“What if he follows us?” asks Mary suddenly, whirling to see behind her.
“He won’t,” says Janey.
“He could. He could be going to the wanderers right now, to tell them. He could be furious—”
“He doesn’t know where they live. And he’s not furious. Didn’t you hear as we were running away?”
“Hear what?”
“He was laughing at us. It was hard to tell, but that’s what it sounded like.”
“Laughing at us? Why?”
“Because we were afraid.” Janey tucks a windblown strand of hair behind Mary’s ear.
“What kind of thing would make someone cut out your tongue?” sobs Mary. “What if he does it to us?”
“He’s old, isn’t he,” says Janey, more to herself than Mary. “Very old. He’s survived out there a long time. Did you see his clothes?”
“No,” says Mary, sniffing. “I didn’t notice them.”
“They were filthy, and old, but well made. Very well made. And his shoes were…complicated.”
“Do you think he’s still sitting there?” whispers Mary.
“No,” says Janey brusquely. “I don’t. I think he’s gone back to out there.” She sweeps her hand in an extravagant gesture.
“We need to tell the other girls—”
“No.” Janey’s face is hard and cold, and her eyes burn into Mary’s. “We will never tell anybody.”
“Why?”
“It just…If we don’t tell anyone, it stays between us, it’s our secret. I just can’t have everybody knowing.”
“But why?”
“Because it was—” And Janey’s lower lip quivers until she has to catch it in her small white teeth, and bite hard. “They’re so young, and the way he—” She wraps her arms around herself. “Besides, if someone found out we’d been on the ferry, if it got back to a wanderer…Just don’t tell anyone. Please.”
“Janey,” whispers Mary, “now how will you find out about the wastelands?”
Janey shakes her head. “I don’t know. Please stop asking me questions. I just want to go home too.” They stagger toward their house, feeling contaminated by their new knowledge. It drags on them like shackles as they try to forget it ever happened. For days after, Mary wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, from nightmares of rank, infested earth slowly opening up beneath her to swallow her whole. And Janey simply doesn’t sleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Caitlin
Caitlin is eager for the next time Janey will call the girls together. She’s not the only one; Rosie tells her that a few hopeful girls even went to church the next night, but were met with only darkness inside. After a few days pass, it seems like a dream: Janey behind the altar, everyone looking at her, the captivating notion of new islands. Caitlin feels a little foolish to have thought she knew something exciting.
But then, about two weeks after the first church visit, Rosie taps on her window again. This time, Caitlin doesn’t even crawl out on the roof, she just opens the window and nods. She puts on her shoes, recalling the freezing ground, and then takes them off again, remembering the tap they make on the floor. She remembers to bring a blanket, though, and Rosie has a shawl.
This time, nobody hesitates at the church door; they can see the soft, coral glow filtering up through the dark stairway and hovering faintly in the night air. Janey is at the altar already, pacing like a skinny, freckled Pastor Saul, scowling fiercely at them. Mary hovers near her, quiet as a graceful shadow. There are more girls here this time. You can tell the new ones, because they’re only in their nightgowns, while the girls who attended the last of Janey’s sermons are wrapped up and shod. Clutching one another and hopping up and down, the underdressed girls giggle and wince at the cold on their skin. Their collective breath turns into fog, wisping up toward the black, invisible church ceiling. There’s a smell in the air Caitlin’s never noticed before, a smell of rich earth and dank wetness. She wonders if the walls are slowly caving in. Suddenly she has a vision of all of them writhing under a pile of rubble like trapped white worms.
Janey says, “Diana, you can’t bring your brother.”
“But he’s only three,” says Diana Adam, who is holding a sleepy William in her arms.
“He can still talk.”
“He cried every time I tried to leave the room. What was I supposed to do? Look, he’s falling asleep already.”
Janey frowns at her for a moment and then says, “Make sure he keeps quiet.”
Diana shrugs, bouncing William on her hip.
