The Visionist: A Novel
Page 21
Sister by sister and brother by brother, we filed into the meetinghouse and took our places. The very elders who had, not an hour earlier, patrolled our chambers, now stood behind a long table that had been draped with a bright white cloth.
No one spoke, for it had not been made evident whether this was a moment for laughter or seriousness. Even in our uncertainty, we were astounded by the sight before us, for arranged upon the table were tens upon tens of small paper hearts—each about the size of a person’s palm, all covered in tiny writing. None of us had ever seen anything like them, for believers were rarely allowed to put pen to paper for any but the most practical of reasons. How then, I wondered, had these glorious hearts come into being?
Entering in a blast of wind and snow, Elder Brother Caleb walked the aisle between us and stopped in front of the table. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, but also, I think, from excitement. Such a string of miracles as had taken place since Sister Polly’s arrival had reawakened in him, perhaps more than in any other believer, a sense of the divine. His ecstasy wafted round him like a flower’s heavy perfume, the effect part intoxicating, part overwhelming.
“We have been blessed on this frigid night,” he said, beaming. “Over the past fortnight, our dear Sister Cora Ann Reed has received a most remarkable gift. Not a one of us knew of it, thus not a one could have predicted that it would be the Cry that told her how and when to bestow it. But tonight, the voice of Our Heavenly Father and Holy Mother whispered into her ear and asked that she present the penned messages you will read on each of these hearts. Every last believer residing in The City of Hope was named unto her, and through her gift, every last one of you will receive the Word.”
He stepped behind the table to join the others while Elder Sister Agnes walked solemnly to the front. Her regard was not the hardened gaze to which we had all become accustomed. Rather, she looked out upon the assembled congregation with serenity, even joy. It occurred to me that perhaps Sister Cora Ann’s gift felt somehow more real to her because of the labor it had required, for it was indeed an impressive display of devotion.
“I see nervousness etched into the faces of some of the believers sitting before me,” my eldress said. “For if spoken to so directly by the Divine, how can we not tremble beneath the gaze of Her all-seeing eye? But I am here to say that you have nothing to fear, for not one of these hearts bears a message of chastisement. We shall call each of you by name, and when you hear it, you may walk slowly to the table and bow down to receive your blessing and be glad.”
Nothing like this had ever taken place. What blessing, I wondered, will be written on my heart? Elder Sister Agnes had been clear that the gifts spoke not of wrongdoing, yet in my confused state, I could not imagine that Mother’s message to me would be a simple one. My body continued to bear the Devil’s scrawl, I had favored my beloved friendship over union with my sisters, I had ignored the warnings of the very eldress who created me as a believer, and I had fallen under the spell of the red book. At strange moments, in the most private recesses of my mind, I had even allowed myself to question some of the beliefs I had long held to be set in stone. Where is Sister Polly?, I suddenly wondered.
Scanning the crowded hall, I finally found her, her face pallid, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Was she feverish or afraid? I could not tell, though I knew from what she had tried to say to me earlier in the evening that she and I held the same swirl of emotion within. We were as linked in doubt as we were in love.
One by one, upon hearing their names, believers walked to the table and lowered themselves onto bended knee. The litany was hypnotic, and given the lateness of the hour I found it lulling until I heard my own. Then my heart seemed to flutter awake, and I found myself rising unsteadily from my place and walking towards the table.
Before bending down in humility, I saw that Elder Sister Agnes neither repelled nor welcomed me with her gaze. She simply lifted one of the hearts from the table and placed it in my outstretched hands. I bowed my head in thanks, rose, and turned to go back to my seat.
While others seemed barely to be able to contain their curiosity—reading the slanted letters that leaned across the tiny hearts as if fighting a wind—I could barely look upon the paper in my hands. It felt cool and light, as though it might fly away if I did not pay it proper attention. Still, I left it lie, my hands trembling and growing moist at the notion that I was to receive yet another message. It was true that this one was not from the Devil, but I feared its meaning would be just as inscrutable.
