Back in the chamber, the girl opposite stirred and shifted. She wore her hair woven into a long, thin braid. The color of ginger cake, it wound across her back and over her shoulder like a serpent. Above the collar of her chemise, her skin looked red and beaten. Did they hit people here? How long had the ginger girl been in this place, and how had her time been passed? In happiness? Despair? She looked to be close to Polly in years, but with a face so still in sleep, she seemed doll-like, almost ageless. Had she, too, been left here by her mother? Had arrangements been made so that she could be taken from the one who had borne her? Polly watched closely as her eyes opened wide, suddenly large and glistening, fluttering out of sleep in an instant.
“You are finally awake,” the ginger girl said. “You fainted yesterday morn, and though you are not heavy, it took myself and another sister to carry you here. I made you drink a sleeping draught. To calm you. You were dirty and your hair was full of lice. We washed you—scrubbed and picked until you were clean of all life except your own.” She sat up, smoothing the covers over her legs, making the bed neat around her. “As you may have heard, I am Charity, but known as Sister Charity to all within this place. You, too, will be a sister soon, after your confession. Sister Polly. Sister Polly, the new believer.”
Polly heard the girl’s voice coming to her from afar, as though each of them stood atop her own mountain calling into the wind through cupped hands. Confession? She wanted to lean forward and cry, What? What is it you are saying? Tell me again! But she was lying down, bound beneath her bedcovers, and she found herself clinging to each sentence in her mind just long enough to card it into meaning.
“I do not know where I am,” she said, afraid of the sound she would make in this stark new place.
“You are in The City of Hope,” the girl answered. “Your home. You must forget all that you have left behind, for your life begins now. Soon you will hear the bell and we shall rise and wash. It is Sabbath so we shall go together to the meetinghouse this afternoon, and you will be able to see all the believers who live here.”
“Shall I see my brother then, too?” Polly asked. She felt her heart awaken, beating inside her ribs as though it wanted to get out. “Will Ben come to the meeting place?”
A veil dropped over the ginger girl’s face. “I cannot deny,” she said, “that you will see young Benjamin, but he is nothing to you now, nor you to him, and you must look through one another as if you were naught more than apparitions. You must see into the spirits of the believers behind him and draw from their purity, for you have no flesh kin now.”
Polly looked up at the ceiling. It was smoothly painted. No cracks through which her angels might come to rescue her. She closed her eyes again. The City of Hope. Where was the hope in losing everything and everyone she had ever known? How long would she be held here? How would she find Ben and whisk him away? Away to…where?
“Why must I pretend that my brother is not my brother?” she asked. She no longer felt afraid of this stranger. Nothing moved her anymore, not love, not worry, not even sadness. She had become as hard and dry as a winter seed.
“Mama said she had business to attend to,” Polly said, not intending to speak her doubts out loud. “Perhaps. And yet, how could she have left us in a place where there can be no love?”
The girl let out a sigh. “There is love here, you will see. Brother for brother, sister for sister. But flesh bonds are forged in the fires of carnal sin. Your Ben, like you, was born of a filthy act. Here, that filth will be lifted. You shall see for yourself, if you are willing to renounce your blood ties and confess. Should you refuse, then you do not belong among us.”
The room was quiet as Polly tried to absorb what the girl was telling her. Certainly there had been evil in her old life. But there had been tenderness as well, hidden in the instants when she and Mama brushed hands while picking berries, or looked up and smiled at each other having finished a particularly burdensome chore. Tenderness tucked away into the time she spent chasing Ben through the barn in fun or coaxing him from his secret hideaways. Had not Mama glowed proudly at the sight of Polly poring, in secret, over the books in her attic room? Had they not shared many such small but rebellious alliances? The luxury of a sweet from the Dry Goods. A soft pair of mittens Mama knit for her—privately, of course, so that Silas would not punish her for using up valuable wool. Such flickers of love had sustained Polly when all else seemed hopeless and cruel. How would she survive without them now?
She had no choice. She and Mama might have found work once they’d left the farm, but who would have looked after Ben all day? And there was the danger that they might be chased down and tried for arson—perhaps even murder. Or else, discovered by a man—her own father—who wanted them dead. Without her children, Mama would find it easier to hide from the law, perhaps even to begin her life anew in another town, under another name. Without them, she might even be able to slip free of Silas. Polly shuddered. What wheels had she put in motion when she set their house on fire?
The obvious dawned on her: She was the reason Mama had left them here. It was she who had laid waste their home, perhaps even killed Silas. What choice had she left Mama but to take the blame should the truth about the fire come out? She’d no right to be angry, but she was.
Closing her eyes, Polly tried to will the angels to her side but they, too, seemed to have abandoned her. She and Ben had nowhere else to go. They would have to stay in The City of Hope, hide there until Polly could be sure that the world beyond its walls was safe—whatever that meant. How, then, to stay in the good graces of these strange people?
Work. Polly realized that industry was all that could save her now. She would work until she could work no more, toil like she had never before toiled, make of herself an indispensable…believer. Labor would ease her sorrows and fears. Exhaustion would be her solace. She had discovered herself to be a fighter when it came to those she loved. In this new place—so foreign to her in every way—she would walk among strangers, pliable as dough. She was a lone traveler. She was no one now.
