They reached the stairs, which gleamed free of tattling dust. Up they climbed to the floor where the older sisters and brethren slept. Past door after door, the healing room lay at the end of the corridor. But there was no talc spread about the older believers’ hallway, and Polly wondered why they should be trusted when the younger ones were not. After all, she knew a thing or two about the movements of grown men in the dark. They reached the healing room and Charity lifted the latch quietly before sliding into the darkness.
Within moments of the door clicking shut behind them, Charity lit a candle and pulled an apron on over her nightdress. She felt about atop one of the shelves, took down a brick of dried leaves, placed it on her worktable, and shaved it with a sharp knife. Slices curled under the blade, and when she reckoned that she had enough, she swept them into a dish and placed it on a scale. Polly watched without moving as her friend waited for the bouncing balance to be still, then peered at the weight by candlelight. Back at the table, Charity shaved off two more curls, then wrapped the brick in a paper printed with the words Lady’s Slipper.
She looked up at Polly and said, “I have been reading through my journals. It has taken me too long to find a curative for what ails you, but I believe that now I know. I shall mix this with catmint and brew a tea for you to drink. It will bring you calm and ease the cramps. Then I shall make a salve and rub it into your stomach. Will that be all right?”
There is evil in me no salve can cure, Polly thought. Soon enough, Charity will find that out for herself.
On the stove, a kettle had been put to boil and soon the room filled with the smell of wintergreen and rhubarb, for no remedy is simple; even the tea Charity poured into a handled cup had been made up of many leaves, drops, and powders. It reminded Polly of a witch’s brew, though she knew that the truth was quite the opposite. She looked round the room where she had sat for so many hours calling her angels to Rebecca’s side. She understood then that the girl had come into her life for a reason, and since her death, she had come to know why. For the young sister had passed but a few days after Polly discovered her curse. In that time, when Polly had tried to summon her angels, she found she could not. They had left her forever and not even the plight of another could lure them back. Rebecca’s faith withered, and so did her will to live. She had discovered Polly to be a charlatan and it had killed her.
In spite of the hot tea, Polly shivered. Bricks of dried Saint-John’s-Wort, goldthread, elecampane, and horehound; jars of pine bark and chamomile flowers; tinctures of clove and lavender. There was no dark magic in the liquid made from catmint, lady’s slipper, and licorice root that Charity had given her. With such a horror inside her womb, mightn’t Polly have needed medicine of a blacker sort? Yearning for her heart to stop racing, Polly lowered her head and drained the last drops from the cup. She would trust her friend. What else could she do?
“I have finished,” she said. “What now?” Charity was back at the table, this time using a pestle to mash something sticky and strong-smelling.
She looked up and brushed away a wisp of auburn hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed from her efforts, and though her eyes shone brightly, Polly could see that she was nervous. “You will find a sheet in the cupboard,” she said absently. “Lie on that table by the stove and cover yourself with it. Then slip off your nightdress. That is, if you are willing.”
As Polly lay upon the table, she noticed that she had begun to feel sleepy. The room, no longer cool and sharp in the near dark, was warm, soft, and full of distant noises. A log crackled inside the stove. Charity’s marble mortar and pestle chimed dully as she scraped the paste she had made into a larger bowl. Polly’s mind drifted as she looked about the room, its shelves and cabinets filled with all manner of medicine. The bigger bottles contained leaves and bark and the dried heads of flowers. Then there were the bricks of pressed herbs wrapped carefully in their papers. A blade, some scissors, a pill cutter, strips of clean muslin, several buckets of springwater, the long, cradlelike bed in the corner. Polly took all of it in as the smells of forest and field, tree and flower—now sweet, now earthy, now bitter, now tart—filled her senses. The room had both awakened her and made her feel that she was sinking into a bottomless pile of feathers. Questions passed through her mind, then drifted away before she could catch them. But there was one she had to ask, for she was drawn to the small dark bottles that lined the uppermost shelf.
“Tell me,” she said, in a faraway voice, “what is in the high vials, the ones no one could reach without a step-up?”
Charity glanced to where Polly indicated, then looked quickly back to her bowl. “They are nothing for you to mind about,” she said. “No one but myself and Elder Sister Agnes is allowed to handle what’s in those bottles. They are filled with poisons.”
“But why would you have need of poison in a healing room?” Polly could not make sense of this at all. “Why would you mix such an evil concoction?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Charity said gently. She was by the table now, with her hand on Polly’s brow. “It is true: More than a drop and you can kill a grown man. But the tiniest bit, taken over time, will kill the ill inside him and leave him whole.”
“What kind of poison?” Polly asked. “And what sort of ill? Something in his soul? Something mortification cannot tame?”
“No,” Charity said, smiling now, “I am talking of wolfsbane, angelica, belladonna, bittersweet, water hemlock, thorn apple, foxglove, hellebore, wild mandrake, opium poppy, burning bush, rue. They won’t kill if you know how to give them, and it’s not evil they slay, but actual creatures—worms and the like. It’s strange, what takes shelter inside us. Now hush your questions and lay quiet awhile. My hands are warm and I’ve mixed the salve with hot water, so it shouldn’t be too much of a shock when you feel me touch your stomach. There, do you see?”
