The Language of Paradise: A Novel

by Barbara Klein Moss

  But she is blinking tears now at the thought of sitting beside Micah in the wagon, wheels jouncing under them as the horse picks its way over rough road, the trees thinning to meadow as they approach the village. Come to meeting, he writes, as if she could put on her bonnet and waltz through the door. How many months have they kept her in this house, confined her to their company? She and Aleph might as well be prisoners. The idea shocks, as if another mouth had spoken it. Absurd to fling such a term at a woman living in a fine house with her husband and son, comfortably secluded. But what other name for those who aren’t free to leave?

  She’s thought of escape before, but always as a distant possibility, an extreme remedy should the sickness turn mortal. For the first time she wonders, where would we go?

  “Does James . . . ask about us?” She trusts Micah to tease out the other questions embedded in this one. Does he look upon me still as his sister? If I turned up at his door with Aleph, would he take us in?

  Micah writes: Asking is not James’s way. He thunders about school Leander promised, believes himself fooled. “House sewn in corruption, corrupts all within.” Gideon & Leander are giv’n over, but you are family, w’ld save you and baby if he c’ld.

  She smiles at “sewn in”—a more apt description of their circumstances than he knows. “I must be fallen very low if James thinks I need saving. I’m not sure I could bear being the Prodigal Sister. It would be too grim to be grateful for my brother’s charity and put on my church face every day at home—or what passes for home without Mama.” True as far as it goes, though it’s her own mother’s fate she’s thinking of. “If I have to choose between jails, maybe I’m better off where I am. But I’ll go if I must, for Aleph’s sake.”

  He starts to write, bearing down so hard that the lead in the pencil breaks. He tosses it aside. “N-n-n-never go back, Sophy! Nojoy. No JOY!”

  She understands, finally, what he swallows each day in patient silence. An ocean of words and thoughts, phrase after phrase gulped whole like Jonah, alive but undigested. The steady trickle of condescension from those who presume his mind is as slow as his speech. Grief and more grief, his parents dead in quick succession, his sister in jeopardy, the lively household of his childhood reduced to a rigid overseer who used to be his favorite brother. The daily bread of solitude that sustained him all the years of his growing up pinched to loneliness.

  Sophy opens her arms and he comes to her, just as he did when he was small. He is tall and large-boned like Mama, but thin for his frame—nowhere near the girth of a man, whatever Leander says. His wing bones are as sharp as elbows, she can feel his ribs. His big, tousled head flops over her shoulder, too heavy for its slender stalk. A body like this—how much can it hold before it breaks?

  CHAPTER 35

  ____

  LAYING STONE

  ONE ON TWO, TWO ON ONE. THE METHOD FOR BUILDING A stone wall was as elemental as the material. Leander would not stop trilling about the simplicity and economy of the process, the generous New England soil that spewed up stout rocks each winter, to be collected and stacked in orderly piles around the cleared land. “Such a marvelous efficiency on nature’s part to give us the means to protect our gardens.” He had even made a rhyme of it, which he persisted in singing in a booming bass: “ONE on two, TWO on one, pile the stones ’til our wall be DONE!”—rather, Gideon thought, as if he and Micah and Lem and his brother, passing rocks from hand to hand, were Nubian slaves chained at the ankle. If only the relentless rhythm had a numbing effect, it would be tolerable, but pain grooved deeper in his back and shoulders with each bend-and-lift, and the hinges of his arms felt as brittle as a marionette’s. He would be as lame as a man twice his age by the time they finished.

  Poor Micah could fare even worse. His hands were made to work with wood, an accommodating medium with none of the obduracy of stone. Sophy soaked them in warm water each night and dressed the scrapes and blisters, pleading with him to leave the labor to the Quinns, who were, she said, built like bears. Micah was always back the next day—goaded by the brothers’ smirks, Gideon guessed. Lem and Walt, who had few opportunities to look down on others, had conferred between themselves and decided he was backward.

  “At the pace we’re going, it will take a year to circle the property,” Gideon complained. It was noon, a cloudless day in June, and he and Leander were sitting under a tree, refreshing themselves with the buttermilk Sophy had brought. “And to what end? We can’t possibly build high enough to keep anyone out.”

