Beth takes a bite of her pineapple, meets Julia’s eye. A bit of juice runs down her chin, which she wipes away with the back of her hand. Like she’s trying to tell Julia something, but Julia can’t figure out what.
The younger group suddenly erupts in boisterous laughter.
“Oh no, you did not—”
“All I’m saying is, I didn’t know they were related.”
More laughter, although something else too, a thin layer of sexual tension. Three women obviously interested, only two available men.
Heather looks a little worried. She keeps a close eye on Fred, watching for signals.
Something Julia knows all too well. A feeling she should have paid closer attention to. Rationalizing a light hand touching Ethan’s arm at a party, him stepping outside to talk “business,” his texted excuses for running late getting home.
GOTTA NAIL THIS CONTRACT DOWN.
DON’T WAIT UP, NEGOTIATING WITH THOSE ASSHATS IN CHINA.
“Julia!” Isaac’s shrill voice behind her. “We really should be going.”
“Let me know what it’s like. The waterfall,” Julia says, standing.
“I will,” says Beth. “We’ll catch up later when you get back. If you don’t join the church yourself, that is.”
“I don’t think it’s likely I’ll convert.”
“No one does,” says Beth, picking up her coffee mug. “No one ever does.”
There is no small talk, thank God, as they follow a trail that winds around the coastline. While Isaac seemed momentarily intrigued by the backpack hanging over her shoulder, he didn’t ask, probably assuming that anything inside had passed inspection.
He walks about half a yard in front of her at a brisk pace, his black patent leather shoes a poor match for the uneven surface. Every so often, he slips. She’s glad she wore her boots.
But Julia is gloriously free to take in the island. She guesses they’ve already been walking for a half hour. After they’d left the perimeter of white sand beach, they’d climbed a small rise, crossed a trickling stream running down from a gorge, and now follow a trail along the edge of a steep cliff. The waves crash in earnest, breaking against the sheer rock face, throwing up clouds of ocean spray and fine water droplets. Her hair and skin are beaded with it.
While the ocean is to their right, the low, crumbling lava-rock wall is to their left, maybe a half mile away. She didn’t realize it extended this far, wonders if it runs along the whole island. Beyond the wall, the thick jungle has given way to long, golden stretches of grass with an occasional gnarled tree featuring a bulbous trunk, symmetrical branches that make the top look like a broccoli crown. The trees feel ancient, primordial, leftover from a different epoch altogether. More of that white mold or lichen spots their trunks and branches.
And now the backside of the volcanic peak is visible. Here is where the lava must have flowed—there’s a cracked chasm in the peak itself, and veinlike indentions in the rolling hills, now covered in grass, where the magma trickled down to the ocean.
A light breeze catches Julia’s hair. Isaac’s shoes go crunch, crunch, crunch on the trail. Warm sun on the back of her neck, a slightly nervous flutter in her stomach at the prospect of meeting the Reverend. She’s not sure how much he knows about Irene, or how much Julia will be able to press him on the subject. Her goal is to do some assessment, try to figure out a reason she needs to come back for a second visit in order to process what she learns today, and then come up with another series of questions.
Why didn’t Isaac give her a hat? She could have used it, in this sun—forgot to put on sunscreen, of course.
Christ, I didn’t take the medication. If she is able to slip away into the jungle, then she’ll be mucking about in a microbial stew without protection, according to Bailey. She was so exhausted, and then so rushed in the morning, it completely escaped her.
But . . . what if that’s why she was sleepwalking, some kind of adverse reaction to taking even half a pill? She’s had antibiotics before, never experienced that kind of side effect.
Her blood chills. Goddammit, Aunt Liddy. What the hell did you give me?
Suddenly the sun is too hot, the ocean too loud, the long, empty stretches of grass too oppressive. Even the trees feel threatening, like they’re watching, planning some mischief.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, go Isaac’s ridiculous shoes. Where does it say in the Bible you have to clad your feet in patent leather at all times? Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, damp half-moons form under his arms again.