Something warm and slippery was being kneaded into Polly’s gut. Charity’s hands were gentle, and Polly noticed as she stared up at her friend that she was concentrating intensely.
“I don’t feel anything hard,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “That is a good thing. Nor swollen up neither.”
Indeed, Polly’s insides seemed to be melting under the heat of the salve and the movement of her sister’s hands. Had she discovered the truth?
“I am thinking of September,” Charity said. “The Harvest Feast. Have I spoken of it before?” She gazed down.
Polly’s thoughts had begun to unravel. “You have never told me,” she said. “Describe it to me now so that I can close my eyes and picture it.”
“All right,” Charity answered. “Then you must travel to a holy place in your imagination, as do we. And you must feel it to be real.” Her hands massaged Polly’s stomach, and she was silent a moment before beginning her story.
The room spun as Polly floated above the table. Her skin tingled and her mind felt webby and dim. She was somewhere far away—a place she had never been to before—still, she knew her friend was close by, for she could hear her distant voice.
It is the eve before the feast, when sister by sister and brother by brother line up to receive such heavenly garments as they will wear on the morrow. The air is sweet and full of the last smells of late summer. In the meetinghouse, the Elder Brethren and Elder Sisters reach into a golden trunk encrusted with rubies and emeralds and sapphires.
Charity leaned in and Polly felt her warm breath against her ear. “Do you see it, Sister Polly?” she asked. “For were you a visitor from the World, you would not. We would appear to rest in our somber frocks, bending and bowing and exclaiming over a celestial beauty you could never understand. But can you, Sister, see it in your mind?”
“Yes,” Polly said dreamily. “You have made it real. Please don’t stop.”
Gathered in our robes, bathed in the rays of the rising sun we gleam as one, a beacon of faith fit to blind all the evil in the World. We circle round the field that empties into a path lead
ing up to our high altar atop the sacred mountain we call Zion. Then we fall into line, two-by-two, marching up the rise singing:
To the Mount we are going
With our voices sounding shrill
And our hearts unite in praises
While we mount this holy hill.
The verse passes down through our ranks and we sing each round in rhythm with our stride. At the summit a celestial feast awaits, laid out in splendor within the five-sided plot of sacred ground. Young Sister Anna sings her song of blessing as she walks the perimeter:
I am a pretty dove
Just come from above
With Holy Mother’s love and blessing
I will feed you with crumbs
That will satisfy your souls
And promise of great strength possessing
The feast commences, and as we pass a golden Horn of Plenty and sing songs of worship, all believers spin in the ecstasy of love. Sister kisses sister, brother kisses brother, and we are, all of us, taken up with the laughing gift for quite a time. AH HA HA! How our mirth rings out! We dance and dance and make ourselves merry from drink poured out of golden amphorae into silver chalices as the pleasures of the harvest—dew-drenched grapes, peaches, corn, squash, tomatoes—spill out and cover our table.
“How beautiful,” Polly murmured. “How I wish I could be there.” Charity continued her ministrations, talking, talking…
Yes, but to one from the World who might hide in the bushes and peer at us through the leaves, our hands, our gullets, our stomachs would seem empty. To that man we might seem only to be engaged in an elaborate pantomime. No chalice, no Horn, no gowns, no food or drink. The interloper would see nothing because ignorance blinds the faithless…
Polly felt she was dancing upon ground that was padded with fallen pine needles. Her arms floated airily at her sides and her feet moved as quickly as the beating of a bird’s wings. Everything was beautiful around her. Every soul was pure and filled with happiness. She drank, and the wine deepened the colors she saw before her. She ate, and the succulent juices flowed down her chin. How she was laughing, laughing…
“Sister?” The voice came from far off in the forest. Polly could barely hear it among the sound of heavenly voices singing. “Sister?” It was louder now, and the golden light, the smell of almonds and honey, the taste of fruit on her tongue—all of it faded as the voice spoke again. “Sister Polly? Are you awake now?”
Polly opened her eyes and the room around her appeared dark and forbidding, Charity’s face closed, inscrutable. “We must leave here. We cannot be found when the morning bell sounds.”
“I saw it,” Polly said, her thoughts difficult to marshal. “All of it. We were together, dancing and laughing. I saw everything.”
“Come,” Charity said. “You must come now…”
Polly tried to pull herself up from the table. “No, wait…”
“We must go now,” Charity insisted, looking about nervously.
The room swayed as Polly tried again to sit up. “Do you understand? I am not the interloper of whom you spoke. I cannot be him, for I did see—”
“Hush now.” There was an edge in Charity’s voice as she helped Polly up. “Say nothing and come silent with me now.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Polly wanted to reach out and brush them away, but she had to keep on.
“I am…”
Charity looked hard at her. Suddenly, Polly understood.
“You…you,” Charity stammered, hardly able to speak. “You are with child. I felt it inside…” She turned from the table to hide her tears.
The world quivered as Polly swung down her legs and slid her feet to the floor. She tried to walk to her friend’s side. She knew this moment would come and now that it was upon her she could think of nothing but the emptiness she would feel if she lost Charity’s love.
