The Obsidian Blade

by Pete Hautman

  AFTER SUPPER, AS HIS MOM MADE UP THE GUEST BED FOR Lahlia, Tucker retired to his own room. He tried to read a book about submarines, but couldn’t focus. There was too much strangeness in the house. He lay in bed, staring up at the cracks on his ceiling, trying in vain to understand what had happened that day.

  Eventually, he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed of a strange silent girl with eyes as black as charcoal. He was awakened around midnight by the muffled sound of his parents’ voices coming from their bedroom. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but his mom’s voice had a strident tone, while his father’s preacherly drone came through like white noise. He pressed his ear to the wall.

  “. . . then Tucker said you fell off the roof, and the next thing I know, you’ve brought that little girl home. What am I supposed to think?”

  “I’m sorry, Em. I can’t explain it. Maybe I did fall off the roof. Maybe I was confused and walked in to town. It’s not important.”

  “Not important? You bring a strange girl into our home and it’s not important?”

  “I don’t mean it like that. Of course it’s important. We’ll find a home for her soon.”

  “Yes, but who is she? Where did she come from?”

  There was a long silence, then his father spoke.

  “I don’t know. I found her wandering around downtown. She wouldn’t speak except to tell me her name.”

  “You should have called the sheriff.”

  “I notified them, but they won’t find her parents.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Trust me. She is an orphan, abandoned by her parents. Like you,” his father said in a softer voice.

  Again, a long silence.

  “Do you remember anything about that, Em? About before you were adopted?”

  “Nothing real,” said Emily Feye.

  Tucker knew that his mom was adopted, and that she had never found out who her birth parents were. He had never thought about it much — it was a fact of life. His mom had told him that Hamm and Greta Ryan, an older, childless couple, had found her crying outside the boarded-up Hopewell House hotel when she was no more than four years old. Unable to find out where she had come from or who her parents were, they had adopted her. Both Hamm and Greta had died of natural causes shortly after Tucker was born — he didn’t remember them at all, but his mother spoke of them fondly and often.

  Tucker sat with his ear to the wall for several more minutes. Except for a few soft murmurs, he heard nothing more.

  The Reverend Feye delivered his usual Sunday service the next morning, saying nothing of his loss of faith. In his sermon, he railed against avarice and fornication, somehow connecting the two. He related the Parable of the Sower, and he urged his parishioners to find a good home for the orphan Lahlia, who was sitting in the front pew next to Tucker.

  Emily Feye played the enormous pipe organ, as always, her feet working the pedals, hair bouncing as she leaned this way and that, reaching across the wide console to finger the ivory and teak keys. Her prowess on the organ was local legend, and many came just to watch her perform.

  Shortly after Tucker’s parents had married, his father had found the pipe organ stored in an abandoned church near Decorah, Iowa. The two hundred twelve pipes, some as tall as sixteen feet, had been tarnished and clogged with rodent nests, many of the pedals and keys were missing or broken, the wind chests were badly cracked, and the electric bellows did not work at all.

  Certain he could repair the organ, he purchased it for six hundred dollars, hauled it back to Hopewell, rented a vacant building downtown, and set about restoring the neglected instrument.

  Because the Reverend had no training as a musician or as an organ restorer, he accidentally reversed the order of the foot pedals and transposed several of the pipes. Most of the original ivory keys were damaged; these he replaced with dark, polished teak. The final result, while magnificent in appearance, was unsettling to Alvina Johanson, who had played a smaller organ for a church in Lanesboro. When Alvina sat at the console and attempted a rendition of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” what she got instead was a herd of trumpeting elephants and howling tomcats. She snatched her fingers from the keyboard and pushed herself back with a look of horror. “This is not an organ,” she declared. “It is an instrument of audial torture!”

  “Perhaps you are not playing it correctly,” suggested Emily Feye, leaping to her new husband’s defense.

  “Fiddlesticks!” Alvina declared. “No sane person could play this cursed device!”