In this moment of uncertainty, I was fortunate to be saved by the utterance of a single name. “Benjamin,” I heard Elder Brother Caleb say gently. “Will you come and receive your sacred gift?”
Turning towards Sister Polly—who must have been called while I was lost in worry, for she held her folded heart tightly in her hand—I saw her jaw tense and her eyes go hard. She had suffered mightily for the loss of her Ben. Perhaps if he had occasionally nodded or smiled upon her, she could have learned to show and receive love in small dollops. It is our way, after all. But I know now that the bond between blood relations has its own sanctity. Why else would I feel so palpably the pain that rocks my beloved friend when she sees her brother turn away his head as he passes by on his way to the barn, or the schoolhouse, or his place beside Brother Andrew in the dining hall? She says nothing to me and I know it is because she thinks I cannot understand. But the truth is, I have changed.
On the opposite side of the room, the brethren in one of the aisles stood and shuffled about looking downwards as though a runt pig had been let loose at their feet and no one could see where it might upset next. But then the bodies directly across from Polly parted to make room and Benjamin was suddenly standing so close she could have touched him. He froze a moment, unsure how to move through this mass of people, his brethren crowded as far to one side as he could see, his sisters to the other. He looked tiny and unsure, and I wondered if, in this unguarded moment, Sister Polly would try to catch him up in her arms and if he would fight it. His thin legs shook as he took his first step, then his next and his next until he was near running at the table. Some of the believers laughed softly at how erratically the little boy moved, while others saw only a reaction to the miracle at hand so pure that it knew no regulation, no self-consciousness, no propriety. Benjamin was Mother Wisdom’s and the Holy Father’s smallest gem, and as such, he received special attention from the elders beaming down at him.
He reached the white-cloaked table and stood before it with his head tucked down so far that his chin touched his chest. “You may look up, child,” said Elder Sister Agnes kindly. “You need not fear your heart, for Holy Father cherishes you best of all and sends only his love and gratitude. Here, hold his words yourself and see if they do not fill you with strength.” Slowly, Benjamin raised his head, reaching out his cupped hands as though he expected the heart to turn to water. But before bestowing it upon him, Elder Sister Agnes did a most astonishing thing. She raised the piece of paper up and brought it to her lips, kissing it lightly before placing it in the boy’s grasp.
“You have worked hard to be a good believer, Benjamin,” she said. “You have made many here in your new family glad. Keep this blessing close to your heart that you may draw strength from its wisdom and truth for all your years to come.” Elder Sister Agnes was still smiling when she looked up and found Sister Polly’s gaze. She seemed to be speaking to the both of them.
Benjamin took the paper heart and stared at it. As he turned and walked back to his place, he was visible for only a moment before the brethren shuffled and enfolded him into their numbers once more and I lost sight of him. Then, there he was again, his hands reaching up towards Brother Andrew’s chest. He was begging his caretaker to read the message, and as the brother leaned down to whisper it in Ben’s ear, the meaning of what had been written upon the little boy’s heart became clear and his eyes grew wide and serious before melting into the gaze of one who has heard a most wondr
ous thing.
The time had come for me to read what Holy Mother had directed Sister Cora Ann to write for me. I looked down at the paper in my hands. It was adorned at the top with a picture of a dove, as cunningly drawn as anything I had ever seen. These were the words that followed:
Blessed Sister Charity, Cherished Daughter of Holy Father and Mother. Know that ye are loved. Know that thy devotion is a Beacon to All. Know well that thy Soul is true and thy Heart strong. Mother tests the Strong and waits for the Weak to raise themselves up or Fall Away. Thou shall endure thy Trials, which will show thee the Path of the Devoted such that thou shall never Fall Prey to Doubt again. Thou shall know thy goodness and find it to be sound. Certainty shall be thy Reward, for Mother knows thee to be among the most steadfast of Believers.
