Touchstone

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  October 2019 Volume 9 No 6

  Touchstone

  by

  Mette Ivie Harrison

  I remember when Jessie Martin came down the mountain. She was two years younger than me, only twelve. But she’d been called by the touchstone. Her whole life was set out for her now, one long straight line.

  And mine was still spinning around in tight, little circles.

  Mama handed me the plates to pass around the table. Jessie’s whole family was there at the restaurant, her older sister Erica, her mama, her daddy, her aunts and uncles, her grandma and grandpa.

  “What was it like?” I whispered to her. I always liked to hear about other people’s touchstone days. Since I hadn’t been called, it was my only way to share the feeling.

  Even if I couldn’t really share it at all.

  Jessie looked crossways at me. “What was what like?” she asked.

  “When it called to you—what did it sound like?”

  She shrugged, as if she couldn’t explain it.

  But I was persistent. “Mama said it’s like a bell,” I said. If I knew what it sounded like, exactly, then maybe I could make it come.

  “Yes,” said Jessie, biting her lip. “It was like that.”

  I pushed. “But Mr. Johnson said it’s like thunder.” And there were other descriptions, too. A distant voice, the call of wolves, a trumpet, a trembling, a screech. It had to be all those things at once, but how? How?

  “I heard it,” Jessie said. “Why does it matter what it was like? It was like its own thing, like nothing else.” She looked as though she were daring me to call her wrong.

  Me? I didn’t know anything about the touchstone except what I’d heard. And she’d just been to it. Which was why I had to get everything she remembered right now, before it faded away.

  “And then what happened?” I demanded. “After you heard the call?”

  Jessie sighed. “I got out of bed and went up the mountain,” she said, as if she’d already said this a hundred times that day.

  She probably had. But not to me.

  “Was it cold?” Everyone knew you had to go right when it called you, day or night. No wasting time getting dressed for the day or bringing water or food for the journey. It took hours, but I’d never heard anyone complain.

  “Not so cold,” said Jessie.

  “Were you hot with worry? Sweating? Stumbling? Or sure?” I asked.

  “I was sure,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

  Right. Why wouldn’t she?

  “What did the touchstone look like?”

  Jessie took a breath for a moment and I thought that maybe she’d just say a word or two, a quick answer like before. But for the first time, she really thought about it. And when she answered, her voice was hushed and almost afraid.

  “There were thorn bushes all around it that I had to push through, and it was lying on its side, not standing up like I thought. It didn’t gleam in the sun like the river. Not to me. It was dark and grim—like Papa when he wants something fierce.” She was trembling across her lips, and biting them to keep from showing.

  I looked over to Mr. Martin, with his strong, thick arms, and paunch around the middle. He looked happy as a bear in blueberries. But tight, too. You didn’t cross Mr. Martin if you were careful, that was certain.

  “And?” I asked Jessie.

  “I put my hand out to touch it.”

  “So then you knew?” I asked her, the same way I asked everyone.

  But Jessie looked up at me, startled, like she hadn’t realized she was back here already, from her journey up the mountain.

  “What?”

  “So then you knew what you were going to be?” I said. Maybe that should have been the first question instead of the last. But it was the hardest part to hear, because this was the part where I couldn’t pretend anymore. Jessie’s calling was for Jessie alone. It could never be for me.

  “I knew,” said Jessie softly. “I knew—I was going to be a farmer.”

  I stared. Somehow I hadn’t known this before. And I certainly hadn’t guessed it.

  A farmer? Jessie? She was so slight. And she was always happier indoors than out. I’d always thought she’d be a seamstress, like her mother. And Erica.

  I didn’t know what to say. Could she have misunderstood the touchstone somehow? Could she have gone up on the wrong day and gotten someone else’s calling by mistake?

  “Yes, a farmer,” Jessie hissed at my surprise. “What’s wrong with that? My papa’s a farmer.”