“You cannot know…” Polly tried to explain, for she felt her friend slipping away just like the dream of the Harvest Feast. “How sorry…” She paused and looked about her. Nothing in the room could fix what she had broken. “I tried to tell you that I was not good enough. I don’t…”
“Please, stop talking,” Charity whispered, her back to Polly. “I do not want to know anything more.”
She turned and handed Polly her nightdress without looking at her, then spun away as Polly pulled it over her head. Polly’s heart felt as though it had been cut in two. One half was broken over the friend she had lost, the other steely with truth.
“Please, leave me alone,” Charity said. “I have work and you…well, you should not be here.”
“But I have need of your help,” Polly begged. “Only you can tell me…can you give me…” She looked up at the poisons on the shelf.
Charity watched her coldly. “You think that I would…that I would help you cover your lie?” she asked. “You have stolen everything I…everything the believers have given you. How could I have trusted…?” She looked away.
“If I can find no cure in this room, then I shall have to go elsewhere,” Polly said, knotting her hands in shame. “Please. If you will not help me here, then come away with me.” Her voice quivered. “Come away. You know now that the World is a place filled as much with wonder as it is malice. And I could protect you. We could live…”
Charity wheeled round. Polly had never seen her so angry. “How dare you suggest first, that I help you hide your sin, then that I elope with you? Become a backslider and forsake everything I have held to be good and true? How dare you.” She spat her words.
Ashamed that she had, on top of all of her other failings, asked such impossibilities of her friend, Polly collected herself, walked across the room, and slid into the dark corridor. Eyes closed, she rested her head against the frame as she pulled the latch shut. All was quiet save for the sound of muffled crying.
“Go!” Charity whispered fiercely from the other side of the door. Her voice was frightened, hate-filled, and miserable all at once. “I know you are there. Go!”
Polly startled and pulled back. As she walked the long, empty corridor, she thought, We are both alone now.
Simon Pryor
FROM BEHIND THE corner of a derelict storehouse, I watched Tanner’s wagonload weave down the road and out of town. He’d got a horse thrown in for good measure, it seemed, for the poor beast was tethered close enough that I could see one of the women—May, I think—stroking his head as the cart trundled along.
I rode the side streets until I reached the track that led to Tanner’s farm. I did not need to hide myself, for I looked like any weary traveler. The main house was situated near town, but its barns lay a sight farther along the road. Though I do not mind the ripeness of country life, it is the privilege of the rich farmer never to be discomfited by the stench of piss and manure on a hot day. For me, the scent brings back the innocence of my youth. Indeed, I have always found the sweet breath of a cow in high summer more delicious by far than any maiden’s. Perhaps that is why I am not married.
I approached the horse barn, urging my mount along quickly. The place seemed empty, save for the man who drove the cart, and he left as soon as he had seen to it that the women had been herded into a couple of empty box stalls. I pulled up, swung from the saddle, and led my horse into the hay barn next door. To tie him up was to deny myself the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, and I knew he would stay. He’d been through this before.
At the mouth of the barn, I stopped to listen for voices. Whispers carried through the air loud enough to guide me to the women. A stable boy had been ordered to keep watch, but I found him slumped on an overturned bucket, wrapped against the cold in a horse blanket, sound asleep. Evidence that Tanner farmed hard? Yes, but then there was also a bottle of cider leaning on the boy’s foot. Lucky for me.
Behind him I peered through the slats of a single large stall where most of the women had been housed for the night. I could see them pressed against one another for warmth. Only one sat apart, the aged crone with a witch’s nose.
In the low light from a nearby lantern—for the afternoon gloom had fallen fast—her darting eyes gleamed. Peering into every corner, stopping only to cover herself with more hay, she was a picture of suspicion.
“Please don’t be frightened,” I whispered, chancing to make my presence known. “I mean you no harm.”
“Who’s there?” she barked, her posture suddenly alert and tense. “Show yourself!”
“Quiet now,” I whispered back. “I ask only to have a word or two. I’ll pay for your trouble.”
For a moment no one moved. Then, as she slid along the wood floor of the stall, the sharp smell of horse urine hit my nostrils. With her face close to mine, I could see the fear in her eyes. I held out three coins.
“You see, I mean to do well by you, Madam,” I said. “Here, take them.” She reached her filthy fingers through the gate and snatched the money from my hand.
“What’s it you’ve come for, boy?” she asked, fingering the coins.
I had not been called a boy in many a year, and the term made me smile.
“You may feel like a wise old man,” she said, “but you’re just a boy to me. Now out with it. What do you want?”
I looked her in the eye and asked if she knew the names of the women with whom she shared the stall. She shrugged. “Well, there are one or two I could point out. What’s it to you?”
“Can you show me May Kimball?”
She closed her mouth and regarded me with a furrowed brow. “What’s it about this May that’s so special? The man who brought us here set her aside so she could be with her horse and now here’s you, wondering about her, too. Oh, it’s no matter to me to point out where she’s been locked up. Not for a little something else in return.”
The Visionist: A Novel Page 23