I closed my eyes. Mother had seen my doubts and decided that I should be tested until I proved myself to be true. Some of these trials would, I suspected, come as a surprise to me. But the heart told me that one such test was inevitable, and the mere contemplation of it filled me with dread.
The Path of the Devoted. I knew it by another name: a dance called The Narrow Path. The journey along its thin line would be perilous, and I could not be certain as to when I would undertake it. I knew only that its completion would determine my fate as a believer.
Simon Pryor
CYNICISM COMES AS naturally to the sniffer as does wariness to the snitch. It preserves him from underestimating life’s capacity to disappoint. I had written to the Shaker sister, asking if I might be allowed to pass even five minutes speaking in private to Polly Kimball. Her reply was swift and short: I would be allowed to meet the girl so long as I brought May Kimball with me. The Shaker people did not permit encounters between men and women, never mind one without a chaperone, never mind one when the man in question was “of the World.” Though “of the World” had an appealingly dapper ring to it, I knew that the classification placed me in a caste of the lowest sort. May Kimball, I assumed, would be installed nearby to ensure nothing untoward took place. Now, my task was to find her before her daughter broke down and said anything to anyone but me.
Finding May without revealing her whereabouts to another soul became my mission. She alone would be allowed to speak to her daughter once I explained to her that I would be reporting the fire as an accident. No one except Peeles and the Shaker sister had mentioned the boy Ben to me. I do not understand how a family hides a child from the world—nor, for that matter, why—but clearly it was not as difficult as I had assumed. Of all the parties interested in the land, only Trask appeared the least bit gentlemanly, though his manner could, I suppose, be chalked up to inexperience. It takes practice to become a rogue.
Business, always business, kept me moving forward. James Hurlbut—of whom I’d been blessedly free since handing in my report—had requested a rendezvous, but he had refused to tell me why. I could not resist annoying the man and thus arranged to meet him in the foulest tavern I could find. It was early yet, and though I’d spent the morning writing and delivering an account of my meeting with “Sister” Agnes to Barnabas Trask—as promised, a letter divulging the whereabouts of both Kimball children—I suddenly felt that I had aged twenty years since the balmy days of summer. Dread and defeat beat upon my bones like the clapper in a church bell, for I worried over what I had to get done before Polly Kimball said anything about the fire to Elder Sister Agnes. The terror in the girl’s eyes when she saw me was a clear enough indication that she was hiding something. She knew that her tale, once told, would change everything.
I called for a tumbler of whiskey and then another, hoping to steel myself against the memories that rose up whenever I found myself in the presence of James Hurlbut. The January wind blew hard outside, and the air was so cold that it seemed to freeze one’s breath solid before it had a chance to fill the lungs. Still, as he threw open the door to the saloon, it was clear that Hurlbut had taken to heart none of the usual sartorial precautions of winter survival. He was dressed, ever the dandy, in colors gay as a hummingbird—rose satin cravat, blue velvet waistcoat, cream coat lined with a light-hued fur, emerald-green pantaloons, white gloves, and length enough of gold watch guard to have hanged himself. I was, I will admit, particularly intrigued by his hat—a veritable uproar of plumage. Why he should have thought to make such an effort in honor of so low a visit I cannot imagine. Such is the quirkiness of the very rich; they attend to all the wrong things.
“Pryor,” he said, stiffly. “Face-to-face for the first time in a long time.”
“Master Hurlbut,” I answered, raising my glass.
Though I had never minded the title myself, Hurlbut hated to be called “master,” for it made him sound like little more than the schoolboy he had once been, his father’s youngest son.
“This setting suits you, Pryor,” he replied, “however much it may disgust me.”
“Better in here than out there,” I said, watching him arrange his clothing about him, a florid shield against the smell of old smoke and alcohol. “Nothing like a warm tavern on an icy day now, is there?”
“The delights of your place of business interest me not at all. I am here simply to tell you that I require your services once again, relating to the Kimball matter.”