A fly lands on her shoulder, and she bats it away.
You’re out of your league, Ethan says. You should jump off the cliff while you can, save yourself the disappointment of being pushed off it again.
Julia puts her hand in her pocket, runs her thumb along the sheath of the knife. You’d probably enjoy that, but it’s not fucking happening. Now go back to your closet and shut the fuck up.
He does. It unnerves her, though, that her ex’s voice is so loud, so clear. It hasn’t been that way since right after the divorce.
She focuses on the path ahead. Trains her eyes on the back of poor Isaac’s sweating neck. She wonders if he’s ever left the island, or what he’s been told in order to keep him here. Probably the worst bits from the global news—wars and famines, cities where you can’t walk down the streets at night, serial killers and police shootings and food that barely resembles food anymore.
But it’s so programmed into one’s DNA, that need to break away, particularly in adolescence. And the women. Will she see them finally talking in the village?
Crunch, crunch, crunch, go Isaac’s shoes.
She’d interviewed a man once who’d left a cult in Northern California. The standard story—charismatic, narcissistic leader, with the twist that it was led by a woman, Petal . . . what was her name again? Petal Loving Bear. At the end of the interview, Julia had been struck by his obvious sense of loss.
“What do you miss?” she’d asked.
“The sense of community,” he’d said immediately. “But also not having to think anymore. Being more of a ‘we’ than an ‘I.’ Not having the responsibility of making decisions. I slept so much better at night. I honestly haven’t had a good night’s sleep since.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. But maybe that was the appeal. Being a part instead of a whole. Without choice, you’re not accountable for the consequences.
There’s a hill, and as they reach its crest, she gets her first glimpse of the village. Small, picturesque white cottages that look like refugees from a New England coastal town, and a white church, with a white steeple. She hears a rooster crow.
It’s almost exactly as she’d pictured it.
They walk into the village. It feels like a ghost town. There’s not a single person outside. No one tending the large vegetable garden on the hill, or pinning laundry to the clotheslines, or sitting on the porches, chatting. But then, there are no chairs on the porches, even though each cottage has a wonderful view of the ocean. For the first time, she wishes Isaac was talking to her, just to hear words spoken out loud, but he trudges about a yard in front of her, silent.
The ocean breeze flaps the clothes hanging on the line: smocks, sheets, pillowcases. Something that looks like a facecloth is teased off by a strong gust of wind—it flips and flops on the ground, like the gecko’s tail in her dream.
It feels ominous. A bad omen. And then she notices something else. There are no pants on any of the clotheslines.
No men?
And no children’s clothes either.
She knows she’s being watched. The curtains are all closed, but she senses them, the women, standing behind the windows, peering through the thin fabric. It’s not a friendly feeling. Not just curiosity.
She gets that prickle again, the sense of being a cow in a chute heading toward the slaughterhouse. Or a sacrificial lamb.
Were they this strange when Irene was here? Was that why she chose to camp
in the jungle?
High on the hill is a cemetery of sorts, a series of weathered wooden crosses, some of them listing. Next to that a greenhouse—fairly big, about the size of three cottages lined up shotgun style. What looks like a toolshed, with, to her great surprise, solar panels on its roof. Three small ones, but they seem completely out of place, this nod to modernity.
Waves roll in over a rocky beach just beyond the village.
Finally, she catches some movement behind one of the cottage windows—a curtain drops—but not before she saw the woman behind it. Red hair hanging in her face. The one who isn’t like the others.
Isaac and Julia approach the church proper. It has the best view of all, right up against the rocky cliff’s edge, nothing but wide, open sea beyond. All vegetation has been cleared away a good few yards around it, with small, ocean-smoothed stones forming a kind of gravel patio. It’s not impressive—big enough to accommodate fifty people, maybe—but it has a kind of rustic beauty. Lava-rock walls painted white, a steel metal roof that’s quietly rusting, three blunt, square windows on each side. Rough-hewn timber frames. A single step of concrete leads up to a pair of thick, heavy-looking wooden doors, a brown wooden sign above them, with CHURCH OF ETERNAL LIGHT painted in white.