  Sightings had increased since the weather warmed. Groups of men had been seen at the border of the property at dusk, keeping a silent vigil. They were too old to be students; Gideon thought he recognized a couple of them from church. When Leander strode out in his forthright way and hailed them with a wave, they scattered like marbles, disappearing into the woods at the side of the road. Leander never admitted to fear, but the wall had been his idea: a gesture, effortful and perhaps empty, but something they could do.

  “Any wall can be scaled,” Leander said, “even if it’s as thick and high as Jericho’s. But a wall is more than its dimensions. It marks the boundary between what is ours and what is theirs. A stranger comes upon an unprotected house and thinks nothing of knocking on the door. He sees a wall and thinks, ‘Is it worth my while to storm the gates?’”

  “A picket fence would’ve had the same effect and been kinder to our backs.”

  Gideon was in a sour mood. A week ago the dry goods merchant had informed him that he would be sending his sons to a “real school” in Leominster come September. Gideon had tried to reason with the man, exaggerating the strides that the boys had made under his tutelage and confiding his hope that they would be among the first pupils to shine at his own academy. He had scarcely given a thought to this temple of learning since they’d moved in, but found that in extremity he could conjure its Athenian ideals as glibly as Leander. The merchant was unmoved. Gideon suspected that gossip circulating in the village had reached his ear.

  Leander mopped his brow with the tail of his shirt. “Stone has qualities one wants about one’s house. The permanence of it, the stability. The way it grows underground, so slowly, layer by layer, taking its infinite time. If you think about it, there is a kinship between stones and speech.” He had spoken dreamily, communing with himself, but now he stroked Gideon’s knee. “You’ve done enough for today. Go back to your real work. It isn’t wise to leave our Sophia alone for too long.”

  Gideon trudged toward the house, turning his aching shoulders to his friend’s ruminations. Leander, with his limitless vitality, might muse on the nature of stones while hefting them, but Gideon’s head felt most days like a toolbox overturned, a jumble of functional objects. No sooner was one project finished than another reared up to sap their time and energy. The long walk to and from his pupils’ home had been a holiday for him, a time to unleash his thoughts from practical matters and let them roam where they pleased. He was so rarely out in the world now that he’d indulged in a bit of castle-building, imagining himself traveling to other, larger towns; even lecturing at the Athenaeum as his Harvard classmates gazed at him from the front row, aglow with admiration. He would miss those contemplative walks more than the tutoring and the money.

  Gideon turned the knob slowly. Just inside he paused, aware of a breathy whisper, like a blown curtain brushing a sill. He strained his ear toward it for a few seconds, trying to discern words. He could not be sure. The sound was too thin. He walked toward it on the balls of his feet, following it down the hall toward the kitchen. The door, usually left open during the summer, was closed. His hearing had grown acute since they’d been practicing silence—painfully so. He listened with such intensity that he sometimes heard things that weren’t there, muffled noises or fragments of talk that faded when he came near. This was low and indistinct, but persistent, and the cadence was unmistakable.

  Sophy was at the table, packing a basket for their lunch as Aleph watched from a blanket on t
he floor. She started when he opened the door, but turned to face him calmly. If she was discomposed, she did not show it. He was the one who was overcome, his breath shallow, his hands trembling with the desire to take hold of her and shake the truth out of her. For Aleph’s sake, he reined himself in. She held out a handful of tiny greenish plums—the first fruits of a young tree they’d started in the glasshouse. He popped one in his mouth, wincing at the tartness. In the message book he scrawled, Ripped untimely, and spat out the pit.

  I couldn’t resist, she wrote. “Will you watch A. while I bring the bears their lunch?”

  Tending to Aleph soothed him. The baby was a solid weight in his arms, not doughy like other infants but no longer fragile. Half a year in the world, there was a bright quickness about his son that reminded Gideon of Sophy as she used to be. He had an intelligent look: a high forehead fringed with streaks of brown hair that Sophy combed down from the crown, and round dark eyes that darted hungrily like a bird’s. His stare was formidable; Leander shrank from it in mock alarm, declaring himself known and judged, and even Gideon wilted before such fathomless astonishment.