  Emily Feye, who was by then pregnant with Tucker, stubbornly set about mastering the instrument. As she slowly learned her way around the misplaced keys and pedals, sounds mournful and joyous, strident and passionate, shivered the thin walls of the fledgling church. Meanwhile, Adrian set to work installing several rows of pews, a small altar of limestone and oak, and a set of stained-glass windows he had scavenged from an abandoned Catholic church in Zumbrota. Shortly thereafter, he announced the opening of the Church of the Holy Word.

  The young Reverend’s passion, the impressive pipe organ, and the lack of alternative entertainment drew people from all over Hopewell County and beyond. Worshippers traveled from as far away as Austin to hear Adrian Feye speak the Word of God, and to watch the preacher’s pregnant wife operate the largest pipe organ in seven counties.

  Several times during the service, Tucker felt Lahlia looking at him. He liked that she found him so interesting, but at the same time, it made him uncomfortably self-conscious. He kept his eyes on the front of the church and refused to look back at her.

  After the service, the Reverend performed another baptism, then counseled a young couple on their plans for marriage, prescribing fidelity, commitment, and haste — this last because the bride-to-be was looking suspiciously plump around the middle. He acted in every way like the same devout country preacher the people of Hopewell expected: spiritually fundamentalist, but practical in matters of the flesh.

  If any of the parishioners noticed anything different about the Reverend Feye, they said nothing. Where preachers were concerned, few of the faithful saw beyond the collar.

  For several more days, Lahlia remained a mute, wide-eyed presence in the Feye household. Tucker found the girl fascinating to look at, but intolerable to be looked at by. Her eyes were rapacious, devouring whatever they fell upon. Every time he caught her staring at him, he felt as if she were sucking the color right out of his skin.

  The gray kitten was with her always, either in her arms or following at her heels. One afternoon, while lying on his belly at the end of the dock trying to catch minnows with one of his mother’s kitchen strainers, Tucker felt a cool shadow cross his back. He rolled onto his side and looked up to find Lahlia’s eyes fixed upon him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Lahlia stared.

  “I’m catching minnows,” Tucker said.

  Lahlia blinked and stared.

  Tucker had tried staring her down once. It was not an experience he cared to repeat. He returned to his work, holding the strainer in the water and waiting for an unwary minnow to swim into it. The back of his neck prickled with the girl’s presence. He stood it for about half a minute, then whirled on her and shouted, “What?”

  Startled, Lahlia stepped back and lifted her hands as if to fend off an attack. When Tucker didn’t move, she blinked, flooding both cheeks with tears.

  Tucker, feeling bad about scaring her, said, “Are you okay?”

  Lahlia turned and walked slowly back through the trees toward the house, followed closely by her cat.

  Arnold and Maria Becker, an older couple who ran a small dairy farm two miles outside of Hopewell, agreed to adopt Lahlia. The Beckers were among the most devout and rigid of Tucker’s father’s parishioners; they possessed both a strong sense of duty and a surplus of household tasks. Tucker watched from his bedroom window as his father led Lahlia out of the house to Arnold Becker’s aging pickup truck. She was wearing a pair of Tucker’
s old jeans, a bright red T-shirt, and flip-flops from the Economart. She had no bag; she owned nothing other than the little cat in her arms. As they drove off, Tucker allowed himself to imagine that everything would go back to normal. Maybe Lahlia had been responsible for his father’s peculiar behavior and loss of faith. Maybe, now that she was gone, he would start acting like himself again.

  Over the following days and weeks, Tucker watched his father for signs of change, but the Reverend stayed the course. He did not say grace that night, nor on any subsequent night. He preached every Sunday. He officiated at baptisms and weddings, visited parishioners who were ill or injured, and continued to wear his collar.

  In this way, the summer passed quickly. Tucker occupied himself by fishing and exploring the countryside with Will and Tom Krause, who lived a mile up the road. As long as he stayed busy he didn’t have to think too much about his father’s peculiar transformation.