A rooster emerges from behind the church, followed by three hens. They scratch at the pebbles, peck at invisible bugs.
Isaac takes a step up, puts his hand on the knob, and turns to her, a conflicted, almost pained look on his face when he says, “And now you’ll get to meet the Reverend.”
He knocks three times, almost ritualistically.
“Enter,” calls a voice from inside.
CHAPTER 12
INSIDE, THE CHURCH IS STRANGELY stuffy, but then none of the six windows are open. The lava-rock walls are painted white inside too, and the cavernous beams and rough wooden planks that make up the roof and ceiling rafters almost look medieval, they’re so battered and worn. Maybe recycled ship timbers? Four rows of rustic pews on each side, a simple wooden cross at the front.
Someone is in the front pew, kneeling. The Reverend.
Isaac makes the sign of the cross, tellingly waits a second to see if Julia will do the same. When she doesn’t, he starts to walk down the aisle, not bothering to turn around to see if she’s following.
The wooden floors beneath their feet squeak, but if the Reverend hears them, he shows no sign. He wears a short-sleeved white cotton shirt just like Isaac. Julia expects there will be a tie too.
Everything inside is so clean. Not a speck of dust anywhere, no cobwebs on the windows, no stray grain of sand embedded in cracks in the floorboards. It must require daily attention. Do the women actually talk to each other when they’re working out of view of the tourists? They must.
Right?
They reach the pew where the Reverend kneels. He’s gaunt, with antique-looking glasses perched on top of a hawkish nose. Blond hair streaked with gray, cropped close. And yes, a tie. What kind of masochistic God makes men wear a tie in the tropics? He mouths a silent prayer, intent on his hands, which are pressed together.
Isaac drops to one knee. “Reverend, Miss Julia Greer is here to see you,” he says in a low voice.
Miss. Funny. It feels like such an old-fashioned, archaic word.
The Reverend doesn’t stir, like he didn’t hear. A few moments pass. Julia can hear the chickens outside squawk, the soft crash of waves breaking. A few more moments pass. A minute. Two.
Well, this is obviously turning into a power play. She decides to make a move.
“I can wait outside, if you need some time,” she says. Her voice echoes inside the church, and the look on Isaac’s face—like she just slapped him. Well worth it for that alone.
This, at least, seems to get the Reverend’s attention. He solemnly makes the sign of the cross and stands. Turns to Julia. A wide grin creases his face, which, unlike that of everyone else in his congregation, looks like it has seen sun. A lot of it.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Greer.”
He doesn’t hold out a hand for her to shake, and instead offers a slight, formal bow. “But we should have our discussion about your family matters outside, so we don’t disturb the peace of our Lord.”
A special, slightly derisive emphasis on the words family matters. It must bother him, having someone in the midst of their deceased congregation who not only was an atheist, but a mentally ill woman who committed suicide to boot.
“Is the peace of the Lord so easily disturbed?”
“Not His eternal peace, but the peace that we cobble together here in His name, yes. We have . . . a way of life that would be difficult for someone of your ken to understand.”
Someone of her ken. Oh she’s going to have to lodge at least one good salvo to really get his attention. Bringing Irene into his hallowed ground should do it.
“My great-aunt Irene was ahead of her time, coming here on her own for scientific study. Frankly, I admire her, although that may be difficult for someone of your ken to understand.”
Isaac looks like he’s about to step in and protest, but, if anything, the Reverend looks intrigued. Julia bets it’s been a long time since a woman spoke to him like that, if ever. It’s a risky move, but she’ll get more information out of him if he considers her an equal.
