The girl’s breath became steadier, and her tortured body seemed to relax. It might have been the tea Charity had made her drink. It might have been the comfort of the poultices that covered her body. Polly wasn’t sure. Then, once more she heard a whisper.
“She came to me,” Rebecca said. “You called and she came.” And with that, she drifted off.
Polly turned to find that the room had emptied. Sister Charity, having done all she could for the moment, stood nearby, leaning over a table, elbows down, her chin resting in her hands. She was staring and Polly wondered what she was thinking.
“You made her feel the presence of angels,” Charity said. “You brought Mother Ann to her and she was given comfort that none of us here could have offered.” Her voice was soft, full of awe.
Polly dropped her gaze. She could not say what she had or had not done. She knew only that she had been prepared to fake her gift if it would bring relief. This disturbed her, for if she was willing to lie now, what would she do if she was asked another time? Then again, hadn’t she too felt the gentle brush of wings? Hadn’t she been calmed and strengthened by the presence of her angels? Had they not enabled her to ease Rebecca’s pain?
She looked up. “Will she live?” Polly asked.
“I don’t know,” Charity said with a sigh, turning to gather the bowls and pitchers and pestles and spoons that were strewn here and there on the table. “She will never see again, that much I can say for certain.”
Polly busied herself helping her sister. She had become more sensitive to signs since she had come to The City of Hope, for everything appeared to have meaning here beyond its earthly significance. Now, just as she wondered whether Ben’s hatred of her signaled his deliverance from the miseries of his past life, she wondered if Sister Rebecca’s accident had been some sort of test.
I am thinking like Charity, she mused. But then, perhaps she had never before felt safe enough to believe in the greater implications of small things. If this had been a test, she had not failed, though she had taken a great risk in forcing something akin to a Vision. Why could she not redeem herself by believing in the power of her gifts to heal?
Polly sat nervously, her back straight in the chair before Elder Sister Agnes. They had met a handful of times now, and the eldress had pressed more and more firmly for her to confess.
“You know that it is one of our most important principles,” she said irritably, “and yet you insist on delay. If the believers here did not put such store by your gifts as a Visionist, I would have asked you to leave long ago.”
Though Polly knew this to be true, it was a shock to hear it spoken so plainly. She looked into her lap.
“Now,” the eldress continued, “I have heard talk of your ministrations to Sister Rebecca. Is it true that you visited her and filled her head with what can only be…misplaced hope?”
Polly looked up. “I do not see it that way,” she said, a flash of anger in her eyes. “It is true—I wondered at first if I could do what she asked. But then, they came. My angels. They came and filled the air around her and gave her great comfort. How can I deny a sister who lies blind and wrapped like a mummy in her bed? Would you have had me turn away?”
Elder Sister Agnes’s face softened. “No, Sister Polly. You are right—I would not.” She paused. “How you vex me, child! I have seen sisters—the first Visionists—taken over by the same powers you are thought to possess. I know that such gifts exist. And yet, I am well acquainted with young girls, their thirst for attention—worse still, their ability to use that attention towards their own selfish ends. How can I be certain that you are not abusing the trust that has been placed in you?”
Polly did not answer her right away. “I cannot do more than to give myself over when the Spirits take me. And, as I have said before, I cannot explain why it is they have chosen me.”
“Then confess your sins to me that I might see to it that your soul is clean.” Her face had never looked so stern. The moment had come.
Polly spied a small leather-bound book lying on the gleaming table in front of Elder Sister Agnes. Her eyes hovered over the words embossed into the cover: Youth’s Guide in Zion By Holy Mother Wisdom.
Looking to the eldress, she tried to discern whether or not she was meant to open it.
“Read to me, Sister Polly,” the Elder Sister said. “Before you begin, there is a power in the Heavens with whom you should be better acquainted. She is Holy Mother Wisdom, equal to our Holy Father Jesus Christ. Her word is divine and eternal and her power is great. You must know her as do all the children in The City of Hope—by reciting her commandments and humbling yourself before her will. This is how we begin.”
Polly bowed her head and opened the cover. Her hands shook. Elder Sister Agnes held a wooden form covered by an unfinished basket, its thinly shaved splints made from the pounded branches of black ash fanning out, as yet unwoven. They made an odd sight, like stiff hairs springing from an uncombed head. Make no mistake, Polly thought, the eldress will succeed in bending and weaving them into order.
She began to read.
I am Infinite Wisdom. I dwell with the Eternal Father, and have known all things and transactions of both good and evil spirits on the earth and in the heavens, ever since the beginning and the creation thereof. I know the mighty power of God. I know the hosts of hell, and I know the greater and stronger hosts of heaven.
I also know the cunning craftiness of evil spirits, and the great influence they have on the souls of mortal creatures, and especially upon the young and inexperienced mind.
As order is heaven’s first law; so must all things that pertain to heaven be strictly kept in heavenly and perfect order.
I am Eternal Wisdom, and in my wisdom have I stated the order of souls to keep in regard to this book, and if any should break my orders, they lose my blessing, and unless they confess their carelessness, and beg my blessing to their Elders, it shall not rest on them.
