The Visionist: A Novel

by Rachel Urquhart

  Pettiness aside, I was reminded of how pleasant it can be to pass an evening in this manner. The room was warm—chairs circled closely round the stove, lamplight casting a golden glow. I sighed and wound the skein of red wool that had become unruly in my lap. I had been caught up in racing through my chores so that I might arrive more quickly at the end of each day, tucked beneath my covers, ready to listen to Sister Polly read from our book. Do you know that last night, we entered into Arabia and met a king who had not one but eleven wives?

  “Imagine what Mother would say about that!” Polly commented with a smile. “The poor Sultan! To think of him here, hauling stones from the field. Much nicer to imagine him with his pipe and flowing robes and…”

  “Stop!” I exclaimed. Because truly, I did not like this King of Arabia. The place itself—its endless waves of sand, its camels and strange islands of water in the desert sea—I was happy enough to envision that. But to hear tell about the customs of such a sinful lot… How could my Sister Polly have laughed?

  It troubles me still that I did not ask her to put the book away. But once we had moved on from the carnality I so despised, I was able to sleep content in the knowledge that next time we ventured into the World—a World so distant that it posed little threat to the sanctity of The City of Hope—we would be in Egypt. There, I was certain, we would encounter natives of a more principled nature.

  Sitting with my knitting in hand, I could not have been further from exotic lands, but I was content. Content in part because it pleased Elder Sister Agnes that I had come. She had approached me in the laundry earlier that day and asked if I might join my sisters for the evening, and though I knew Sister Polly would wonder where I was, I said that I would. The hours I spent in the company of my new friend had become cause for comment among certain of the believers. Those of a coldhearted bent whispered that I might have attached myself on account of her renown as a Visionist, for she was becoming famous. Why, not even one week ago, the Central Ministry at New Lebanon sent Brother Isaac Youngs—he who has visited all of the Eastern settlements to record spirit manifestations of one sort or another.

  “Like everyone else, he asked me what it was that I saw when I fell into my Vision,” Sister Polly said when she told me of their meeting. “But truthfully, I was relieved to encounter someone who might explain to me why such things happen. He has spoken to many Visionists…to many sisters is what I mean. I suppose that is why I thought he might be able to see beneath the surface of things. Do you understand?”

  I had nodded at the time. But it struck me as strange that Sister Polly needed another to explain what surely was as natural an occurrence in her as is happiness or self-doubt or irritation in the rest of us.

  Though I’m not certain that Brother Isaac had much of an answer for her, he did describe some of the happenings he had seen in the other settlements. In Wisdom’s Valley, for a sample, he spoke of witnessing two sisters with closed eyes, unaffected by any distraction yet perfectly joined in a great variety of exercises. He told Sister Polly they sang songs that had never before been heard, in unknown tongues but also in English, with beautiful, intricate, and graceful motions, both in complete unison and perfect time, never stumbling. As well as speaking about them, he acted out the operations of other Visionists he had met before coming to The City of Hope: bowing and shaking, writhing and twisting, shouting for joy and groaning in agony. My dear friend admitted with a smile that she was taken aback by his mimicry but also drawn to its fervor, for she recognized parts of herself in the passion he displayed and felt all the less alone for it.

  Needless to say, in near every Meeting, Elder Brother Caleb expresses his pleasure and astonishment over Sister Polly’s gift as well as other, smaller transformations—the quick step he sees in the brethren’s strides as they go about their work; the sisters’ renewed enthusiasm for making baskets, bonnets, and cloaks to sell beyond our walls. Barely two months have passed since her arrival, yet she has set the world spinning faster beneath our feet. We worship with more passion, we are kinder and less impatient with one another, we perform our chores with more heartfelt devotion, and, most miraculous of all, we know that we are seen in all of our labors by a host of Heavenly spirits.