Polly rose and mimicked the ginger girl’s every move, pulling on a borrowed brown woolen dress and slipping her feet into worn leather shoes belonging to a sister who, it seemed, no longer needed them.
“How could it be,” Polly asked as she ran her fingers over the soft, well-woven cloth, “that a girl could find no use for clothes such as these?”
Sister Charity pursed her lips and regarded her sharply. Had she been foolish to be so inquisitive?
“You wear the dress,” the sister said, “of one who was offered a life of fullness and purity here, but chose instead to run away. She has joined the filth of the World from which you have just come. She did not deserve the attention we gave her.”
Charity yanked the quilt from her bed and shook it. “We shall see if you are different,” she said. “Then, when you prove yourself a good believer, you shall have your own set of clothes, made for you and no one else. Why, the sisters will even make you a cap, for you are comely and of an age when your hair and the nape of your neck could distract the brethren.”
Polly put her hand to her head. How strange these Shakers were! Did they not have more to concern them than the attraction between a boy and a girl? She had never before given a single thought to her hair or the nape of her neck. Where she came from, no would-be suitor ever so much as glanced her way.
Sister Charity had turned her focus to airing out the sheets on her narrow bed before making neat its cover. Polly thought it best to do likewise, so she let billow her own coverings before pulling them tight and tucking them smoothly under her mattress. Nothing looked askance in the room where she had spent her first night. Brooms, hanging from pegs on the wall, bore mute witness to the girls’ efforts. The white basin on the washstand gleamed. The warp and weft of the woven cotton rug lined up precisely with the floorboards. All was as it should be as Polly joined her new sister in silence and crossed the hall to air out and sweep clean the brethren�
��s quarters, waiting for the second bell to summon them into the company of believers.
Sister Charity
A MIRACLE HAS taken place and the telling fills me with such joy that I can barely speak! But I shall catch my breath and attempt to calm myself, for if I do not, my words will tumble forth, meaningless.
Where to begin? She had been so unremarkable since awakening on the morn of our holiest day. Polly, the new believer, of course. Clothed in the borrowed dress of a backslider—one who has forsaken us to rejoin the World—she said nothing as we readied ourselves to take part in the Sabbath Day Meeting. From our neckerchiefs to the soft shoes we wear to dance, we sought to make ourselves a perfect reflection of Mother Ann’s way. Throughout, she watched then copied my every move, though she hardly seemed present. Indeed, as we walked side by side into the sisters’ entryway, I had the feeling that she might float away, like fluff from a dandelion. In the vestibule, there was the usual swish of cloaks being hung and bonnets made loose, for the start of every Meeting is hectic however obediently we try to keep order. The new believer’s presence caused me to ponder the strange, small ways in which we begin to abandon ourselves before worship. Perhaps we are preparing, in some unknowing fashion, for the wondrous disorientation visited upon us by divine spirits. Perhaps it is nothing more than the shedding of encumbrances on a cold day. All the same, peace won out eventually as we took our places in the large meetinghouse hall, where the sisters and brethren settled themselves in several lines on opposite sides of the room.
I motioned that my charge should bow her head as Elder Brother Caleb read his sermon. How strange to think back upon it now. That I told her how to worship! But what did I know of her then? Only that she might need instruction, like so many new girls, and that I was the one to give it. We bent our heads before our elder, who did not presume to offer his own thoughts as do so many ministers in the churches of the World, but trusted instead that the Bible was the last and only Word, and was thus without need of prideful elaboration.
Still, I will whisper here that I sometimes find myself wishing for the last and only Word to make good on the promise of its description, and pass quickly so that we might begin our dances. For the past week, we had gathered every evening after dinner in the North Family dwelling house to learn the steps of a new labor, one that had been seen by a Visionist at Canterbury and brought to us by a visiting minister. Its movements were simple and beautiful in the humility they showed before Mother. We bowed, we turned, we reached our hands aloft to receive her blessing, then swung them low to spread her Word. We danced and were made glad.
Brother Caleb ended his sermon and we began, bending down and lowering ourselves again and again—first the sisters, then the brethren, faster and faster until the room appeared to rise and fall like waves upon the sea. Our breath came quicker, too, our faces filled with the pure joy one feels when caught up in the fullness of worship. We smiled—why, some were even taken with what we call the Laughing Gift, their merriment catching everyone up in its sway. Before long, the hall rang with such mirth that it was impossible to imagine that any spirit—divine or otherwise—could be oblivious to our elation.
Then we set to circling, sisters holding hands and turning in the center, brethren to the outside. We circled to the right—never left, the way of the Devil—faster and faster. After many revolutions, we became so dizzy that when we let go of one another’s hands, we each stumbled in place, falling this way and that like lost souls. In this manner, we celebrated the strength we show in union, all joined together, all moving in the same direction. And we showed the waywardness and confusion of a believer left unto himself.