Polly looked up. Elder Sister Agnes forced each shaved splint in and out of the weave. Her hands were strong, for basket-weaving was the chief work of the Elder Brothers and Sisters. The long, slim strips dipped and reared up, dipped and reared up; she was expert at pushing and curling the thin sliver of soft wood, forcing it to join the other strips until it lay, like them, pressed along the oval-shaped basket form in service to industry.
“Do you know anything of craftiness and cunning, Sister?” The eldress did not look up as she spoke. “Were they part of your former life? The World has tempted many of our believers down such paths. I wonder if it tempted you as well.”
Polly stared at the clock hanging from a peg on the wall. The plain case was made up of a square atop a rectangle precisely two times its size. The shapes were, like everything here, in perfect balance. Only its face appeared ripe in its roundness, carefully contained within a square glass frame as if the lush curve might somehow be contagious. A fine machine, it ticked away the minutes and hours with heartless precision. “I can say,” she answered, “that I never behaved knowingly in such a manner, Elder Sister.”
“You were a help then, to your flesh kin? A daughter they thought to be a blessing?”
This last word—blessing—unnerved Polly. She had never had cause to consider the term because nothing in her life or in the lives of those around her could be called a “blessing.” It was only here that she had heard it used, and each time it had felt like a hand on her shoulder, an exhalation of cold, fresh air.
“My mother and father did not think in terms of blessings,” she said. “They led a difficult life, and it is not easy to reflect on good fortune when bad knocks so persistently at the door.”
This seemed to quiet Elder Sister Agnes a moment; then she directed Polly to read on.
Section IV, number 7. Seek not to display any great talents in time; for that belongs to, and is of the children of darkness; by which they gain glory one of another; but have none of God.
“Great talents, Sister Polly. Do yo
u think that Holy Mother Wisdom would fault you for seeking to show such things?” Elder Sister Agnes did not look up from her basket when she spoke. “Might you be ‘of the children of darkness’?”
Polly pondered the question. She had not sought to display any great talent. She had only fled into her mind when the world around her—its noise, its smell, its touch—became too much for her to bear. Was she “of the children of darkness” each time she fell into the dreams where she had so long taken refuge? The Elder Sister’s questions shook her. Did the wisdom she supposedly gave to the believers exist if she could not fathom its source?
“I have not sought to mislead,” she said. “Nor to claim attention, if that is what you mean by ‘darkness.’”
“And what else could I have meant by ‘darkness,’ Sister?” At this, Elder Sister Agnes looked up and stared Polly straight in the eye. “Can it be that you were thinking of some other manifestation?”
Polly attempted to keep her voice steady. “I…I have only known the darkness I feel before my dreams come to me, for they exist to pull me away. They are a shield. But it is different here. My mind fills with angels and other voices both when I am happy and when I am afraid. And they come when I feel the need for them in others, like Sister Rebecca. I do not take them lightly, Elder Sister, if that is what you fear.”
“Read,” the eldress replied.
Section V, number 6. The true cross-bearer forsakes the pleasures of time, and curbs the strong desires of nature. Such souls feast upon the love of God, and taste the sweet pleasures of eternal life in the world to come; yet dwell in a house of clay.
“And what do you make of that verse, Sister Polly? Is it possible that you can envision ‘sweet pleasures’ because you have tasted them yourself?”
This Polly could answer quickly, and she did so with some annoyance. “I have never tasted ‘sweet pleasures,’ nor had any need of curbing desire. Indeed, when I behold the believers pass the Horn of Plenty in Meeting and laugh to receive its bounty, I envy them. For they know what I do not, and that is pleasure, even if it is of the holiest and purest kind.” Polly spoke without regard to what she was saying. She could not stop herself. “As to desire, I imagine the taste of such a thing to be bitter and disgusting beyond words. No, Elder Sister, I can envision nothing of what is written here.”
Her answer was met with silence, but Polly had the feeling that the eldress was listening to her words with something akin to sympathy. “Go on, child,” she said, waving her hand.
Section VI, number 22. A record is surely kept of the lives of all souls; and ye whose names are entered and written in the book of life will be tried by the record of your own lives; and if ye are found wanting on the day of your trial, better would it have been for you had there been a millstone tied to your necks, and ye cast into the sea, ere your names be written in the BOOK OF LIFE.
Elder Sister Agnes put down her basket and gazed round the room. She looked tired, her face gray and lined, her eyes a metal blue. “Have you ever feared that you would be judged harshly by the Book of Life, Sister Polly? Is that why you resist confession?”
Polly looked at her feet. Her thoughts snagged on death, on whether things would have been better had she tied a millstone to her neck. How often she had been tempted. How many mornings she had risen to watch Mama’s misery unfold and wondered if it would not be better to die. It had so often seemed the only escape. But then little Ben would clamor to be fed, and the cows would need milking, and her mother would require help gathering in berries, or wild onions, or potatoes, and before Polly could think much more about the freedom granted by the grave, she was through yet another day and lying in wait for what night would bring.