“Ah,” I said. “And what might you be requiring of me this time?”
“I would like you to find May Kimball and bring her to me.”
I signaled to the barkeep for another whiskey. Though I knew he wouldn’t take me up on it, I expressly did not ask if my employer wanted anything—he got more than enough out of me as far as I was concerned. “And if I refuse?” I asked.
Hurlbut stared at his well-groomed fingernails before moving to place his hands on the table and then thinking better of it. He was trying to figure out how best to get what he came for. Oily flattery would get him nowhere, as we knew each other far too well. Infantile rage would make it plain that I’d gotten his goat. He settled on humiliation.
“Never one to come through when it counts, eh Pryor?” His voice dropped low. “Oh, you laugh at me, but you know well enough how pathetic you are. My lapdog all these years. So long as there’s a purse in it, you’re a man who’d abandon his own family.”
He let his allusion hang in the air.
“Reminders of the past do nothing to change our present situation,” I said. “I won’t do it. Anything else?”
Hurlbut’s eyes blazed beneath his ridiculous headdress. “You forget how near to your mother and father I reside, Pryor. Do you no longer fear for their well-being?”
“If you make things difficult for anyone close to me,” I said, leaning forward, “I’ll open my little box of Hurlbut keepsakes. Lots in there that could cause you inconvenience.”
He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. “Strange, you’ve never threatened me before. It’s that May Kimball, isn’t it? I had a hunch you’d taken an interest in the woman. Perhaps a more personal one than I’d originally assumed, though she is a bit…mature for you, don’t you think? Then again, well within your class, Pryor. What an old goat you are,” he said, smiling lasciviously.
Dropping his grin, he barked: “Cramby!”
I hadn’t noticed the messenger’s dark, stooped figure, lurking in the corner.
“Ready the carriage! Apparently, Mister Pryor has more important things to pursue than his work as an investigator for the humble likes of us.”
The beleaguered messenger looked at me with an odd expression on his face. Hurlbut’s back was turned, so the miserable wretch knew he couldn’t be seen. Staring into my eyes, he asked loudly, “Will I be readying the horses for the auction tomorrow, sir?”
Hurlbut pushed back his chair roughly and swatted his gloves impatiently. “Whatever does that matter now, you cretin. Just do as I’ve asked and get me out of this…hogs’ sty.” He grunted as he stood. “The woman is easily found, Pryor. You just need to know where to look—apparently a talent that eludes you. We’ll speak again.”
Hurlbut smiled.
“You are not the only one I can turn to, Pryor. For if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s never to trust the word of a lone man. Gives him a bit too much control for my taste. The loose ends I may or may not have come across? Well, let us say that it is lucky I have men besides you who are capable of handling them.”
A cold blast filled the tavern as he swirled his cape and stamped out of sight.
Time had made shabby and mean the town of my earliest days, or so it seemed to one who had last walked its streets as a boy. Even on a winter morning such as this, I remember running through the bustle of the main street, calling out to the shopkeepers, the blacksmith, the town gossips and spinsters as though they were distant members of a large and jolly family. I felt that I knew Burns’ Hollow as well as it knew me and, in such reciprocal recognition, discovered the satisfaction of being certain where I belonged.
But I had not come to reminisce. As advertised on the poster Barnabas Trask and I had seen pinned up in the courthouse, today was the day of the town’s pauper auction and no doubt the streets were quiet because so many inhabitants had already settled in their places to watch the spectacle. I passed drawn shades and signs reading CLOSED. My horse shied as a mongrel leapt from an alleyway with its teeth bared, but I kept on steadily until the windows of my father’s print shop came into view. They were lit against the gloom of the winter day. As I had found him so many other times, he was at work. It didn’t surprise me: He was a man who would never participate in such a foul tradition. I pulled my mount up short and shifted the brim of my hat down low over my face. I’d snuck in like a bandit.