“Same reason he wants them papers—so he could make sure she didn’t know nothing that might mess him up.”
“That’s the only reason he went after her?” I asked cautiously. I wanted to be certain his interest did not extend to Polly and the boy. “Hurlbut wants the assurance that neither she nor any legal documents stand in his way?”
“Well, just none Mister Scales can’t fix, sir,” said Cramby. He shrugged and gave me a knowing smile.
Was Barnabas Trask to be trusted, or was his stake in the outcome of my investigation bigger than he’d let on? Could he be “Johnny Solicitor”? To be sure, he had seemed as upright as they come, yet he’d done me a crooked turn, hiding his relationship to Benjamin Briggs and thus to May Kimball. Why, he had to have known that she carried his name in her very pocket. What was he up to?
“Can you help May Kimball just a little bit longer?” I asked Cramby. A plan had begun to come together in my head and I needed more time.
“I can and I will, sir,” he answered. “Think quick, though. She’s not long for it.”
“I know,” I said, grasping him by the shoulder. “And I know, too, that I’m asking you to go on playing fool—can you do that? You’ll be helping her, and when it’s all over, you and I—well, we’ll talk about something more hopeful than the past. I promise you that.”
Cramby nodded and pulled on his worn black coat. As he stood in my doorway, he did not cringe. Rather, his eyes and the set of his jaw showed him to be almost steady as he bade me farewell.
“Tell Hurlbut,” I said, “that I have the packet. He’ll want a meeting with me soon as can be—make sure that you’re the one to carry word of his wishes to me. By then, I’ll be able to tell you what we’ll do to make this right.”
He nodded solemnly, offered me a bony claw, then turned and walked away. At great risk, he’d come to me, and for what in return? I closed the door with a sigh.
Then, I smiled, for there was a time when I’d have thought, Better his dreams should rest on quicksand than depend upon the likes of me. Now, with May Kimball’s envelope in my pocket, I felt that Cramby and I might have found in each other something akin to salvation.
Polly
THE STRIP OF black ash slipped and cut her finger.
Though finer and easier to bend than the shaved wood used by the elder brethren, the prickly form Elder Sister Agnes handed to her was stiff and sharp. She knew how it should be woven, for their meetings often took place over the same activity. Even so, this time she was more frightened than before, dropping the tangle, loosening her earlier efforts, forcing her to go back and tighten the weave.
Elder Sister Agnes did not look up. “With time, you will learn. Perhaps you will learn many things.” The eldress’s fingers, strong and bent from years of difficult labor, moved gracefully, the strips dipping under, over, under, over—hypnotic, regular, a dance of thin shafts bowing and rising, humble and rejoicing like believers.
“Always keep your hands busy,” she said, eyes on the task before her. “Idleness leads to sin and sin to a great fall, even for the gifted among us.” She lifted her face, tilted her head, and stared at Polly.
What can she see? Polly wondered as she struggled to concentrate. Everything.
Charity had hardly spoken or even looked at her in the days since their time in the healing room. She had caught Polly once, when her legs buckled under the strain of a spasm in her gut, and for that Polly had thanked her, reaching out to pat her friend’s arm. Charity pulled away and nodded briskly. They dressed and undressed in silence in the chamber that had once been so much more than a place for two sisters to rest between the days of hard and tedious work. The red book lay untouched beneath Polly’s mattress. Charity hated everything that had to do with their old life, it seemed. She was not trying to be cruel. Indeed, Polly could see her confusion. She imagined her friend clinging to her bonnet, pulling tight her cape, smoothing her skirts, pushing away loose strands of hair, wiping dust from her eyes, clutching the strings of a dozen windblown packages—nothing about either girl’s life stood still and calm. Polly felt sure it never would.
And then there was The Narrow Path. How Polly had despised the sight of her friend subjecting herself to such humiliation in front of the other believers! It was all she could do to keep from exclaiming as she watched through the window of the meetinghouse while Charity tortured her body into strange positions, balancing herself all the while on a crack between floorboards. Polly had never been to a circus, but she had read of the tightrope walker’s perilous traverse. What was this if not a hateful mockery of such clown’s play?