  He did often find himself thinking about Lahlia, though. He wondered what her life was like now. Had she learned to talk? Did she still have that little gray cat? He saw her at church on Sundays, sitting in the back pew squeezed between Arnold and Maria, but he had not tried to speak with her. He still associated Lahlia with his father’s loss of faith, even though he knew that wasn’t fair. How could a young girl make a preacher give up on God? It made no sense. But he thought about her — a lot. Those few days when she had stayed with them had been uncomfortable and strange, but he missed having her around. Sometimes he felt as if she was watching him. He would turn around, but there would be no one there.

  Neither of his parents seemed happier without God in the house. His dad became moody and withdrawn. The Reverend Feye was not a naturally affectionate person, but he had always made an effort — a pat on the head or shoulder, and, once in a while, an awkward, bony hug. Tucker always felt that the gestures were not quite real, as if something had clicked in his father’s mind saying, “Give boy affection.” Still, Tucker craved those touches, which the new, godless version of Reverend Feye dispensed with ever increasing frugality.

  The long hours the Reverend had once spent reading the Bible and other religious texts became devoted to his childhood pastime of carving wooden figurines, a hobby he now resumed with grim intensity. Before long, the house teemed with gnomes, dwarves, and trolls carved from the roots of a cottonwood that had fallen in a windstorm. Every table, shelf, nook, and cranny soon hosted one or more of the Reverend’s timber creations, all of which were possessed of a scowling, joyless demeanor.

  But the change was hardest on Tucker’s mother. While she still prayed and read her Bible every night, she did so alone and cheerlessly. She attended Sunday services and played the organ, but something had gone out of her performance — hymns that had once felt jubilant and lively took on a desolate, melancholy air.

  At home she read for hours, mostly novels about faraway times and places. “One day,” she told Tucker, “I’m going to return to school and study the history of all the world.” She became addicted to sudoku puzzles. She bought books filled with the vexing number grids and worked one puzzle after another. Tucker tried one of the simpler ones. It was worse than doing math homework. He took the unfinished grid to his mother, who was sitting on the porch working her own puzzle.

  “Think of the numbers as people,” she said. “Five is a boy like you, made up of two and three. Nine is your father, five plus four, or two plus seven. Seven is a happy girl — you can see her smile. And when all the numbers come together, it is a prayer I send to God.”

  Tucker laughed because he did not know how else to respond. His mother returned to her puzzle, and Tucker went to sit on the porch and think. Numbers were people? Prayers were numbers? It made no sense at all.

  But then nothing made sense. Could both of his parents be right about God? Since God was omnipotent, could he make himself nonexistent for some people while remaining real for others? The thought was simultaneously disturbing and reassuring; Tucker did not dwell upon it for long.

  Toward the end of summer, the Beckers stopped attending the Holy Word and began attending a more rigorously religious Baptist church in a nearby town. Tucker missed seeing Lahlia at Sunday worship. He missed her eyes on him. He hoped to see her again when school started in September. In the meantime, he spent as much time as he could outside, away from the doleful cloud that hovered over his home.

  It was several months before he realized that his mother was losing her mind.

  IN SEPTEMBER, TUCKER ENTERED THE EIGHTH GRADE at Hopewell Public. He looked for Lahlia every day, but she never appeared at school. Tucker asked Tom Krause, who lived near the Becker place, if he had heard anything about her.

  “That yellow-haired girl?” Tom said. “I think they’re homeschooling her because of what happened with Ronnie.”

  “Who’s Ronnie?”

  “Ronnie Becker. The Beckers’ son. He was growing marijuana behind their barn and getting in all kinds of trouble. He ran off about fifteen years ago and never came back. That’s how come they’re homeschooling the new girl — to keep her away from bad influences.”

  “Bad influences like you?”

  Tom laughed and faked a punch at Tucker. “Bad influences like your uncle. That’s who Ronnie Becker ran off with.”

  Tucker was so surprised he didn’t know what to say. He knew that he had an uncle Curtis who lived someplace in Wisconsin, but he had never met him. His dad never talked about him.

  “Who told you that?”

  “My dad remembers when it happened. Ronnie and your uncle quit high school and took off.”

  Tucker absorbed this new information about his family.

