The Prophet Calls

by Melanie Sumrow

  “No,” Tanner says, stopping for pedestrians in the crosswalk. “I don’t know.” He slaps his steering wheel in frustration. “Where did all these people come from?”

  The sidewalks are full of smiling people in shorts and sleeveless tops. I touch the upper part of my arm, making sure it’s still covered by the sleeve of my dress. These are the outsiders the Prophet says are going to try to destroy us at the end of the world.

  Clusters of them pass—left and right—in front of our truck. Every one of them knows where they’re going. My fingers drop and dig into the seat.

  “Move already.” Tanner sighs loudly. “Come on.”

  A girl a little older than me crosses the street in jean shorts, her tanned legs bare to the world. Her hair has been cut short. But that’s not what shocks me most. “Her shirt,” I whisper, seeing her in red. Not long ago, the Prophet proclaimed the color red was reserved for Jesus Christ. We may never wear it. Ever. My eyes follow the girl as she enters a café. I look down at my ankle-length, mint-green dress and tug on my skirt. “Maybe we should just go home.”

  “Finally,” Tanner says, ignoring me, and gases the truck.

  We go a couple of blocks and Tanner makes a quick turn. “We need help,” he says and screeches into a nearby parking lot, where a massive tan-stoned building shadows us. Tanner cuts the engine.

  I look upward to the spires, touching the blue sky, and shift. “What are we doing here?”

  Tanner jumps from the truck. “Asking for directions.”

  Someone walks past my window, and I startle. “You’re going to talk to them?”

  “It’s that or keep driving in circles.” He gives me a little smile and gestures toward the huge stone building. “It’s a church. How bad can it be?”

  He slams his door, and I jump again. My brother pops open the hatch on the back of his truck, and in the side mirror, I can see he’s retrieved our violin cases.

  He opens my door.

  I shake my head. “I’ll wait here.”

  “We’re already late. It doesn’t make any sense for me to come back for you.”

  I eye him, wary.

  “I’ll do the talking,” he says and hands over my violin case. “You want to play, right?”

  In spite of my head telling me no, I nod and slip from the truck. I trail my brother along the winding path, edged with tiny yellow flowers. We pass a group of outsiders sitting on benches; my shoulders tighten as I hurry to match Tanner’s pace. We walk by a stone marker that says LORETTO, before approaching a pair of carved wooden doors. I grip the handle on my violin case tight and follow him inside the air-conditioned chapel.

  People are milling around the elongated room, taking pictures and whispering. Some of them glance at me a little longer than necessary and then avert their eyes. But I’m more concerned about the missing picture of the Prophet. Where is he?

  Tanner nudges me toward the back pew. “Stay here,” he says, and charges toward a person wearing a gold name tag on the far side of the chapel. A group of people surrounds the man as he talks about one of the paintings.

  I sit on the bench and lay my case across my lap, hugging it to my stomach. My eyes dart around, trying to take in all the details from the front to the back of the room: the elaborate white marble carving and gold cross; the candles flickering in rows; people kneeling before them in prayer; the colorful stained-glass windows; a carving of a bearded man in a white robe. On both sides of the chapel, there’s also a progression of small carvings that tell the story of Jesus’s fateful journey to the cross. I shift in the pew. There’s not a single picture or carving of the Prophet.

  “Are you familiar with our Miraculous Staircase?” a woman asks. My heart beats fast. She hovers in the aisle, wearing all black from head to toe with a cross around her neck. She’s even more covered than I am, but nobody seems to stare at her. She doesn’t move.

  I scoot down the pew, away from her, and shake my head.

  She smiles softly, creasing the lines around her mouth. “When the chapel was completed in the late 1800s, there was no way for the choir to get to the second floor. For nine days, the sisters prayed morning, noon, and night. Then, on the final day, a strange man appeared.” She points to the narrow spiral staircase with two full turns and made entirely from wood. “He built this without nails. There’s no means of support, and yet it stands firm. When he finished, he disappeared forever.”