In the end, she could not keep quiet, and as a result, she made things worse. Bursting through the door (for no one had invited her to attend this strange rite), crying out above the chanting, telling the believers to feel ashamed of themselves—all she had done was to distract Charity from her purpose. Polly watched her fall and only when she’d hit the ground did their eyes meet. Charity’s glare had been dark with disbelief. How much more hatred could she feel? Polly wondered. It was as though she was convinced Polly meant to hurt her at every turn.
A day later, Polly had been called to Elder Sister Agnes’s chambers without explanation. Sitting before her now, she had yet another reason to be on her guard. Had Charity told the eldress that Polly was pregnant? Was it the fire that still agitated her curiosity? She took as deep a breath as she was able and refocused determinedly on her basket form, grateful to have something to keep her hands from shaking.
“You had a Vision the other day,” the eldress said casually, and Polly felt dizzy with relief. This was not the subject she imagined would be of interest, at least not to the eldress. Indeed, Polly barely remembered that it had happened, so full had she been with the misery of losing her friend. And ever since the ministers from other settlements had ceased coming to question Polly, Elder Sister Agnes had made a show of industry when she heard one of the believers asking “the Visionist” about something of a holy nature. Now, it appeared, she was suddenly curious. “Tell me what you saw when you circled the tree outside the dwelling house,” she said. “For though I am certain your speech would have been of a foreign nature to me, I understand from those who know better that your utterances remain filled with meaning.”
The great tree outside the dwelling house. The day after Charity and she had snuck into the healing room, the day after their friendship had ended, Polly found herself drawn to the tree. Round and round it she circled, the icy wind blowing her skirts tight to her legs as she trod through the snow. She had been on her way to the sisters’ workshop, the week having been given over to spinning, dyeing, and spooling a new lot of wool. On that day, there were skeins of freshly tinted yarn to wrap and hang in their rightful place. The blue of indigo, the yellows and reds of Nicaragua chips, the blacks and purples of sorrel and logwood, the orange of madder root—these were colors nothing like the faded hues she knew from home. Their intensity in this gray place seemed miraculous.
Despite the pleasure she took in working with the skeins, she had allowed the tree to pull her in, tracing her bare hand over its rough bark. Elder Sister Agnes had been right: Polly had started to sing as she walked, a song she’d never before heard, words she’d never before uttered, her footfalls in perfect time with the rhythm. She was surprised to feel such elation, for nothing about the last several weeks had given her reason to rejoice. Indeed, she had been shaken by so many disturbances. She wished that she could have explained her shameful condition to Charity, but to speak of her father was to allow him into the world that had saved her. For her friend to think her a common slut was bad enough, but for her to know Polly as a girl degraded over months and years—that was a humiliation she could not abide.
Touching the tree made Polly feel as though she had come upon a great source of life and light, grace and truth. She remembered the bark turning into hands, thousands of hands reaching towards her own but never grasping it, only brushing lightly her fing
ertips as she passed. Whether or not Elder Sister Agnes would have understood the words, Polly had sung of love and friendship. She had spoken of hope. She had spun songs of thanks as she walked, losing track of all time.
Her thoughts veered like racing pigeons in the sky, and like the play of light and shadow on the tilting birds, she found herself transported to another time and place just as suddenly as she had reflected on the tree: the kitchens on a recent wintry morning, where she could still feel the cool counter at which she stood, see the young brethren laughing as they played in the snow just outside, recall the log cart piled high with wood as yet unsplit. She remembered watching as Brother Andrew climbed atop the logs and whistled in the boys. They tumbled over one another with such abandon that Polly had put her flour-dusted hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Joining the pups in their game, Brother Andrew leapt time and again from the cart and fell, ambushed by his charges. The joyful chaos charmed Polly. Was he someone she could talk to about Ben? She banished the thought from her mind. No devout brother would hold a private conversation with a sister, not even if she was a Visionist.