  I didn’t argue with her there. Everyone said Mr. Martin was one of the best farmers around. But Mama always traded with Jacob Wright, and not just because he was my special friend.

  “Well, congratulations,” I said stiffly. “You’ll make a good farmer.” I hoped.

  “Thank you, Lissa,” said Jessie. There was a long pause, like she meant to say something else, but she couldn’t think what. Then she turned to ask her mama what was it Doris Reit had been called to last week. As if she forgot.

  I thought about how it used to be that Jessie would do anything to get me to talk to her. Now it was all changed.

  Because she was called. And I wasn’t.

  Why?

  It wasn’t fair. Why not me?

  Mama told me over and over again that everyone was called sooner or later, so long as they were born in Zicker, where the touchstone marked their birth and planned for them. She said sometimes it wasn’t the right time for the touchstone to call you. Maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe the calling wasn’t ready. Or maybe something else that we could never know about and only the touchstone could.

  But what if I was never ready? What if the calling was never ready for me? What if the touchstone, for once in its long life, couldn’t see anything I would ever be good at? Not with all the time and effort in the world?

  Mama came back out of the kitchen, her eyes searching around for me. I didn’t wait for her to say my name. I hurried over and took one side of the big pot she always used to make the special touchstone day stew.

  Mama’s stew was too thick for bowls or spoons. I said she ought to come up with a whole new word for it. But she said making words wasn’t part of her calling. And who’d argue with that, once they had a forkful of Mama’s stew in their mouths?

  Together Mama and I carried the pot to the table together and set it down.

  “Smells mighty fine,” said Mr. Martin, patting his belly.

  “Not that we expected any different,” added Mrs. Martin meekly.

  The truth about Mama’s touchstone day stew was that it was always different. It depended on whose day it was, because Mama would make sure it had all their favorite ingredients in it. How she remembered that for everyone in Zicker I don’t know. Must have been part of her calling.

  This time it was corn, tomatoes, beans and peas, sweet potatoes and okra—for Jessie. A rich brown sauce, a hint of sour cream, and Mama’s secret blend of spices.

  Secret even to me. Mama said she’d tell me about them if I got called by the touchstone to be a cook, like her. That was something I wanted so bad sometimes I didn’t dare even say it silently to myself.

  But for now I only helped with the cleaning and chopping. And the serving.

  “Excuse me, Erica,” I said, nudging past Jessie’s older sister’s elbow to reach her plate. Sometimes it seemed a long time ago that we were friends. She’d been called when she was nine, and her mother had fairly glowed with it. That was five years ago.

  Now Erica was already making dresses and shirts to trade on her own. Her hands were a bit rough and her eyes always looked red, but I was so jealous of her it was just as well we never spoke anymore. I couldn’t have held it back.

  I’d tried mending som
e old things of Mama’s, years ago. I thought after watching Erica one afternoon that I could do whatever she could. It didn’t look hard. After all, she talked all the way through every stitch. But I made a mess of the threads and even when I started over, the fabric was so frayed that it broke apart under my hands.

  I cried and cried, but Mama said it didn’t mean anything if I showed no natural talent for sewing. That was part of the magic of the touchstone. The touchstone called you to whatever Zicker needed. And then you became good at it.

  But that wasn’t the way it seemed to me.

  Everyone I knew got called to what they were already good at. Or to what their parents did. Look at Jessie and Erica. And Richard Schnitzler, called to be a butcher. Or Willie Jones, called to be a hunter.

  If only Mama would let me do more than serve food. Maybe the touchstone would call me to cook, just like her. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more than that.

  So why was she so adamant against it?

  “Do you know which farm she’ll get, once she’s done with her apprenticeship?” Mama asked, when she came to Mr. Martin’s plate.

  A newly called farmer worked as an apprentice for a parent or a family friend until old land was ready to be given up. But I couldn’t think of any farmers who were ready to retire. And that was strange, because usually it was obvious how the switchover would happen.

