The Language of Paradise: A Novel

by Barbara Klein Moss

  “I think we already met, informally.” Gideon spoke softly to prevent her shying like a deer and running away. “On my way to church I saw you in the meadow.”

  “I was hunting for asparagus, but there weren’t any. It’s too late, I think.” Her voice was barely audible, but she looked up at him. If she was chagrined that he had seen her dance, or fearful of what he might reveal, she did not show it. Her eyes were dark like her father’s, but widely spaced and luminous. There was something disconcerting about her glance, at once direct and unfocused; she seemed to be gazing through him toward a distant vista, of which he was a random but interesting feature of the landscape.

  “I don’t think she looked very hard,” said Mrs. Hedge. “I picked some yesterday.”

  “I must take exception. She was a model of diligence,” Gideon said, “so intent on her task that she didn’t even notice me.”

  This earned him a fleeting smile from Sophy—of sufficient duration to prove that her teeth were straight—but Mrs. Hedge was oblivious. She chattered on about her herbarium and what she would plant in the garden, about weather prognostications and last year’s yield, about the treacherous nature of lettuce. After listening to the good woman for five minutes, Gideon knew that she would pluck irony and allusion from conversation like so many weeds—not because they offended her, but because they were of no practical use. The Hedge sons and Mr. Unsworth had backed away, perhaps all too familiar with such monologues. Sophy stood by quietly, nodding when her mother mentioned the “smelling garden” she was starting, but never interrupting the flow of words. She wasn’t comely in the usual way, Gideon decided; his classmates wouldn’t look at her twice. Her forehead was too high and her cheekbones too pronounced to fit the tranquil oval of classic beauty. Except for her eyes, her features were undistinguished, the mouth erring on the generous side. But her face was full of life even when still, and she had a piquant charm that he found appealing. Whether it was a girl’s charm or a woman’s, he lacked the experience to say. She looked fifteen or sixteen, but her smallness could be deceptive. She was made as neatly and precisely as a doll; he could easily span her wrist with a thumb and forefinger.

  Soon no one was left in the churchyard but the Hedges and their boarder. “I see you’re already acquainted,” the Reverend said, joining them. He seemed relaxed, even jovial.

  “You’ve spoken of your family so often that I felt we had already met,” Gideon said.

  “I like to remind my students that a well-ordered family is one of the blessings of this life. A prefiguration of Heaven—ordained for the benefit of our foreparents in Eden, sustained by grace after the Fall, attained, alas, by all too few. I’m happy to say that I am fortunate in mine.” Reverend Hedge regarded his clan fondly, with a touch of smug approval that Gideon had seen in the classroom. The parson could easily have been expounding on his well-constructed furniture or his well-designed garden. It was clear that he regarded the household as a felicitous collaboration between himself and the Almighty. Gideon wondered how the others felt about being reduced to anonymous—though well-oiled and smoothly meshing—parts in a predestined plan. Mrs. Hedge and Sophy took no notice, but he thought he saw James and Reuben exchange glances.

  The eight of them formed another procession going back to the house, and Gideon was flattered to be at its head, keeping up a brisk pace with the Reverend. Unsworth walked alongside them at first, but fell back when the talk turned to Gideon’s translation.

  “An interesting effort,” Hedge said. “Ingenious in its way. You have been so literal that you’ve wrested a rough poetry from the text. Too rough, I think—though there is a precedent. The Lord made Adam out of clay, and who is to say that our ancestor was the vision of perfection we imagine? A little coarse, a little raw—you can observe it in our masculine natures to this day. If it were not for the civilizing influence of woman, what would we be? When I think of the impulses of my youth—” He cleared his throat. Mrs. Hedge and Sophy were following close behind. “It’s perhaps too much to call a field a ‘flat place’ and to speak of the trees ‘clapping their palms.’ Such a rendering may be exact—may even give us a glimpse of a world that wrongheaded men call primitive. But it doesn’t sing, you see.”

