, and a deep sense of dread crept into Grace’s chest. She sprinted down the steps toward the well where she’d left Vanessa tied up. 

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She wasn’t there. Her saddle lay on the ground next to the well. Where could they have taken her?

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“What did you do to her?” She screamed at the top of her lungs, whirling around to face someone, find anyone, who would tell her where she was. She grabbed a pudgy, middle-aged nun who was watching her from the steps. She shook the woman, who stared back at Grace with a pair of empty, hollow gray eyes. “This isn’t right! This isn’t what people do! You can’t take her from me!”

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The woman said nothing, but gazed over Grace’s shoulders into the distance. Grace turned to face the darkness. 

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High above the temple, glowing brightly atop the mountain’s summit was a roaring fire, its bright, whipping embers piercing the night air.