  From my seat, I can see the lighter underbelly of the twisting, turning staircase. “Who was it?” I ask, my quiet voice echoing.

  She presses her hands together. “No one knows for sure, but many believe God sent the stranger in response to our prayers.” She smiles again.

  I smile with the realization. “It was the Prophet,” I answer. I’m sure of it. Everyone everywhere knows he does the work of God on earth.

  The woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “The Prophet,” I say again. “You know? It’s not the same one we have now, since it was so long ago.” My hands tap the top of my violin case. “Our Prophet’s in prison.”

  The woman’s eyes widen.

  I shake my head. “It’s really not his fault. It’s the outsiders. They—”

  “Gentry,” my brother scolds, eyeing the woman and then me. “We have to go.”

  I grasp the handle of my violin case and rise. The woman clears the aisle and then her throat. “Peace be with you, then.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and my brother leads me by the arm outside the doors into the shadow of the chapel.

  He stops abruptly. Bees buzz in the tiny yellow flowers near our legs. He releases me with a huff and pinches his fingers together. “We’ve been this close all along.” He swings his violin case to the other hand and shakes his head, his face falling. “We’re so late.”

  We’ve worked so hard. We’ve come all this way. “What are you saying?”

  He gives me a sly smile. “I’m saying we better run,” he says and takes off before I can react.

  “Tanner,” I shout after him, but he’s already to the street corner. I start after him. “Tanner, wait,” I yell, my case bobbing at my side, intermittently smacking against my leg.

  My brother runs up the Santa Fe Trail, zipping in and out of people. I try to catch up, but he’s too fast. I rush past outdoor vendors selling wood carvings and colorful blankets. Tanner turns left and disappears behind the adobe buildings.

  When I finally reach the corner and turn, I almost bump right into him. “Found it,” he says, proud.

  I wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. People are everywhere. I mean everywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many outsiders all in one place.

  They mill and sit in the center of the Plaza with its grass and trees surrounded by adobe shops and restaurants. Classical music pipes through the outdoor speakers. “Let’s find the stage,” Tanner suggests, and we cross the street with the crowd. My pulse runs as I sense the awkward sideways glances of strangers. I can’t hear their whispers beneath the music and laughter.

  We reach the edge of the Plaza, where there’s even more people. Nearby, a mother stands on the grass, blowing iridescent bubbles from a tiny wand. A toddler stumbles as he tries to catch the bubbles before they float away on the light breeze. The smell of hot grease from an Indian fry bread stand fills the air. A vendor pours strings of honey across a pillow of blue corn and hands the grease-stained plate to a little boy. My mouth waters with hunger.

  “There,” Tanner says, pointing to the covered stage on the other side of the square. The string quartet we hear through the speakers is playing there now. We weave our way through the crowd, past a stone obelisk that marks the center of the Plaza. On this side of the marker, most everybody sits on blankets or lawn chairs, listening to the musicians play.

  I swallow hard as we edge around to the back of the stage. The registration table is several feet behind it. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat sits behind the table with a girl, who looks about my age. The g
irl has black hair and wears a sundress that shows off her dark skin. I clutch my violin case to my chest.

  “Uh, hi,” Tanner says as we approach the table.

  The woman smiles wide. “Here for the festival, I presume?” she asks, pointing to our violin cases.

  “Yes,” Tanner says, placing his case on the ground. “But we’re really late. I got lost and—”

  “Oh, you must be the Forresters,” she says, flipping through a list of names.

  “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman thunks the end of her pencil against the list. “I’m afraid you’ve already missed your time slot.”

  I feel a soft but sudden nudge at my skirt. My heart jumps to my throat as I look down. It’s a golden-haired dog with a red bandanna around its neck. I shrink behind my case, thrusting it between the dog and me.

  “He won’t hurt you,” the dark-skinned girl says as she jumps from her chair. She holds the dog back by the collar.

  I can’t breathe. Didn’t Mother Dee say the outsiders trained their dogs to attack us?

  “He’s just curious,” the girl says.