  “It gives great satisfaction,” Elder Sister Agnes had said to me that very morning in the laundry, “that our community has found its way into the close embrace of the believers at New Lebanon. But I understand Brother Isaac’s task to be one of weeding out impersonators as much as writing down the Visions of the truly divine instruments.” She checked that a freshly washed white apron did not bear a stain.

  I kept my head down as I turned the crank and wrung out the water from the laundered clothes. I did not want to appear to be correcting my eldress.

  “Surely,” I said, “if you’ll pardon my forthrightness, Elder Sister Agnes, he would not pass so much as an hour with Sister Polly if he thought her to be false. Once a pretender shows herself, it is my understanding that he moves on.”

  She regarded me a moment in silence. “I cannot know the precise nature of the interest Sister Polly holds for Brother Isaac,” she said, her words quiet yet forceful in the precision with which she uttered them. “But do you not ask yourself how the powers of a Visionist could have been bestowed upon one so recently come from the World? Why, you know better than anyone that there are believers who toil a lifetime in service to Mother and yet She bestows her gift on a girl whose body has barely been washed clean, let alone her soul?” A knot of wet neckerchiefs lay before her, and though she needn’t have paid them any mind—they were, after all, for me to shake out and hang—she plucked them one from another, pulling each edge straight before folding it over the drying rack next to the clean aprons. “And you, child. Do you not question how readily you have put your faith in such a novice?”

  I wished I could put an end to her suspicion—it pinched like shoes that are too small. I did not want to see it, but my eldress’s bitter envy was plain. If I had been chosen as a Visionist, the honor would have reflected holiness on her. Elder Sister Agnes would have been rewarded for the constancy of her own worship as well as the purity she had instilled in me. I could hardly bear the thought that so revered a believer needed such affirmation. But then, how unlike her first experience with the Visionists in Wisdom’s Valley this time must seem to her. There, she was naught but a visiting teacher, an amazed bystander. Here, she has a congregation of believers to protect and guide. I feel for her, but I do not agree with her.

  “Sister Polly is my charge,” I said. “Closer to me, perhaps, than some of the others, but only because you asked that I be her caretaker. You gave me that duty, and I have tried to fulfill it…”

  Elder Sister Agnes sighed, smiling as she laid the last neckerchief in its place. “I did indeed ask you to care for her,” she said. “And you have done so with great heart. But I have known you, dear Sister Charity, from near birth. You believe, without question, anyone in whom you can find some good. Any good. I, who have lived longer and seen more than you, know there can be danger in that.”

  “Would you have me ignore her now?” I asked, my voice as steady as I could make it.

  “I would never ask that you turn your back on a sister,” she answered. “I request simply that you remember all of the people who love you here, and that you begin once more to share your daily favor with them.”

  She reached out from where she stood as if to touch me, though we were far enough apart that she could not. “Look at the marks that still sear your skin. You bear them without complaint or self-pity despite the behavior of certain of the sisters, who have not treated you as you deserve. But there are many others who miss you in your absence. I pray with my whole being that you shall be well again, and have kept my love…”

  Her voice faded as she stood next to the washing table with her arms hanging loosely by her sides. She appeared small and slack, as though work and discipline were the only winds that could fill her sails. I did not like t
o see her so feeble. It frightened me. Moving towards her, I took her hands. She spoke out of love for me, not dislike of Sister Polly. “I have understood your wisdom well, Elder Sister Agnes,” I said. “You needn’t worry. Tonight, I shall be glad to be back with my sisters again. Then you shall know that, in the important matters, none shines before me any more brightly than another.”

  She gripped firmly before letting go and straightening herself to leave. She found strength in the fact that I had not forgotten her teachings, that she had not labored so diligently only to lose me—first to my markings, now to the whims of another sister’s heart. “I shall be pleased to see you later,” she said briskly. “It will remind me of less tumultuous times.”

  She turned and left, shutting the door softly, as if she wished to be neither seen nor heard having visited me. She had no reason to hide, yet she slipped away as a shadow fades into light.