  Gideon did see, though he was aware that Hedge had just jabbed him with another of his quilled compliments. “I’m grateful you found any merit in it at all,” he said. He hesitated and went on. “It’s true that the primal drew me, but the coarseness you speak of is my lack of skill—not what I saw. It was as though the text were a wall, and, I was on one side of it, peering through tiny cracks at a world I could just glimpse. I would have given anything to breach that wall, sir! Only my ignorance prevented me.”

  The Reverend stopped in mid-stride. He wheeled around and looked Gideon full in the face. “Tell me, Mr. Birdsall, what is the purpose of a wall?”

  “Why—to contain, I suppose. To mark boundaries.”

  “And the function of a boundary—its whole reason for being—is to keep intruders out.” The last words emerged with full stops between them, each a fortification unto itself. Hedge drew nearer as he spoke, stopping so close to Gideon that he seemed to be admonishing his Adam’s apple.

  “It is one thing to recognize that such wonders exist, quite another to covet them beforetime. I’ve observed in my ministry, and also among my students, that mysticism is an enticement for certain young men of sensitive disposition. The given world isn’t enough for these fragile souls. They confuse their own curiosity with spiritual seeking, their restlessness with the inbuilt longing for Heaven. Too often, when life thwarts them, they turn to drink or opiates. Or worse, a universalism diluted even from its original anemic brew. Think of it—rather than wait for the joys to come, they worship the sun and bow their heads to trees and rocks like pagans! No one loves the natural world more than I, but I do not mistake the Creation for its Author.”

  He had raised one hand, as was his habit while lecturing, and his forefinger was inches from Gideon’s nose. “I pray you will avoid their fate, Mr. Birdsall. Remember, we are caretakers. There is more than enough to occupy us here.”

  Later, Gideon would reflect that the pastor had timed his exhortation perfectly. The Hedge homestead loomed before them, the yellow house set amid apple orchards and tamed fields: a perfect denouement to the spontaneous sermon. To Gideon, it was a parable come to life. He was reeling from Hedge’s unexpected scolding. One moment they had been talking like equals, and the next the thread of sympathy—so palpable in their first conversation—had been severed, and he was once again a lowly student, fit only to be chastised. Worst of all, he had been shamed in front of the family. Although he couldn’t look at them, he could feel them at his back, halted in place like a team of yoked oxen. He would never dare to speak to Sophy now, and what did it matter? The meadow was no amphitheater, and she was only a clergyman’s dallying daughter, not the ecstatic dancer of his vision. But such fantasies were only to be expected of a fragile soul, prey to every whim of his overworked imagination. How well his teacher knew him!

  Mrs. Hedge stepped up and gave her husband a sour look. “If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow Mr. Birdsall for a few minutes and show him the gardens before you hide him away in your study. I have to cut some rhubarb for dinner and get lamb’s ear for Micah’s foot.”

  “As you can see,” the Reverend said to Gideon, “the duties of rural life are such that it is difficult for us to rest, even on the Lord’s Day.” He sounded chastened, even a bit sheepish. It was clear that his Consort knew how to douse his fire.

  Though Mrs. Hedge had described the gardens at length, Gideon was unprepared for the sheer variety of plantings that flourished behind the Hedge house. Much of the vegetable garden was still nascent, but Mrs. Hedge pointed out fledgling beans and peas, cucumbers and squash, Indian corn, cabbage and potatoes and carrots. Sophy followed behind with a basket, a dog frisking about her skirts, as her mother culled what she could. There was even a peach tree, a
gnarled specimen covered with pale pink blossoms. “Some say they don’t thrive in this climate, but ours drops more than we can use,” Mrs. Hedge said. “I can only make so many pies and preserves—after a while even the pigs get loose bowels. But the first bites are like heaven. Such sweetness! This year I am being very bold, though some would call it foolish.” She glanced at Gideon, one eyebrow raised, assessing where he might stand on the matter. “I won’t dissemble with you, Mr. Birdsall. I am contemplating melons.”

  Her pride in the vegetables was utilitarian; they were servants following orders. But the herbs were her gifted children. She had arranged them in families and planted them in elevated beds, looking down on the crops raised for mere sustenance. The way she spoke of them, Gideon thought, they might as well have magical properties. “Bloodroot, now there’s a wonder. It will take down a fever and soothe the rheumatics; nothing else would help my poor father. Lovage and sage do as much good to the stomach as they do for turkey dressing. Here, take a sniff of this . . . lemon balm, a true prodigy. Sophy likes it for the smell, but I call it Mother’s Friend, for it lifts the heart and calms the mind.”