“I meant no disparagement,” he says with a nod. “I understand she had many admirable qualities, as I’m sure you do. Now please, allow me to lead the way.”
They walk through the ghost town, the Reverend by her side, Isaac trailing behind. Still no sign of anyone else, an ethereal quiet. But the wayward facecloth from the clothesline is gone—either someone picked it up while she was inside, or the wind took it. Even the rooster and the hens have disappeared.
“Where is everyone?” Julia asks.
“We are ordinarily very industrious,” says the Reverend. “But, like the natural ecosystem of the island, our congregational ecosystem is fragile. Your presence is . . . complicated. I don’t mean that in a negative way.”
An odd way to put it. “You talk like I’m an invasive species.”
It’s a joke, but the Reverend doesn’t take it that way. “Not you, specifically. But your culture, yes. Of course, when we arrived, our culture was similarly tainted, and we foundered at first, not understanding where we were. Our place in it, and God’s plan. Mistakes were made.”
“What kind?”
“Oh,” he says with a slight smile, “the usual kind that come with hubris.”
Not a straight answer. She needs to get specific. They start up the hill that leads to the cemetery—the soil has a reddish hue. It’s a beautiful contrast to the golden grass.
“Was letting great-aunt Irene come here a mistake?”
The Reverend keeps his eyes on the path ahead of them. “Yes. Although an unwitting one. The first missionaries were trying to tame this place. Not understand it. Even my father’s faith was infused with the need to dominate His creation. He thought that, as in Europe or America, man’s will would prevail. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. Not a verse that works well here.”
“Isn’t it heresy to question anything in the Bible? ”
He becomes quiet at that, and at first she thinks she’s offended him, but then he says, “The Bible also says, Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Perhaps some verses are more applicable here than the former. Perhaps we’re closer to the Eden we were so summarily ejected from. It’s hard for someone from the outside to understand. There’s a reason we limit visits to a week, and only in prescribed places. It’s a protection for us, and for you.”
They reach the edge of the cemetery. The number of crosses is surprising—it was a much bigger congregation once. Strange,
since there are so few living members now; they must be slowly dying out. In front of each cross is an oblong mound of lava rocks, as if an extra precaution is needed for the dead to stay put.
“Your great-aunt is there,” the Reverend says, pointing to a cross at the far right of the field, a good few yards apart from the other graves. There’s a plain pine coffin with a lid next to it, waiting for Irene’s remains to be disinterred.
It makes Julia sad, for some reason, seeing Irene apart from the others. But Irene is dead, beyond all feeling, and at least she’ll be coming home.
They head along a narrow path in the red dirt toward her burial site. Julia reads the names on the crosses. Some have inscriptions. Alice Simpson. 1952. Your dead will live, their corpses will rise. Justice Hawkins. 1945. The Lord Jesus will raise us also. Lester Sutherland. 1958. Just as we have borne the image of the earth, we will also bear the image of the heavenly.
“Do you know anything about how she died?” Julia asks.
The Reverend squints in the sun. The sunlight has dimmed. “My father didn’t talk about those times much. Said that, like that of Job, our faith was being tested.”
“Your grandfather lost his wife.”
“His first one, yes.”
His first wife. Who was his second?
Corinne Mark Simpson. 1973. For your dew is as the dew of the dawn, And the earth will give birth to the departed spirits. Some of the lava rocks in front of her cross are scattered about.
“Isaac,” the Reverend says, “attend to that, will you? I would like a few moments alone with our guest here.”
Immediately Isaac starts to pick up the lava rocks with an obedience that would be remarkable on the mainland for a young man his age. Julia notes that his patent leather shoes are now covered in a fine film of red dust. She has a feeling he’ll be shining them soon.
The Reverend and Julia continue their walk. His shoulders seem to relax now that they’re out of Isaac’s earshot. He slips his hands into his pockets as they near Irene’s grave.
The Nightmarchers Page 14