She watched as Brother Andrew heaved himself out of the snow, brushed off his coat, and told the strongest of the young brethren to unload the logs and pass them to where he would split them. Then he lined up the smaller ones and showed them how to toss the wood to one another until they reached the shed, where another band was in charge of stacking it. Polly felt lulled by the roll of each log, the fall of the axe, the arc of the toss, and the puzzling together of all the bits and pieces so that none in the stack stood out from the whole. She was alone in the kitchens, and it had been easy to forget herself in the brethren’s industriousness. Then, she caught sight of Ben laughing as he put all his might into throwing a piece of small kindling. He wore a brown coat, dark-green mittens, and a wool cap, but enough of his face peeked out that Polly could see his sweet smile and bright black eyes. The picture filled her with longing and made her stomach seize with such violence that she had to pull away, dropping to her knees. It was of some comfort that she was alone and owed no one an explanation as she lay on her back, breathing slowly and steadily. Now that Silas lived inside her, he had found a way to plague her at will.
The sight of Ben smiling—Polly could not let it go. She raised herself up, wiped clean her hands, and walked towards the door. Who cared what anyone thought of her now that she had lost Charity’s love? It was true that when she spoke out during her friend’s dance, the believers had listened, thinking it a Vision. They did not hold Charity to her failure to stay on The Narrow Path. They reasoned that Mother Ann had, through Polly, defended her, and thus she was immune from reproach.
But that was in Meeting. What would they say if they saw Polly talking to Brother Andrew? She doubted they would find holiness at work in such a blatant breach of the rules. Polly lifted her head high and opened the door. She wore no cloak as she blazed a path through the snow headed directly for the brother.
It was as if the boys suddenly turned into ice, for they stopped their play immediately and stood stock-still as they watched her.
“Brother Andrew,” she said when she had gotten close enough not to shout. “Please don’t turn away. I need to speak to you. Please. It’s about Ben.”
But the brother looked around nervously, then stared down at his feet and said nothing.
“I…I…,” Polly stammered. “I want to know how my brother is. I cannot speak to him, as you are well aware. I just want to know that he is…all right. Does he mention me ever? Or his home? His Mama?”
Brother Andrew shifted uncomfortably and remained silent.
“If you will not answer then can you allow me to talk to him myself?” She leaned in and whispered, “I know it is irregular, but it could be in secret if you like. I wouldn’t be long. I just need to know…is he happy here?”
The boys had begun to exchange nervous glances. Polly turned and looked at them beseechingly. It was then her gaze finally locked with little Ben’s. Her heart fluttered. She smiled shyly and held out her hand.
“Ben?” she said. “Will you come to me? Just for a moment?”
He stood still. She wondered if he mightn’t walk towards her. She hoped… But then he reached into the snow, packed a handful with angry force, and threw it at her. The look on his face was one of pure hatred.
“Go away!” he cried. “Get away from Brother Andrew!” He stamped his foot as he spoke. “He’s mine! I hate you! He’s mine!”
Then he turned and ran for the woodshed.
Brother Andrew watched him flee, darting round Polly to follow. All the boys were reaching down now, making snowballs and hurling them at her.
“Go away,” they screamed. “Leave us!”
Polly could not move, such was her horror. She had only meant to speak quietly to her brother. She would never have put her hand on him; she wanted just to be within touching distance, to be close for a moment.
She shielded her head in her arms, turned and ran back towards the kitchen door. The sisters were at the window now—a crowd of them—and they looked at each other in anguish as she hurled herself onto the floor and began to cry.
No one moved. They had never known a sister to break ranks and approach a brother. Polly imagined that they were trying to decide whether or not to shun her.
Then one believer stepped forward and bent down to put her arms around Polly. It was Sister Lavinia.