But even the most inspiring dance must come to an end at some point, and as our heads cleared and the dizziness left us, we formed lines again and began slowly marching in place. It was then that I heard our labors to be accompanied by a strange noise, a moan so mournful and otherworldly that I felt sure a sudden wind had come up round the corners of the meetinghouse. As I ceased in the dance, I looked upon my fellow believers and found that they, too, had stopped to listen. I could not see Polly, for our places had shuffled, and I wondered what she must have made of such an odd occurrence. Even I, who cannot remember a time when I did not dance and sing, found it frightening.
“It’s a haunting cry that greets us, is it not?” whispered Sister Lavinia, standing so close that I could smell the clove she had tucked into her cheek. “I’ve not heard anything the likes of it before. What a tortured soul it is that visits with us today.”
I nodded and leaned in closer. “The spirits have spoken quite freely of late, though none sounded so fast upon us.”
Sister Lavinia looked nervously about her. Then, as her eyes settled on Elder Brother Caleb, she placed her hand on my arm to signal his intent to speak.
“Lo, is that Satan we hear?” he asked. “Or can one of the eternal spirits be calling to us?” His deep voice rang out against the howl. “Mother, show thy vessel that we may better understand.”
We searched the room for an answer, but the sound only grew higher in pitch as the expressions on the faces of those around me began to change from curiosity to fear. Surely no man or woman could give voice to such a pure translation of misery. We were in the presence of a warning spirit, one who had something of the gravest importance to tell us.
Then, I saw her.
Who could have imagined such a transformation? The new believer, standing apart from the rest, swaying with eyes closed and fists clenched, dancing—a slow, mournful shuffle—alone in a sun-soaked spot. Under the blue, blue beams of the ceiling, her hair ablaze, the whiteness of her skin giving off a light all its own… I can only say that the sight stunned every believer in the room into stillness. But her song—its sounds spoke of suffering without ever sinking into words. In her wails and cries resided all the Earth’s pain and sadness, yet she appeared so radiant, like an angel warrior delivered into The City of Hope to help us fight against the doom she embodied. The utterances and look of her were singular indeed, and we stood in awe of the gift before us.
She began to speak. “I am in light,” she chanted. “The only light. Still, he paces round my angels—look! They flit in and out! He moves faster, he moves faster, and his feet pound the floor around me, so loud, in rhythm with the raging thunder, in rhythm with the rain that I might not hear him steal up behind me, to the side of me, in front of my face—so close, so close!”
She froze and opened her eyes, whirling about to stare at the circle of believers who had gathered round. She was as stunned by her outburst as were we, but though few among us had ever seen a Visionist, we knew enough to recognize that one stood before us now. To be sure, I never expected the vessel chosen by Mother Ann to lead us into grace would manifest torment over hope. The miracle had finally come and such is the power of Holy Mother Wisdom: ever surprising and never diminished, even when passed down through the frailest of believers.
The Visionist’s expression suddenly turned fearful, as though she were scouring out the Devil among us. For who else could “He” have been? Her shoulders drooped, her fists loosened, and she began to tremble. Yet the presence of her terror after so forceful a display did nothing to dampen the wonder that lit the features of my sisters and brethren. All had seen the new believer for what she truly was. All had felt her worship fill the meeting hall with the Gospel Spirit, and the knowledge set many of us to shaking. We broke from our lines and, entranced by Mother Ann’s glory, began again to sing, each raising a voice to the Heavens that was at once unpracticed and in perfect harmony.
“Listen!” one of my sisters cried out. “She has come! The Book of Revelation tells us:
And there shall appear a great wonder in Heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.”
It was Sister Margaret who spoke, one of the older and more sober believers. Passion had been aroused even in her quiet soul. “She warns that the Devil is near!
Though it has cost her much pain, she is come to save us! We must move as blades of grass on a wide plain, sway as one, blown by the winds of faith and love. Dance with me now, my brethren, my sisters! Show Satan the strength of our souls!”
We began to move and bend, our bodies rocking gently from side to side until we danced in union, our movements increasingly expansive even as they remained filled with the grace of leaning, reaching, undulating upwards. Everywhere on the faces of my fellow believers was etched an attitude of peace and contentment, and it was only after many minutes had passed that we abandoned the great prairies to which we had traveled in worship and moved into the ways we knew by rote. Though forever transformed, we had been led back to ourselves.
I felt that hours had passed with the fleetness of a falcon’s dive. We were breathless from our quick dances, from turning fast on our feet to show Evil our backs, from raising our hands to give and receive gifts from the Gospel Spirits in Heaven, from shuffling our feet along the righteous line we walk in Mother’s name. Throughout it all, the Visionist stood apart. She did not move or sing. It was as though she were drained of all life, and when her eyes met mine, I felt that she was beseeching me to come to her. I pushed through the rapturous throng and caught her as she fell against me. She shook as she watched the commotion around us. There was no triumph, no glow of renewal in her gaze. Bleached as a river-stripped branch, she did not seem to know where she had been or where she stood now. I placed her arm about my shoulders and bore the full weight of her as we turned to walk across the floor. Guiding her, I looked to Elder Sister Agnes for her blessing, but she and the new believer seemed locked in silent communication, scrutinizing each other with expressions more difficult to read than if they had been made of mist.
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