  Gideon strolled from room to room, carrying the baby face-front on a seat of his arm, mindful that for Aleph it was a journey of sorts. In the bedroom they made their daily stop before the mirror. Gideon hoped to catch the crystalline moment that the I met the other in its reflection, and recognized itself. Aleph loved to see the baby in the glass. Thus far he had uttered an “e-e-e-e” and an “ahhhh”—duly recorded, though Sophy had laughed—and on one halcyon morning had combined the two into something resembling an exclamation. Today he arched forward, as usual, and reached his little arms, but made no sound. Gideon wondered if Aleph was losing interest. However far he stretched, he could never come close enough to touch his mirror friend.

  After his morning labors, Gideon had been glad to retreat to the coolness of the house. Still, stepping into the fragrant heat of the glasshouse was a pleasant surprise. The plants were flourishing in their raised beds and Sophy’s rosebushes were in bloom, the stalks growing taller by the day. The runt of a plum tree that they’d nurtured as an experiment was bearing fruit. Emboldened, Leander promised an orange tree for next summer. True, it wasn’t the lush jungle his friend had envisioned, but a sweeter and more modest place, a New England Eden. More to his liking, though he would never say so to Leander.

  He set Aleph down on Fanny’s patched quilt with the woolly lamb Sophy had made. Sighing, he sank into his rocking chair as into a tub of warm water, and, stretching out his legs, opened his journal. His last entry, coming after pages of scrupulously described eee’s, ahhhs, and ooohs, had a somewhat forced tone.

  Aleph has yet to “bite down” on a syllable. The sounds he makes issue from his throat & pass directly out of his mouth, bypassing lips and tongue. They are open, moist, & full of air, not shaped in any way. Yet their variety is remarkable: he squeals, sighs, huffs, pants, hoots; lately I would swear that I have heard him croon, no doubt aping his mother’s thoughtless humming (she claims she is not aware). It is too early to say what these utterances signify, but it is worth-while to ponder the nature of Vowels.

  He dipped his pen and continued. Who is to say that our Ancestors did not speak thus? They for whom all was provided, who knew nothing of fear or want, who walked hand in hand with Nature? A pause, mulling a difficulty with Scriptural purists. It may be that the “names” Adam gave the beasts were spontaneous cries of wonder and delight as each fanciful creature presented itself; that his pronouncement upon discovering his helpmate was, in truth, an ululation. That the hard-edged consonants that chop throat-song into “words” are a phenomenon of a more rigorous age—

  Micah burst in, followed by Sophy, her apron in hand. Both were gesturing for him to come, Sophy mouthing a phrase he couldn’t decipher. Gideon didn’t bother to stifle his annoyance. He had been about to expound on infancy as a remnant of the Paradisal era, and to launch from there into interesting speculations about the stages of life. His thoughts had been flowing freely—could not youth be said to embody those first fumbling days outside the Garden gates?—and now life had interrupted again.

  Aleph had fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth, one cheek resting on the lamb. He never stirred when Sophy gently moved the toy and stroked his back. She stood, whispering that it would be best to leave him; Micah would stay behind to watch.

  In the hall she said, “The parson is here. Leander is showing him the wall.”

  HIS UNCLE MENDHAM might think he had the common touch, but William Entwhistle was not at ease in the company of a certain kind of man. This was evident to Gideon from the way he crushed his hat to his chest and averted his eyes from the ruddy torsos of the Quinns, who had been so seldom to church that they didn’t know enough to put their shirts on for the parson. Leander loomed over him, standing too close as he explained the fine points of wall-building. “Yes, ah, yes,” Entwhistle kept saying, leaning back until he threatened to topple over. His relief at seeing Gideon was palpable. He came toward him with hand outstretched.

  “I opened the Register this morning, and saw that it had been six months since the, ah, sad and joyful events. I’ve wondered how your wife is getting on, and the little one. I ask after you at meeting, but Micah is reticent.” He looked around him. “Quite an estate you have here. Extensive! I had no idea from James . . .” He stopped abruptly, as if he had revealed too much.

  “The place keeps us occupied from morning to night,” Gideon said, “but somehow we thrive.”