“There, there, child,” she said. “It’s all right now. We all make mistakes, and I doubt you’ll be making that one again.” Polly sobbed into her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said. “I was only trying…he’s my brother and he’s so young… I just wanted…” But she could not finish what she had started, so forcefully did her crying come upon her.
In the room with Elder Sister Agnes, her mind flickered back to the tree. Circling, circling, suddenly she felt a sharp bite and withdrew her hand, pulling it to her breast and walking faster, her feet now beating a changed time in the well-worn track. The sounds she made were no longer joyful but frightened, frenzied as they tumbled from her mouth. She could not feel the kindness of others but found her fingertips touched by small, leaping flames as, in her mind, fire engulfed the tree until it roared heat and smoke such that she had to step back into the deep, untrodden snow.
How to explain all of this to the eldress.
“The tree called to me,” she said quietly. “It called with a gentle voice like none I can describe, and I circled round it and started to sing because it filled me with peace and happiness to do so. My song was one of union, not simply here in The City of Hope, but everywhere. It was as though I could touch the hand of every person in the world as they reached out from within the trunk of that tree.”
She stopped and looked up from her struggle to tame the basket that twisted and turned in her lap. Straining to catch the cast of Elder Sister Agnes’s expression, she saw that it remained hidden to her. Polly’s gaze fell back on her work as she told of the sudden turning to flames, of the burning form of the giant tree as it fanned into the Heavens.
She expected Elder Sister Agnes to keep her eyes on her work, inscrutable as ever. But instead, the eldress jerked her head up and stared, then laid her basket to rest. She seemed afraid to move lest it distract her from choosing the proper words.
“You must know what you are doing,” Elder Sister Agnes said, her impatience barely contained once she decided, finally, to address Polly. “Do you not realize that there is someone in this place who sees you for what you are?”
Polly drew a sharp breath. Was this the moment when everything would come tumbling down? She was surprised to find relief in the thought. Ever since the believers had placed her on a pedestal, a part of her had yearned to be exposed. And ever since she had set the farm afire—how could she have believed for one moment that it had been an accident?—that same part wished for the law to find her and get it over with. She knew what the consequences would be. She would
be taken away from the only place she’d ever felt happiness. She would be forced to admit to her crime, exchanging The City of Hope for a jail cell—or worse, the noose. Even so, if she were revealed as nothing more than a farm girl with a past as foul as a rat’s tail is long, she might finally find peace.
She stared hard at the eldress. Could it be that she had aged in the short time since Polly had known her? Her face seemed etched with deeper lines, her skin stretched tighter across her cheekbones. She could not be much older than Mama, and for the first time, Polly noticed how similarly broken they were by the toil of their difficult lives, toil that brought the years on fast for women the world over. Perhaps because Polly knew that she had little left to lose, her heart was suddenly full of sympathy for Elder Sister Agnes. After all, she sought only the truth. If Polly gave it to her, would her confession remove from the eldress’s shoulders the burden of protecting the believers’ faith?
The believers. Polly could imagine their faces if only they knew. She could hear the swelling of their angry voices. To bear the message that they had been duped—Elder Sister Agnes would never want to be the one to do that. To tell them that they had placed their faith in a fraud—this was not a fate Polly would wish on anyone. She bowed her head and continued her work, unable to think of an adequate answer to the eldress’s accusation.
“You have surely read or heard of something like this Vision before?” Elder Sister Agnes said. “I ask with great seriousness, have you not encountered this burning tree before?”
“I…I used to see a great tree in my old life, an oak,” Polly stammered. “I imagined its leaves to be red. I imagined standing beneath them and raising my arms until they shimmered and shook. There were thousands of leaves, whispering, trembling over me and I felt full. It never caught fire, though. It never bit my hand with burns. It never frightened me. It was where I needed to go. Can you understand?” She stopped speaking. An image of flames filled her mind, and though she closed her eyes, she could not help seeing the burning figure tumbling from the blaze of the farmhouse.
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