  “Mama is a natural physician,” Sophy said. “The folks here trust her more than the doctors. I am grateful she was born in civilized times, or she would surely have been burnt for witchcraft.”

  Mrs. Hedge’s hands flew to her breast. “There’s a nice thought to take to Sunday dinner! You had better guard your tongue, girl. Don’t let the Reverend hear you talk like that.”

  Gideon was impressed, and a little startled, that such tartness could issue from a girl so shy. “And where is your garden, Miss Sophy?” he asked, changing the subject like a discreet guest, but in truth, succumbing to an urge to say her name. It filled his mouth pleasantly: the slippery s; the round o, fat and full like her celestial alter ego; the soft crush of the ph giving way, after mild resistance, to the diminutive.

  “Not much is coming up at the moment,” the girl said. “The lilacs are gone and the roses are just starting.”

  She led him to a circular plot surrounded by ornamental stones. At its center was a spindly bush with plantings radiating out from it like the spokes of a wheel. “I wanted a statue in the middle, or a little fountain, but Papa said that wasn’t practical. Soon I’ll have sweet peas and heliotrope and jasmine. Daisies, too—I don’t spurn the wildflowers. The rosebush was my birthday present. I call it the queen of the garden. It looks very proud and regal, don’t you think? Micah said he would build me a trellis to train the vines on.”

  “I think it’s lovely just as it is,” Gideon said.

  Shyness overtook her again. She lowered her eyes and gazed at him through the screen of her lashes. “I must get back to the house with these,” she said, and ran off with her basket.

  Mrs. Hedge was bending over the herbs, but Gideon was certain she’d been attending to every word that passed between him and Sophy.

  “You’ve truly made an Eden here,” he said. “I wonder how you manage to find time for anything else.”

  “We all do our part. The Reverend and the boys prime the soil and put the garden to bed come winter. It’s hard work getting them to weed, though. I could use more daughters, but the Lord gave me just the one, and she is mine only because my husband’s sister died bearing her. My own girls didn’t keep. I had three, and not one lived to see her second birthday.”

  She spoke with such dispassion that she might have been talking about a bushel of apples gone bad. “It must be a great consolation to have Sophy,” Gideon said.

  “A consolation, and a trial. She’s not easy, my Sophy. She and I have little in common, we are always rubbing each other wrong. Some days I think she hasn’t a practical bone in her body, that head of hers is always somewhere else. She has the Hedge temperament. Artistic, like the Reverend, though she lacks his core of granite. Each year I see more of Mary in her—not to speak ill of the dead.” She looked at Gideon, uneasy. “Don’t mistake me, we are very fond. She’s all the daughter I have, and I’m the only mother she knows. I thank God for her every day.”

  THE HEDGES HAD CREATED a home that fit them as neatly as a shell fits a tortoise. The rooms seemed enormous to Gideon, who was used to cramped quarters. He thought first of a barn, and then of a small factory, for every space was devoted to some kind of industry. The sitting room alone housed a spinning wheel, a loom, and an easel; reeds and half-finished baskets were stacked in one corner. Apart from a few old pieces that had been handed down, the Reverend and his sons had made all the furniture. The style was sturdy rather than elegant, but Gideon was intrigued by the rocking chairs—six of them, arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. Ornamental carving gave each an individual character. “I’ve made one for every member of my family,” Hedge told him. “A superior form of seating, in my opinion. I find the motion facilitates reflection.” Gideon noticed that the headboards bore different Scripture references. He wondered which chapter-and-verse belonged to Sophy.

  They gathered around a table almost as long as the room that housed it: a long slab of oak set end-to-end with platters and bowls. In contrast to the Puritan austerity of the surroundings, the spread struck Gideon as a Tudor banquet. He hadn’t realized until he sat down how famished he was; a tureen of stewed chicken fragrant with herbs brought water to his eyes as well as his mouth. With as much stoicism as he could muster, he resigned himself to an interminable grace; Hedge’s dining-hall sermons were famous. He was startled when the pastor asked him to give thanks.