  There was an awkward lapse, Gideon agonizing whether to do the proper thing and invite the visitor in, and receiving no help from Leander, who was on the other side of the wall, admiring the parson’s handsome horse and carriage. He was about to divert Entwhistle with the garden when Sophy appeared in the doorway. Gideon stared. In the few minutes since he’d left the house, she had changed her dress and arranged her hair. Keeping so much to themselves, they had all gotten lax, and he’d grown used to seeing her day after day in the same shapeless dress she’d worn while pregnant, her hair straggling down her back in the frayed plait she’d slept on. He’d forgotten how the neatness of her small person had pleased him once, how perfect she had been in her own simple way, his mild gray dove.

  The parson seemed equally struck. He hastened toward the house, Gideon and Leander trailing in his wake. “Mrs. Birdsall! At long last! What a privilege to meet the daughter of such esteemed parents.”

  Though he pronounced himself satisfied just to make her acquaintance, Sophy insisted he take tea. There were still no chairs in the parlor, so they sat in the dining room around the table, which she had embellished with flowers, a bowl of blackberries, and a fresh loaf of bread; delicacies like cakes and pies had fallen by the wayside months ago. Entwhistle tore off pieces of his slice and buttered each fragment with fastidious care. The talk, too, was small and careful: snippets of weather, repairs to the church, the lasting legacy of Reverend and Mrs. Hedge. He has come on a mission, Gideon thought, but isn’t bold enough to jump in.

  When the tea was almost gone, Entwhistle asked, “And how is young—Gideon Junior, is it?”

  “We call him Aleph,” Gideon said. “He’s well, thank God, and growing like a weed. Napping at the moment.”

  “Good as gold,” Leander added.

  “Aleph . . .” The parson moved his lips, treading backward through a snarl of ancient languages acquired during his studies. “Ah, yes. If names are destiny, I suppose he’ll be a Hebrew scholar like his grandfather. And his father, of course.” But it was Sophy he was looking at. “Mrs. Birdsall, it is not my way to impose doctrine on others. None of us has the whole of the truth, the Lord arranged it so. But I can’t help but feel that your parents would rest easier if you would bring your son to be baptized. James is not a confiding man—at least not to me—but he has mentioned the matter several times. Trust me, it would do a great deal of good—and not only for the child.”

  “We’re hardly
the only ones who question the practice,” Gideon said, interceding smoothly. He had anticipated the conversation. “I don’t believe that sprinkling water on a baby’s head binds him to the church. When Aleph is old enough to reason, he’ll decide for himself what path—”

  Leander broke in. “The pastor is trying to tell us that more is at stake than theology. We should hear him out.”

  Entwhistle seemed as startled as Gideon by the unexpected support. He took courage from it. “You must understand, the people in this village are not bad souls, but they are narrow and superstitious. They judge the world by what they know. When someone chooses to live outside their circle, a few talk, and the talk spreads, and all too often hardens into gossip. I’m sorry to say that your little household is the subject of a particularly vicious slander.”

  This much had been rehearsed. The parson took a steadying breath and pushed on. “There are rumors that you worship strange gods, and . . . cohabit as the pagans do. That Mrs. Birdsall is mesmerized and kept against her will, and the baby . . . the baby is subjected to devilish rites. Some even say”—He faltered, turning his cup in his hands—“forgive me, they say that you use his blood . . .”

  “To season our soups. To add flavor to our bread.” Leander threw back his head and laughed. He tried to stifle the hilarity with a napkin to his mouth, and another torrent shook him.

  The others watched him, stunned. Gideon recalled another occasion when he had questioned Leander’s sanity. Sophy put her hand to her cheek.

  “I wish it were a laughing matter, Mr. Solloway,” Entwhistle said, finally.

  “Dear, brave Mr. Entwhistle, I, too.” Subsiding, Leander wiped his eyes. “One expects such barbarities in Europe, but that the tentacles reach to our artless little village . . . I hadn’t bargained for the scope, the sophistication!” Then, taking one of his sharp turns toward the practical: “You’ve told us what we must do, but there is something you can do for us. See our Aleph for yourself and judge whether we mistreat him.” He glanced at Sophy. “Sleeping, is he? We’ll all be very quiet.”