by Pete Hautman
Her expression moves from confusion and concern toward anger.
“Why? Because I picked a crabapple?” She makes a sputtering sound with her lips. “Look above you! You think this tree — or God, or whatever — is going to miss one sour little nubbin?”
I tip my head back and look up at the uncountable fruits supported by the branches of the Tree. I know I should not listen to her, that she is only trying to lead me deeper into sin, but for a moment, I let myself hope that there is truth in what she says. It was such a small fruit, and one among so many . . .
“Besides,” she says, “it’s not like I’m going to tell anybody.”
“Zerachiel knows,” I say.
“Zerachiel’s another god, right? Like the tree?”
The utter foolishness of her question makes it impossible to answer. I shake my head helplessly.
She must sense my frustration. Her face softens and she says, “Sorry. I suppose from your point of view I’m some sort of ignorant savage.”
“You have read some of the Bible,” I say. “You are no Lamanite.”
“I’m no what?”
“Lamanite. Like the man who was sitting with you, with the black hat.”
“Who? George? George Yellowtail is an Apsáalooke Indian. He’s on the Fort Landreau tribal council.”
“‘Lamanite’ is our word for Indian,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I don’t get why you have to make up names for things that already have them.”
“It is what I have been taught,” I say. “Did it not make you uncomfortable to sit with him?”
Her mouth opens, but it is a moment before she can speak. She says, “Why would . . .? I mean . . . wow. I’ve known George ever since I can remember. Why would he make me uncomfortable?”
“Because he’s a Lamanite?”
We lock eyes, my heart beats twice, and she explodes with laughter. Another heartbeat, and I am laughing too, though I do not know why. It is as if I have been uncorked. For a few moments, I forget where we are. I am back on the ATV, racing along the fence, when the only real things in the world were the two of us and the wind.
She reaches out and touches my knee. It is like an electric shock, running up my thigh and exploding at the base of my spine. I see my own hand lift itself and move toward hers, and cover it. Her hand is alive between my palm and my knee. I can feel her pulse matching my own.
I do not want the moment to end, but after a few seconds, she withdraws her hand and says, suddenly serious, “Jacob, these things you’ve been taught — that Indians are called Lamanites, and this tree being sacred, and this Zerachiel guy with his ark — do you really believe all of it?”
“I do,” I say. But even as I speak, I detect shadowy doubts lurking in the corners of my mind. I push them back. “The Ark will come.”
She nods slowly. “I suppose it’s no crazier than what other people believe. I mean, Mormons and Muslims and, I guess, some Christian stuff too. That stuff about all those animals fitting into Noah’s Ark is pretty wild.”
“The Ark was three hundred cubits long.”
“How long is a cubit?” she asks.
I show her the distance from the tips of my fingers to my elbow. She thinks for a moment, then says, “Still, there would have to be a lot of animals. I mean, just a pair of elephants would take a lot of cubits, right?” She grins. I don’t smile back. Her grin falls away, and she says, “Maybe God used magic to shrink the elephants down to the size of mice.”
“The Lord does not use magic.”
“I was just kidding.”
“You should not kid about such things. And you should not use His name.”
“What, ‘God’? What do you call him?”
“He is the Lord.”
“Huh. And you really think this big boat is going to come and take you away?”
“The Day will come, and the Ark will come.”
Lynna gives me a long, measuring look. “Jacob, do you think everybody else is wrong? Everybody except a few dozen people in Montana?”
“I don’t know about everybody else. I just know what I know.”
She looks away. “I guess that’s all I know, too.” For a time neither of us speaks, then Lynna asks, “Is it true what that boy said?” Lynna asks.
I know she is talking about Tobias, but I say, “What boy?”
“Tobias. That he is a prisoner.”
“No,” I say. “He was in the Pit, and just for a few days.”
“What is the Pit? Is it really like a dungeon?”
“I don’t know what a dungeon is like. The Pit is just a room with a pallet, the Scriptures, and a chamber pot. There is little to do there but pray, which is its purpose.”
I hear the creak of iron against iron, the sound of the gate opening. There is no time to hide as Brother Andrew enters the Sacred Heart, pushing his two-wheeled barrow, moving slowly due to his arthritic knees. The barrow is loaded with tools and sacks of bulbs. For a moment, I dare hope that he will not notice us. Brother Andrew can hardly hear, his sense of smell has left him, and his eyes are clouded by cataracts. But my hope is dashed when his milky eyes fix upon us. He peers more closely, frowning as if he has discovered a pair of unfamiliar weeds lurking amongst his tulips.