  Of the sister’s inquiry into the sleep of my dear friend? My answer had been a lie. Sister Polly does not rest soundly, and though she rarely makes a noise except to cry out in a manner so pleading that it breaks my heart to hear it, she tosses as wildly as if a net were thrown over her. I rise each time it happens and sit beside her, stroking her arm and uttering the most soothing sounds I know, but she holds fast to her terror then awakes with a start, regarding me as if I were the cause. Sometimes she addresses me, though it seems clear that she cannot truly be speaking to a dear sister but rather is locked in the hold of some creature she can bear neither sight nor sound of. When I reach forth to calm her, she jumps away and makes herself a crumple of limbs. It alarms me, and when she comes to, though she lets me embrace her and rock her in my arms until she has fallen back asleep, I am left with the uneasy feeling that a malicious presence lingers over us.

  Her anguish will disappear, but only when she trusts that I am here to protect her. I have seen the stern glances Elder Sister Agnes flashes at me when she fears my love for Sister Polly is overshadowing the devotion and meaning in which I steep such simple acts as sweeping the floor of the dwelling house, pressing apples, pulling the fur from a raccoon pelt that it might be spun into thread and used for the knitting of mittens. Those are the moments when Mother makes Herself most visible, the better to inspire us to do our work as She would wish it. My eldress has taken a lifetime to teach me this.

  But I have found that Mother resides in a rarer place still, at the center of another sister’s heart. When I find Her there, She shows me that my worries are one with Sister Polly’s. She teaches me that our laughter rings out more fully for being forged by the both of us, that she and I fashion a single young sister in all that we say and do. And Mother tells me that this is a wondrous thing.

  I know that such attachments are to be discouraged, for they can only lead to the destruction of union. Why, even knitting a scarf for another or saving her a sweet bun from the kitchen is considered by the strictest believers to be an affront to the whole. Even the diversion of a child’s affection for a pup or kitten is known by all to be against the teachings written in the Book of Secrets. For in that text, Mother Ann says:

  You ought not to give your feelings to beasts more than is necessary to make a good use of them. You must not allow dogs, nor cats, to come into the house of worship, nor dogs into dwelling-houses; for it is contrary to good order… Remember what I say, Dogs and cats are unclean beasts, and full of evil spirits; therefore, if any of you, old or young, unite and play with them, you will be defiled. I cannot hold my peace, I am constrained to roar out of Zion against the sins of man with beasts.

  Why had my mind turned to animals? I wished that it would cease wandering, for again the sisters were talking about my Sister Polly and I knew I should prick up my ears. It was a relief when I heard Sister Eunice speak, her voice rich and wise. I relaxed my guard and kept my eyes on my work.

  “I have rarely seen a sister who walks so light of step and yet can manage such heavy tasks,” she said, appearing to speak to the yarn in the sweater over which she labored. “The other day, I watched Sister Polly lift the largest of the pickling jars and carry it to the farthest storeroom. She knew I was nearby, but she did not call out for help in her chore. I felt that Mother showed me that even one possessed of the ghostliest presence can toil with the strength of an ox in her labors.”

  “Indeed,” answered Sister Regina, “she is a pleasant girl, both to look upon as well as in her manner. Just Tuesday last, she bent to help me gather something I had spilled—what were they now? I remember fewer and fewer of life’s details… At any rate, her face was aglow when she turned it towards mine, smiling so kindly as to make me feel as though I was blessed to have been brought so close to her goodness. It made light my heart the remainder of the day.”

  This quieted the room for a bit. Then one of my younger sisters—Sister Vestia—commented that she wondered that the possessor of so light a spirit and frame could keep herself upon the earth at all, that perhaps Sister Polly had filled her shoes with stones to act as ballast.

  Sister Honora, a wicked compatriot, giggled and added, “If we are lucky, we might catch our dear Visionist rising ethereally into the Heavens from the Sabbath Meeting, for there is little room for stones in the soft shoes we wear for dancing.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a sight for sore eyes!” Sister Vestia exclaimed. The other sisters lowered their chins to their chests, the better to peer at one another from beneath arched eyebrows.