“I cannot say, Elder Sister, how my name will be written.” Polly paused before going on. “But, though I know it is a sin, I have often thought to die of my own hand. It is only since I arrived here that my mind has been free of such evil ideas.”
The Elder Sister’s face softened, to Polly’s great surprise, and her voice became kind. “What could drive a young girl to contemplate such an end?”
“I…I suppose it is something that no one so good as you could understand,” Polly replied. Her voice was shaking now and she felt she might cry. She must not show weakness; it would only open a hole in her armor.
The older woman seemed to drift into another world before fastening her regard once more on Polly’s face. “I believe I know why you came here, Sister Polly. It was fire that drove you away from your home, was it not?”
Polly’s heart stopped, then resumed a quick beating. She must tread carefully. She must not tell the whole truth but she mustn’t lie either. Why, of late—though she dropped the lamp when her father surprised her—she could not be certain as to whether or not she had truly intended to kill him. She hated him with all her heart. Could she have dragged him through the flames and saved him? Was that her crime: to leave him lying in his bed? She shook her head at the memory of the heat and smoke, the moving ball of fire that leapt from the house and filled that final glance back.
She could not explain any of this. Mama forbade her, and though she did not understand why, she had the sense that her actions could be misconstrued. Arson, murder. If they were pinned on her, she would be hanged. “Yes,” she answered, looking into Elder Sister Agnes’s eyes. “There was a fire at our house. My mother and Ben and I came upon it on our way home from town. As my mother told you, my father left us. There was no one to save, so we rode away. Rode away and Mama brought us here.”
“Your father,” the eldress said. “Why do you think he has not come for you? Surely it takes a hard man not to come home after hearing that his wife and children have suffered a fire. And then there is the land. Why would he not claim it for his own and sell the ruin?”
Polly looked to the window and saw that the afternoon had turned dark. What could she say?
She stared blankly at her eldress. “I cannot tell you what happened to my father, Elder Sister Agnes. He hasn’t come looking is all I know.”
The eldress held her gaze, seemed to be looking beneath Polly’s very skin for the answer to what she hoped would be the final question. “So who will tend to the property now?” she asked. “Is that why your Mama left you here? So that she might rebuild it on her own? Seems strange that a woman alone would attempt such a thing. With your father merely ‘gone,’ do you even know if the farm was hers?”
Polly was confused by so practical a question. In truth, she’d not thought for a moment about the farm since asking her mother that first night if it had belonged to Silas. She had been so eager to put behind her the life she once led, she had not considered matters of ownership.
“As it does not apply to me, Elder Sister,” she answered haltingly, “I know nothing of the law regarding damaged property. Perhaps you could explain…?”
Elder Sister Agnes pursed her thin lips. Her basket was almost finished, ready to take its place as a tool in the universe of useful things. This one had been fashioned with a flat lid that slid up and down the handle so that flowers and leaves collected from the fields and gardens would not blow away, would not escape to rejoin the earth and replenish it. How like the believers, gathered in and bound to such ordered isolation from the World.
Polly sighed and turned to the final page of her pamphlet, dropping her head in supplication to the rules written out before her. Her candle barely lit the words as she struggled to make them out in the flicker of its flame. She did not wait for the order to read.
It was a poem. She had once loved poems. With words free from precise meaning, they reminded her of dreams. She had found them in books that lined her walls against the cold, books she had borrowed from Miss Laurel, books that had been Polly’s secret. Full of poetry, stories, essays—waking dreams so sacred that not even her mother knew of the fullness they made inside her mind.
He never knew. He would have torn out the pages and burned them in a rage. He did not trust those of a bookish turn.
He could neither read nor write, scorning the habit, using his hatred of it as a marker to isolate himself from others. He only allowed Polly to attend school because he needed someone who could make the count when buying and selling goods in town. But each day, those hours in the schoolroom—they were the only gift he ever gave her. And then, only because he did not come searching.
Mother Wisdom’s Promise. Her eyes could barely focus. Elder Sister Agnes broke her silence only to tell Polly to skip to the final verses.
Now think of this, ye helpless worms!
Ye little specks of mortal clay!
Since at our word all heaven turns,
Dare ye presume to disobey?
Dare ye presume to scoff at God?
And mock and scorn his holy power?
Beware, I say, lest with his rod
He smite your souls in that same hour.
O little children, could you know
The call of mercy unto you,
You’d sacrifice all things below,
And cast off nature clear from you,
The world with its alluring charms
Of pleasure false and vain delight,
Its riches, husbands, wives and farms
Would be disgusting in your sight.
No questions followed, yet Polly could not help pondering what she had read. Disgusting. The farm where she last knew a mother and a father. She saw the porch and the narrow front door. She heard the sound of crying, of bellowing, of dishes breaking, of misery. She smelled the choking burn of smoke. Was he still alive? Could it have been her father’s form bursting through the door in flames? Would he travel the same road as had she to find her here?
She did not understand the poem. She had known no “alluring charms,” no “pleasure false or vain delight.” She had known the World to be hard and dirty, a poor and embittering place, her father ruling its domain as Mother Ann ruled Her believers. Had he, like Her, the power to move through souls?
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