  I look to Tanner for help, but he’s not paying attention to me. He’s still talking with the woman and pointing to her list. The dog tries to approach again, but the girl seems to have a good hold on him this time.

  “You sure he won’t attack?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  She nods and draws the dog behind her body. Then, she points to my case. “You play the violin?”

  “How’d you—” And then I stop myself, realizing I’m still holding my violin case as a shield. My cheeks warm.

  She smiles. “Me too. Name’s Talia.”

  “Gentry,” I say, slowly returning my case to my side.

  “What are you going to play?”

  From the corner of my eye, I spot Tanner shaking his head in frustration. I loosen the hold on my case a little and shift from foot to foot. “Uh, we were going to play ‘Gold Rush.’”

  Talia cocks her head to the side. “Never heard of it. Is it country or something?”

  “Bluegrass,” I say.

  She nods. “That’s cool.” The panting dog peeks around Talia’s hip; she pets its head. “You’re lucky.” Talia gives the woman behind the table a stern look, and I begin to see the resemblance between them. “My mom made me play boring classical. She said that’s what people expected.”

  “Really?” I ask, a wave of nausea rolling over me. Maybe it’s a good thing we’re too late to play.

  Talia ruffles the scruff of hair along her dog’s neck. “Anyway, this gentle beast is Rockstar.” On cue, Rockstar sits on his hind legs next to her. “You want to pet him?”

  I shake my head, hard.

  “I can’t believe this,” I hear Tanner saying to Talia’s mom.

  Talia inches closer with Rockstar. “Aw, come on. I promise he won’t bite. Just lift your hand a little more and let him sniff you first.”

  “You sure he won’t bite?” I ask. She nods. I press my lips together and lower my case, setting it on the ground. Immediately, Rockstar nudges my trembling hand with his wet nose. Talia giggles.

  The dog’s moist breath tickles my palm. I smile and carefully pet the top of Rockstar’s head.

  He licks my hand. I jump back slightly.

  Talia laughs again. “That’s just a kiss. I knew he liked you.”

  I carefully pet Rockstar’s soft coat again. Long strokes along his back. And sides. This isn’t so bad. My heartbeat slows.

  “We’ve come all this way,” my brother says loudly to Talia’s mom, yanking my attention away from Rockstar’s golden hair. Tanner looks defeated. “You don’t understand. This is my sister’s dream.”

  Talia juts out her hip. Her hand lands right on it. “Mom, seriously?”

  Talia’s mom shakes her head at her daughter. My heart speeds up again. If I talked to one of my mothers that way, especially Mother Lenora, I’d be punished. No questions asked.

  “Let the kids play,” Talia says.

  But her mom doesn’t jump up and strike her. Instead, she leans back in her chair with a sigh. “We were going to take a break after the quartet anyway. I guess you can go on when they finish.” She holds up a finger. “But only one song.”

  I shake my head. “That’s okay, we don’t have to play.”

  Tanner’s smile widens. “Thank you so much.”

  Talia pulls on Rockstar with a nod and looks to me. “You can do it.”

  “Better hurry,” Talia’s mom instructs. “Sounds like they’re wrapping it up. Go to the bottom of the ramp, and the emcee will introduce you when they’re ready for you.”

  My brother snatches his case and then gets mine.

  “Nice meeting you,” Talia says, giving Rockstar another pet on his head.

  I turn to see Tanner, already near the base of the ramp. “You too,” I say and hurry after him.

  “Gentry,” Talia calls.

  I stop and look back at her.

  “I like your costume,” she says pointing and then gives me a thumbs-up. “It’s really cool.”

  Costume? I look down, and then realize she’s talking about my dress. My face flushes with embarrassment.

  “Good luck,” she says with a smile.

  My stomach turns. She thinks I’m wearing a costume.

  The quartet finishes, and applause erupts from the crowd of outsiders. I meet Tanner at the base of the ramp that leads to the stage.

  What were we thinking? “We can’t do this,” I say to my brother as he’s tuning his instrument.

  “What?” he shouts over the clapping.