  How well I knew such changes in the conversational weather, for this particular group ridiculed with great agility, never saying anything for which they could be chastised by their eldress yet successfully turning the tenor of an evening in such a way that no one felt in safe company. This was the case now, and as I looked up, briefly, I caught the nervous glances exchanged between the elder sisters, afraid for whoever might feel the sting next.

  “How little some of you have changed since I last passed an evening here,” I said calmly. “Stimulating talk is a temptation for us all, is it not?”

  I wrapped up my knitting in a clean cloth and placed it in my basket. I displayed not a jot of irritation in my movements. Smiling and raising myself slowly out of my chair, I regarded my eldress. She stared back. We are, I think, in a game of hide-and-seek, where neither wants to show the other her thoughts.

  “Good night, Elder Sister Agnes,” I said. And in truth, I wished her nothing but goodness. She did not encourage the young sisters’ pettiness. Rather, I think she was made uncomfortable by it, for it revealed the sort of character she abhorred and I could feel her disappointment that the evening had not taken a different turn. She does not accept that I have never really fit in. My faith, my markings, my friendship with Sister Polly—they hold me apart, even from her.

  I finished saying my good-byes. “Alas, I must leave the rest of you to complete your work in peace. My nights have been quiet of late and I am unaccustomed to the spiritedness you display. Good night, dearest Sisters Lavinia and Prudence. And, Sister Eunice, you have warmed my heart. To all, I trust sleep will come easy.”

  In the entry hall, I unhooked my cape from where it hung alongside those of the other sisters. The pegs were numbered by chamber, but as I was a visitor on this night, mine was blank. I breathed deeply. The room had become hot and still—full of the odors of sweat and smoke from the stove—and I found myself pausing in the cool dark of the vestibule before heading outside. In the retiring room, having taken up where they left off, the sisters were laughing again.

  “Had you not heard?” This from a new and very pretty young sister named Abigail. “Our buoyant sister was spotted just yesterday, floating outside the windows of the Brethren’s Workshop. She was, no doubt, seeking only to inspire those within.”

  “Or perhaps to give them a vision more earthly in kind!” said Sister Ruth, her laugh as acid as a tanner’s bath. The young sisters joined in her mirth and then suddenly went quiet. My eldress had doubtless thrown a withering glance around the circle. It was a look I kn
ew well; it left little need for words.

  Pulling on my cape, I pushed open the heavy main door and stepped outside. It had been injuring to listen to my sisters mock the one I have come to believe in with such fullness. Had I done enough to defend her? Had I not, myself, allowed my mind to drift into judgment when I thought of Sister Polly and the Sultan?

  I shook my shoulders loose and stood on the snowy path. Beneath such a full moon I felt the world to be generous again. I could believe once more in happenings too strange for others to comprehend. I could hear in the rattling of tree branches a language so intricate that few could glean meaning from the mysterious creaks and cracking. I moved along, glad to be walking the dark road towards the North Family houses. For there, I knew, resided one who heard and understood everything, one at whose feet I could lay all of my doubts and find not scorn but love.

  Simon Pryor

  I THINK THAT I have made it quite plain: I do not believe in Providence. However, I must admit to moments when it seems an invisible hand extends itself and pulls sinners like me up out of the mire. On the particular morning of my salvation, I trundled downstairs after a bath and a shave—even in the dullest of times, one must keep up appearances—to find the corner of a letter peeking out from under my door. I pulled it to me and squinted hard at the print, for though it spread tidily across the envelope—each letter as perfectly formed as the next—it appeared very small indeed.

  To Neighbor Simon Pryor, it read. Strange, I thought, because never have I known a single one of my neighbors to categorize our relationship so officially.

  Making my way to the study, I looked forward to an interesting morning read. I settled into the sagging seat of my chair—as clear a reprimand for my sedentary ways as a piece of furniture can manage—and slit open the missive.