  “We think maybe the boundaries will expand. It’s been years since that happened, but why not now?” said Mr. Martin.

  “Of course,” said Mama quickly. But there was something odd about the way she looked at Jessie. Then she said with a voice a little too high, “I’ve got a cake in back, chocolate and orange marmalade. Your favorite, isn’t it, Jessie?”

  But she knew already it was.

  Jessie just nodded, the first smile I’d seen on her face all day. Didn’t she understand how wonderful it was being called, being sure? If it was my day, I knew I’d be splitting with joy.

  “Excuse me,” said Mama.

  Mr. Martin went on about the boundaries of Zicker, asking Jessie now and again what she thought, or if the touchstone had said anything to her.

  But she just kept shaking her head until Mama brought the cake out, complete with Jessie’s name and a little hoe and shovel.

  I picked at it, though it was as good as anything Mama ever made.

  Mr. Martin looked up. “There’s something missing,” he said.

  Mrs. Martin fluttered next to him. “No, no,” she said. “Nothing’s missing. This is a perfect touchstone day for Jessie. It couldn’t be better.”

  “Not the food,” agreed Mr. Martin. “But—something else.” His gaze turned to me. It was unrelenting.

  “But—what?” asked Mrs. Martin.

  “I’m sure that I can make things better if you just tell me what it is,” offered Mama politely. But she was watching him carefully.

  I started to stand, but Mr. Martin pointed at me.

  “Lissa here,” he said. “That’s what’s missing.”

  I froze.

  “What about Lissa? She’s been polite and helpful, as far as I’ve seen,” said Mama. Was that a challenge in her voice? Didn’t she know better than to challenge Mr. Martin? “Just as she always is.”

  “She doesn’t have a calling, though,” said Mr. Martin.

  As though everyone hadn’t known that already.

  I wanted to look away. I wanted to be away. But still I crouched there, above my chair.

  “Papa, she’s just not old enough yet,” said Erica.

  “Older than our Jessie, isn’t she?” asked Mr. Martin.

  “Two years older,” Jessie offered.

  “So, why hasn’t she been called?”

  The question waved in front of us like a flag in a high wind.

  “It’s not her time,” said Mama simply.

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Martin, nodding to her. As though he was giving in. But then he turned back to me. “But she’s so like her father. Those dark eyes. That dark hair. And what was his calling again?”

  “He was a singer,” murmured Mrs. Martin.

  Mama was mute. Any talk of Daddy did that to her.

  “Well, maybe she’s a singer, too,” said Mr. Martin.

  My eyes were burning.

  Everyone knew I wasn’t a singer. They had to remember that much about Daddy, how upset he’d been when I hadn’t shown his talent. How he’d tried and tried. And tried some more.

  Until people said they couldn’t come to Mama’s restaurant anymore, because of the sound of my voice. And Mama had to talk to him, tell him he should give up. Didn’t he see how frantic he made me over it? It wasn’t the only thing that mattered in the world.

  “I’m not a singer,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Are you sure?” asked Mr. Martin. “I mean, we all remember when you were younger.” He made a face, his fleshy cheeks tightly rounded with pressure. “But Jessie was no hand at farming when she was younger, either. Don’t you remember, Jessie, how you weeded that patch? And there wasn’t nothing left but dandelions?”

  “I remember, Papa,” said Jessie, lips quivering.

  Couldn’t he see he was hurting her, too, as well as me? Why would he do that to his own daughter? On her touchstone day?

  “I kept you out of the farm for a good long while after that. But now the touchstone has called you, I won’t have to worry about it, will I? You’ll do it all right now, because it’s what you’re called to do.”

  “Yes—Papa,” Jessie got out.

  There was something going on between them, but I couldn’t tell what it was. And it didn’t make any sense.

  He turned back to me. He hadn’t given up yet.

  “So, sing for us, Lissa.”

  I shook my head.