“Last time, I was trying to talk about an idea, but it didn’t go how I wanted. I feel—well, like I’m running out of time. But there are some things I do know, and even if…Well, if I tell you, you’ll know them too. I want to talk about Amanda Balthazar,” Janey says. “She didn’t bleed out.”
Caitlin’s skin freezes and crawls. She feels like she’s been dragged out of the shadows for everyone to see. Slipping into a pew, she sits down, touching her chin to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself. What has she started? Why couldn’t she stay quiet?
She thought everyone had heard about the dead girl in the water, but apparently not. Gina frowns and says, “What do you mean? She bled out. She’s dead.”
“She is dead,” says Janey. “But she didn’t bleed out. I think she was murdered.”
There’s a long silence. “By Andrew?” whispers someone in a tone of scant belief.
“No. By the wanderers. They pulled her body from the water. Caitlin saw them,” Janey says. Caitlin shrinks into herself even more and suppresses an urge to crawl under the pews on her belly. Heads swivel to look at her and she pretends she isn’t here, she is somewhere else, asleep in bed with Mother, perhaps, or walking the shore in summer. She has never had so many eyes on her.
“Caitlin could be lying,” says Gina. There’s a murmur of agreement.
“I don’t think so,” says Janey. “Caitlin saw what she saw. She isn’t a liar.”
“How do you know?” demands Gina.
“Because if she was, she’d make up something about the wastelands. Something she remembered from when she lived there. But she never has.” Caitlin remembers her vision of the dead woman, but she would rather die than tell a soul.
“Maybe she isn’t smart enough,” remarks Harriet Abraham.
“She is plenty smart!” cries Rosie, and Caitlin feels a warm glow in her chest at the unexpected defense. “She’s memorized Our Book and everything Pastor Saul ever said.” This isn’t quite true, but Caitlin would never correct a whole roomful of people.
“Let’s have her recite it, then.” Harriet laughs, and Janey glares at her until she looks down, cowed.
“So I was wondering,” says Janey, her voice louder, “if Amanda was murdered…how many other women have been murdered?”
She looks at everyone expectantly, as if she’s asked a simple question. There’s some shuffling and glancing, and finally Violet says, “What do you mean?” Pressed breast to breast for warmth, she and her sister Sarah have their arms twined around each other like slender ropes.
“I mean that if Amanda really was killed and didn’t bleed out, maybe the other women who supposedly bled out were killed too.”
“But I’ve seen someone bleed out,” objects Rosie. “In front of me. She died. It was disgusting.”
“Me too,” says Harriet. “I saw Mrs. Jacob die. Anna Jacob, the soapmaker’s wife. Or, she was his wife.”
“But sometimes you can’t find anyone who saw them die,” says Brenda Moses. “If it happens at home, or…” She gestures. “Like, Mrs. Gideon the farmer’s wife, the young one, she bled out at home, but her daughter Kelly said she didn’t see it, and Mr. Gideon didn’t see it, she was just home alone and then she was dead and there was no blood anywhere and her body was ready to be buried. Kelly said it was very strange.” Kelly Gideon is now Kelly Abraham, married and unable to be useful to them.
“That doesn’t mean
she was murdered,” says Lillian Saul. “That doesn’t mean anything, maybe they just cleaned it up real well. Even if she didn’t bleed out, how does it mean she was murdered?”
“But what if she was?” says Fiona. “Remember, she was one of those who used to say that girls and men should have their summers of fruition when they were both the same age. Nobody listened, but she said it.” Someone giggles shrilly at this notion.
“But if they were killed, then…” mutters Diana.
“Who killed them?” says Letty just as Fiona asks, “What if she just fell into the water?”
“Wait,” says Rosie. “It’s not like the sea is full of dead women. It’s just Amanda who was in the water.”
“Remember Mrs. Joseph,” says Brenda slowly, “Alma Joseph. She was crazy, remember? She said that fathers shouldn’t…that girls shouldn’t…remember how crazy she was? Mr. Joseph had to marry her because there wasn’t anyone left, but, remember? And she bled out real soon after? Did anyone see her bleed out?”