  Tom said, “Anyway, I guess the Beckers aren’t taking any chances with the girl.”

  Tucker said, “You think she’s pretty?”

  “Pretty funny looking!” Tom laughed.

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “I went over there once, to return some tools my dad borrowed. She was playing with a kitten.”

  “She say anything?”

  “I think she said hi or something. She talks kind of strange.” Tom gave Tucker a sideways look. “Why? You got a thing for her?”

  “No!”

  “I bet you do,” said Tom.

  Tucker shook his head. “She’s from Bulgaria,” he said. “I just wanted to ask her what it was like.”

  That night, Tucker decided to ask his dad about the uncle he had never met.

  “Is it true Uncle Curtis dropped out of school and ran off with Ronnie Becker?”

  His father set down the troll he had been carving. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Tom Krause. He says his dad told him.”

  The Reverend nodded slowly. “It is true. Curtis was a hellion. It was my fault, I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  The Reverend’s mouth tightened, then relaxed. “You know my parents died young, Tuck. Your grandmother died giving birth to Curtis. He never knew her. Our father died when Curtis was ten. I was nineteen. Those were hard times. I was not equipped to raise a boy, especially not a boy as wild and rebellious as Curtis. I spent all my time studying the Bible and learning ancient languages, while he practically lived in the garage, working on his motorbike. I was so obsessed with my work that I had no time for him. When he was seventeen, I made my pilgrimage to the Holy Land and left him on his own for a few months. That was a mistake. When I returned home, my brother was a changed person. We fought, and he left. He hasn’t been back since.”

  “When was that?”

  “A few weeks before your mother and I married.” His eyes softened. “That was a remarkable year. It was the same year I founded my church, the year you were born. . . .” A wry smile creased his face. “On the day you were born — that was the day Lorna Gingrass ran into those pigeons.” He shook his head slowly. “I was so young and foolish, I thought it was a sign from God.”

  Tucker had heard the pigeon story many times before. It was the most famous ev
ent in Hopewell history. Lorna Gingrass, Hopewell’s only hairdresser, had been driving to work when two large birds struck her windshield. Lorna pulled over and ran back to the grassy ditch where they had landed. One bird was clearly dead. The second bird was stunned but alive, its red eyes blinking. She decided to leave it, hoping it would recover on its own.

  Later, at the beauty shop, Lorna happened to mention the sad event while cutting Minna Jensen’s hair.

  “What kind of birds were they?” Minna asked. She was an avid bird-watcher.

  “Sort of gray, with a reddish breast,” said Lorna.

  “Like a hawk?” Minna asked, thinking they might be kestrels.

  “More like big pigeons,” said Lorna.

  Minna could not imagine what sort of birds they could be. Perhaps some unfamiliar breed of domestic pigeon? She asked Lorna to drive her out to look at the mystery birds.

  It took some time — one spot on the highway looked much the same as another — but eventually Lorna located the dead bird. Minna carefully lifted it from its resting place. Her heart began to pound.

  “I must be dreaming,” she said.

  “What is it?” Lorna asked.

  “It looks,” Minna said slowly, “like a passenger pigeon.”

  Lorna said, “Didn’t they all die out a hundred years ago?”

  Minna nodded, then shook her head in disbelief. “You said one of them was still alive?”

  They found the second bird a few yards away, its red eyes dull, dry, and unblinking. It had not survived.

  Minna’s field identification of the birds was quickly confirmed by an ornithologist: they were passenger pigeons, a male and a female. Once the most numerous bird in North America, passenger pigeons had been thought extinct since 1914. The story was picked up by CNN, and the area around Hopewell was suddenly teeming with camera crews, news vans, and bird-watchers.

  Hopewell House, the four-story hotel in downtown Hopewell that had been vacant for several years, was hastily refurbished and reopened. For several months, it remained at full capacity, filled with birders and ornithologists. Red’s Roost, the only bar in town, did a banner business, especially after Red Grauber renamed it the Pigeon Drop Inn and added a specialty martini called the Drunken Pigeon to the menu.