  My hands clench the sides of my long skirt. “They’re expecting classical music.”

  Tanner dramatically rolls his eyes and twists the fine tuner for his E string.

  “We’re not good enough. There’s a ton of people, and they’ll all be staring at us.”

  My brother finishes tuning. “Yeah. So?”

  I sigh. “Talia thinks I’m wearing a costume.”

  My brother chuckles under his breath and lowers his instrument.

  “It’s not funny,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Tanner tucks his violin under his arm. “We’ve been talking about this forever, right?”

  I nod.

  “And we’re finally here, aren’t we?”

  “I know, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  Tanner shakes his head. “Gentry, sometimes you have to push yourself—and maybe even get uncomfortable—to get what you want.”

  A man with a white beard appears behind Tanner. “How should I introduce you two?”

  I jump at the sound of his voice.

  “We’re the Forrester Duet,” Tanner says to the emcee and then turns to me. “Right?”

  The emcee’s shoes pound up the ramp before I can respond.

  My arms drop to my sides. “What if we’re not good enough?”

  “We are.” He points to my violin case on the ground. “You are.” The emcee makes the announcement, and Tanner glances back to see if I’m following.

  My heart races. I bend to get my violin and quickly tune it. He’s already at the microphone by the time I slowly step onto the gray-planked stage. The crowd politely applauds. Talia is right up front. The rest of the outsiders surround the front and sides of the stage. The emcee stands behind us on the ramp. My chest tightens.

  “You coming?” Tanner whispers. He’s already tucked his violin under his chin. I gulp and approach the second microphone. Overhead, the rust-colored roof seems to press down on us. Outsiders are all around us. We’re trapped.

  My brother clears his throat. It reverberates through the speakers and across the Plaza. The audience shifts, looking suddenly uneasy.

  “This is ‘Gold Rush,’” he says, his voice cracking on the last word.

  My violin quivers in my hands. My bow knocks the microphone stand. I spot a blond girl in the crowd and try to envision my sister Amy. I lift my violin to my
chin. My hands are shaking so hard, I let my bow hover above the string, instead of correctly on it. I don’t want to accidentally make a sound too early.

  The crowd has gone silent. I can hear the fry bread popping and expanding in hot oil. Skirt steaks sizzle on a nearby griddle and smoke fills the air.

  With a breath, my brother lifts his head and plays the introductory notes. Almost too late, I join him on the downbeat of the second measure. The tempo’s so quick, there’s no time to think. We race and lilt, echoing each other’s melody. I close my eyes and can feel Tanner’s foot taps through the floorboards. And suddenly, it’s like we’re home. I hear the claps of the audience, keeping time.

  My fingertips hurry across the fingerboard, not missing a single double-stop. We slow to allegro only briefly for the middle section of the piece and then speed up again. I can sense people on their feet now. Dancing. Clapping. Twirling. I open my eyes to Tanner’s smile, right before we end on the harmonic note.

  The applause is sudden. Talia jumps up and down. She places her fingers between her lips and whistles. People scream for an encore. Tanner takes a bow. I lower my violin. And then, I can’t help it: I bow. The applause grows louder. My cheeks already hurt from smiling.

  When I stand upright, from the edge of my vision, I spot the familiar red hair. Crossing the Plaza and moving toward us. My smile drops.

  It’s Father.

  6.

  I squirm in the back seat of Tanner’s pickup. Father’s driving. Tanner’s in the front passenger seat, sulking next to him. The silence is unbearable.

  After he found us, Father bought lunch off one of the vendors and then ordered us inside Tanner’s truck to eat. I tasted nothing.

  Father has said nothing. In fact, nobody has said anything. For hours.

  Now he’s driving us through the mountains on the High Road to Taos. Cars zip past as we putter along at a steady forty miles per hour. I dare a peek into the rearview mirror, hoping to catch some clue as to what Father’s thinking, but his green eyes concentrate on the road ahead, revealing nothing.

  By the time we finally reach the town of Taos, I begin to wonder whether we’re ever going to stop.