  “Try, at least. You’re a wonder at trying, from what I hear. Isn’t she, Mrs. Martin?” He smiled over at Mrs. Martin, but she didn’t look pleased to be brought in again to the conversation.

  I said nothing.

  “Let’s clean up your plates, if you’re done with dessert, Mr. Martin,” Mama suggested. She nodded to me.

  I moved at last, reaching for the plate.

  But Mr. Martin’s hand came down on it fast. “No. I’m not done,” he said loudly. “Not until I hear Lissa sing. Or try to sing.” He looked at Mama. “Don’t you want to see if your daughter has something to offer the touchstone?”

  “I’ll wait for the touchstone to call her, Mr. Martin,” said Mama, a hard edge to her voice that I’d never heard before.

  “Of course, of course. We all wait until then. But it won’t hurt if she nudges a little.”

  I did not want to sing. But I didn’t want Jessie’s touchstone day to be ruined any more than it already was. And I didn’t want Mama’s restaurant to be pushed into upheaval. She’d had enough to deal with since Daddy died.

  “I’ll sing,” I said quietly.

  Mr. Martin clapped his hands loudly and deliberately, as though he had already heard my performance.

  A sour part of me thought that this was all the applause I’d ever get for my singing, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  “Lissa, you don’t have to do this,” said Mama.

  “I know,” I said. “But I will.” The truth was, Mr. Martin had touched on something, even if he’d done it to bother me instead of help me. I hadn’t sung for a very long time. It had been so bad last time, or at least I remember it being so bad, that I hadn’t dared.

  But if I was trying sewing and blacksmithing, hunting, farming, and everything else that was a calling in Zicker, I might as well try singing again, too. I might have changed, after all. Daddy said that once to me. That voices change, that I might find I wasn’t so bad, after all, when I was grown.

  I stepped back from the table, the way I’d seen Daddy do when he was ready to sing. He wanted to make sure they heard all of his sounds mingled together, and the restaurant with its high ceilings did that for him if only he
allowed it the space.

  Then I searched my mind for the right song. I remembered Daddy’s lullaby, the one he sang only for me. He said no one else had ever heard it, it was my private love song from him and he promised he would never share it with anyone else as long as he lived.

  I couldn’t share it, either.

  No, it would have to be one of the public songs I remembered from Daddy. But which did I know well enough that I didn’t miss a word here and there?

  I chose a round in the end, because it was one of those songs you couldn’t forget. Only a word or two changed on each verse and the round could go on nearly forever.

  I sang the first line badly, telling myself that I would get used to it, that I would get better. No need to panic yet.

  I could hear the chairs shifting back and forth. I told myself they’d stop fidgeting once the song had drawn them in.

  But it never did. I sang the second line and the third, just as I had the first. My voice had changed since Daddy had died, but it hadn’t gotten better. It was a different tone, lower than when I was little, but scratchy still, and wobbling about wildly even on notes I should have been sure of.

  Worst of all, there was no power in my music. That’s what I noticed most. When Daddy sang, it was as if the whole world sang with him. He seemed to be able to make his voice full enough for me to hear a harmony or even two, in higher tones than his deep bass.

  I sang the fourth line in a whisper, because I had to get through that. But I didn’t go into the refrain. I didn’t continue the round.

  And in the end, I stood there, staring back at Mr. Martin as his mouth slid wider and wider.

  “Why, Lissa,” said Mr. Martin. “I suppose that wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I apologize. It wasn’t fair to make you do that. You haven’t had your father here to work with you all these years, or to keep working with you in years to come. If he were, I’m sure there would be no need for concern. I’m sure you would grow into the calling that was right for you.”

  There was a long silence after that.

  I didn’t know where to look so I looked at my feet, at the wooden floor beneath them, at the crumbs of cake that Mama would ask me to sweep clean when the Martins were gone.

  “I have a bit of fabric,” Mrs. Martin said in a voice almost a whisper. “It’s just the color for Lissa,” she said to Mama.