Everyone starts speaking at once. Girls turn to each other, sharing theories and memories with their friends. Slowly, Janey leaves the altar and sits on the edge of the pulpit, swinging her skinny legs.
Without the promise of an island full of kittens, or snow, or honey, the youngest girls have lost interest again; a few are playing a clapping game in the corner. The staccato of palm against palm clatters like rhythmic raindrops as they chant in time:
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven
Drink a draft and go to heaven
Grandmother can’t, Grandmother won’t
Push that poison down her throat!
There’s a crash, and laughter.
Another girl from the back of the room says, “You’re not supposed to murder people, it’s against the shalt-nots.”
“The wanderers make the shalt-nots,” murmurs Gabby Abraham.
“No, the ancestors did,” corrects Ellen Joseph.
“But the wanderers add to it,” says Fiona. “Maybe you don’t have to follow a rule, if you’re the one who’s making it.”
“But if they did kill Amanda, if they kill women, what if they kill me?” asks Ellen with a note of panic.
“We’re not sure they killed anybody,” says Linda soothingly.
“I was with Amanda,” says Janey, standing up again, and the pale faces turn to her. “I was with her a few days before she died, and she was talking about changing things. Looking for a way out. Trying to get help. And then we heard a noise, and then…there was a man.”
“And he killed her,” breathes Brenda.
“No,” says Janey, annoyed. “He was just there, he listened, he ran away. The things Amanda was saying, they were blasphemous, I guess. They were dangerous. And now she’s dead. Do you understand?”
Another group of little girls is now racing around the church with an occasional shriek. Caitlin hears the brief, keening wail signaling a bumped elbow or skinned knee. A fight breaks out. They’re more restless, more irritable than at the first meeting. It’s strange, these echoes of summer when summer has already died and is lying comatose, waiting for the months to pass until its resurrection. The further it recedes in the past, the harder it is to control the young ones.
Janey looks exasperated. Caitlin suddenly remembers how much older she is than the other girls, those key three or four years between her and even the oldest of them. It means, by rights, that Janey should have shrieking children of her own. Her glimmering, flyaway hair should be pulled back and knotted on top of her head, her dress longer and looser, her movements heavy and sedate. This vision of adult Janey clanks jarring and wrong in Caitlin’s head, and she lets it fall away gratefully. It’s easier to imagine Janey dead than married.
“So you’re saying the wanderers are all murderers,” says Vanessa bitterly.
“I’m saying there is something happening,” replies Janey. “I didn’t say they were all murderers. I don’t know how they work, not like you. It could have been one of them, all of them, I don’t know.”
“And your proof is that Amanda spoke some blasphemy and bled out?”
Caitlin looks at Vanessa, and it suddenly occurs to her that if Janey didn’t exist, Vanessa would be the girl everyone stared at and spoke about. She’s so tall, and beautiful, and she spends hours reading her father’s books about ancient magic. She uses long words and nobody ever knows what they mean.
“Her body was dragged from the water,” says Janey. “What do you think, she happened to be waist-deep in the sea, in summer, and then just bled out then and there?” Vanessa looks away.
“Think of the women who’ve disappeared, the women who were odd or blasphemous, maybe they got shamed and it didn’t change them at all. Think about it. How many men mysteriously disappear? Just drop dead, without anybody seeing them die?”
Caitlin thinks back on the men who have died of injuries, of sickness, of slow wasting diseases. Men don’t die as often as women, since they don’t have to give birth, but they still die. Mr. Aaron the weaver woke up one morning recently and his legs didn’t work, and now the uselessness is spreading up his chest. Mr. Joseph the carpenter fell off a roof and broke his neck. Mr. Solomon the farmer died of swamp lung. But for all these men, there were those eager to tell the story of their suffering and death, those who witnessed the pain and shock of it all. Whereas many women simply bleed out and are buried quietly and swiftly; such a commonplace end that recounting the tale would be mundane.