  “Our Father in Heaven,” Gideon began, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes on the bowed heads around him. “I count myself fortunate to be in the bosom of this warm home, where signs of your favor are everywhere, in the abundance of the fields and the peace and plenty within. Never have I felt so much like a . . . a wayfaring stranger who looks with yearning at the lighted windows of a house along the road, and is surprised and gratified to be invited inside. I thank you for the wisdom of Reverend Hedge and the kind hospitality of his family. May you bless this food to our use, and . . . multiply the blessings of those who prepared it.” No more words came, so he said, “Amen.”

  If the Hedges were surprised at the brevity of the grace, they hid it well. Mrs. Hedge smiled and nodded, and the young men were openly relieved at the prospect of eating while the food was hot. The Reverend had not yet raised his eyes. He appeared to be praying silently, holding them all in suspension as he covered the ground that his guest had missed. Color rose in Gideon’s cheeks as seconds turned to minutes.

  “I fear I lack your eloquence,” he said when Hedge finally looked up.

  “You have spoken from the heart. Nothing could be more pleasing to the Lord.” The parson inclined his head slightly in his guest’s direction, and turned to the roast, taking up his carving tools with solemn ceremony—as if, Gideon thought, he had received a command during prayer to shoulder the cross of daily life.

  The talk at table began casually enough. James, who was to be married soon, was contemplating buying a parcel of land, and Reuben and the Reverend offered their opinions. The two older sons seemed born to work the soil. Bluff and hardy, long-chinned like their mother, they reminded Gideon of English squires, forking up hunks of meat while discussing the price of real estate and the merits of various fishing holes. If there was a grain of philosophy in them, it wasn’t evident from their conversation. The youngest, Micah, was the quiet one, never offering a word, but gazing at each speaker with a lively interest. He seemed no older than Sophy, his skin as soft and rosy as a girl’s, but Gideon pegged him as the Reverend’s true descendant.

  “Do you have plans to follow your father to seminary?” he asked.

  Micah, caught with a mouthful, took a second to grasp that the question was directed at him. He blushed and shifted the food to his cheek. “That was f-for S-Sam. My b-b-brother. I’m no s-s-s-stu—” His neck reddened, the sinews bulging with the effort of getting the words out. Gideon was beset with a fear that the boy w
ould choke; he could almost see the unspoken syllables dammed up in his throat. “I’mnogoodatstudying.” This last emerged in a single breath, clotted like a German noun. In the ensuing silence, Micah slowly began to chew again.

  Gideon was ashamed that his well-meant question had brought the young man’s struggles to light. Unsworth was looking at him with reproach—as though he had humiliated Micah out of malice—but Reverend Hedge interceded smoothly. “My son is too modest. He did well with Latin, and his copybooks were the neatest of all my children’s. If he is somewhat slow of speech, he’s marvelously quick with his hands. He’s all but taken over my workshop! One day, I believe, Micah will see his affliction as a special gift. A calling, even, for who can plumb the hidden purposes of our God? When Moses balked at speaking to the Egyptians, did the Lord not respond, ‘Who hath made a man’s mouth?’”

  No one found it necessary to affirm the quotation. Gideon wished that Hedge had simply praised his son without appending a lesson; he was beginning to think that the pastor was that rare man whose private face perfectly matched his public one. He wanted to ask Micah what pieces of furniture he had worked on, but knew now to avoid the interrogative. “I’ve been admiring the rocking chairs,” he ventured, proceeding with caution. “Such fine craftsmanship.”

  “Micah made my chair,” Sophy said suddenly. She had been silent during dinner, up and down with Mrs. Hedge, though Gideon had caught her looking at him once or twice; he was acutely aware of her but had made an effort to focus on the table at large. “Not the verse, of course. Papa does the letters himself to work the blessing in. But the rest is Micah’s—the back and seat and base, and the fancy carving. I think it’s the most beautiful one of all.”

  “I’m eager to see it,” Gideon said. “Would you be so kind as to point it out after dinner?”