“Women are being killed,” says Janey slowly and loudly, and suddenly Rhonda Gideon, the wanderer Gideon’s daughter, shrieks, “My father is not a murderer!”
This sets off a hubbub. Gabby says, “They’d kill a pregnant woman with a baby?” “Are you saying Mr. Joseph would kill someone?” asks Gina. “Are you saying that June Abraham was murdered?” says someone else. “What’s wrong with you?” demands Violet, as Leah says, “She’s right, though. Mrs. Joseph. Mrs. Gideon. Mrs. Adam, the one who said men shouldn’t take on other wives. They’re all dead. They’re all dead.”
“I’m going to the beach,” says Janey loudly, over the clamor. “I’m going to the beach, and you can come if you want.”
“For the night?” says Letty.
“Forever. I’m going to the beach. We have to find another way to live. I’m going to the beach, and you can come. It will be like summer, but all the year round. Leave your fathers. Come with me. They might kill us, but at least—at least—” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
In the uproar, Caitlin sees Janey stepping back, and then quietly descending the altar steps. Mary follows her, hands clasped, peering back at the noisy clot of girls in the center of the church.
“Janey,” calls Vanessa peremptorily, but Janey doesn’t stop. “Janey!” Janey leaves the church, not looking back, Mary trailing anxiously behind her.
Nobody follows Janey, but nobody wants to go back home. The promise of the beach hangs heavy in the air like a mist. Girls stand in little clusters, slowly talking over what Janey said, until Caitlin’s feet turn white and everyone’s teeth are chattering. Girls run to the stairway, shivering, and then turn back to the light and company of their friends and foes. The girls who have been playing games double their efforts, throwing their limbs about and screaming in the unexpected freedom of the dark church.
Caitlin huddles with Rosie, Linda, Violet, and Fiona. They are gathered close to one another for warmth, murmuring about Janey’s dark idea. “I can’t say it doesn’t make sense,” says Fiona. “Not everyone who bleeds out, of course, but it just makes sense.”
“They don’t even need to kill me. I’d kill myself right now if it wasn’t for the darkness below,” says Violet, and they look at her with shock.
“You would?” whispers Linda.
“My sister told me that after she got married she felt like nothing would ever change for her again,” said Fiona. “Especially after she had her daughter. She said she loved her daughter, but also couldn’t stand her, and tha
t after she was born, she kept having nightmares. She said she wanted to die. Not that she would kill herself, but if she got swamp lung or something and it killed her, she wouldn’t mind. She used to go out in the cold, sometimes, in light clothes, to see if she could catch it.” There is a long silence as they digest this information. “She wasn’t the type to say anything to others, but she said things to me. How she wanted everything to change. How everything was wrong. She said it to me. Maybe if she said it to other people, she’d be dead.”
Everyone is silent for a minute.
“I can’t feel my feet,” says Rosie finally. “I cannot feel them.” She leans over and pokes at the skin of her instep. “My toes are blue.”
Caitlin suddenly realizes she is shivering heavily and is feeling sleepy. “Your lips are blue,” Rosie informs her.
“We need to go back,” says Linda. “It’s almost dawn anyway.”
“We don’t need to go back,” says Rosie, and Caitlin sees new conviction dawn in her eyes.
“You’re going to go,” she whispers.
“I think…I think I’m going too,” says Fiona. “Not right now. Maybe tomorrow, when I can bring something warm to wear and some food. Will you go?”
“I—I don’t know,” says Caitlin, her head spinning.
Clutching themselves, they ascend the church steps and run home on numb feet, tripping and falling, catching themselves with cold hands that prickle with pain, thrusting fingers into their mouths for warmth. Caitlin sneaks into bed, rolling herself over and over so she is wrapped in layers of quilt, and immediately falls into a deep sleep.
The next day, Fiona and Rosie are missing from school, as are Letty and Violet. Caitlin feels envy stab her in the gut so sharply it’s hard to walk upright.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gather the Daughters Page 18