I clear my throat. “G’bless, Brother,” I manage to say.
“Eh? What is that?” His eyes move from me to Lynna, then back to me. “Brother Jacob,” he says after a moment.
He sees more clearly than I have given him credit for.
“To be young and callow,” he says, shaking his head. “Such wondrous wicked days.” With that, he pushes his barrow past us to the flower bed on the far side of the Sacred Heart and busies himself with his planting.
Lynna is staring at him, openmouthed. She looks at me and whispers, “That’s the longest beard I’ve ever seen!”
“Brother Andrew is our eldest,” I whisper back. “We should go.”
“Are you going to get in trouble?” she asks as we move toward the gate.
“I do not know.”
“How old is Brother Andrew?”
“He has ninety-four years.”
“Maybe he’ll just forget he ever saw us in there.”
“His memory is not what it was,” I say, even though I know there is no hiding my transgression from the Lord, nor from myself. I have compounded my sins. The Lord struck me down in the woods and forced me to limp and crawl the miles back to the Village, yet still I transgress. Even now as we leave the Sacred Heart, I am imagining when once again the Worldly girl and I can be alone with each other.
“We must return to the Hall of Enoch,” I tell her.
“Is that all you think about? What you must do? Don’t you ever get to do what you want?”
“You do not understand.”
“You got that right,” she says. I can tell she is frustrated.
“Do you always get to do what you want?” I ask her.
Lynna starts to answer, then hesitates. “I guess not,” she says after a moment. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
As we approach the hall, I hear the sound of engines. The tour is returning. One of the Jeeps, with Taylor driving, comes into view and pulls into the parking area, followed by the other vehicles. The visitors get out and mill around.
“You had best rejoin them,” I say.
“What about you?”
“I will enter through the rear. We should not speak again.”
She gives me a hurt look. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”
I watch her walk away. My ankle is hurting. I hadn’t thought about it while I was with Lynna, but now the pain has returned. I limp into the back of the hall, hoping I will not be noticed.
“Brother Jacob!” It is Sister Naomi, rather vexed. “Where did you disappear to? We had all those chairs to move!”
“I am sorry, Sister. My leg is causing me pain. I went to rest it for a few moments.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily. I wonder when it was that I
learned to bear false witness with such facility.
Naomi fixes me with her penetrating glare. For a moment I am convinced that she can read my sins, but she sniffs and turns away. Exaggerating my discomfort, I hobble over to the archway. The tables have been stacked against the walls, and the chairs are arranged in small circles. Father Grace and Congressman Raney are standing at the entrance, greeting the others as they file into the hall. Among them, I see Tobias coming in with his mother. This is the part of the visit where the Worldly folk will be invited to express their concerns, and where we will have a chance to calm those fears.
The visitors are seated in small groups of three or four. Tobias sits with his mother, his sister, and the pink-faced man I presume to be his uncle. Brother Enos crosses the room to join them.
I see Lynna standing with her father. The Lamanite is nearby, talking in a friendly manner with Brother Peter.
“Brother Jacob!” It is Naomi again.
“Sister?”
“If you are well enough to gawk, you are well enough to help me pour tea.”
I join her at the serving table and set out a row of cups. Naomi pours, and I arrange the full cups on wooden trays. It takes only a few minutes. Since I am not able to carry the trays into the hall, Naomi dismisses me. I sit on a stool near the archway and stretch out my leg. My ankle is throbbing fiercely.
I try to hear what is being said out in the hall but catch only fragments, as there are too many voices. Father Grace is moving from group to group, laying his hands upon shoulders, listening, speaking in his silken voice. The congressman is also moving through the room, shaking hands and blinding people with his luminous teeth. It is as though they are a team, working together to calm their flocks.
Enos, meanwhile, is listening to Tobias and his uncle, who are taking turns talking. Tobias’s mother looks from one to the other, clutching her hands, while his sister stares dully into the air, her hands resting on her swollen belly.
The other groups are led by Brother Caleb, my father, and Brother Peter. I sense that things are going well. Our visitors have been well fed and seem comfortable being here in Nodd. They can see we are not a dangerous cult but rather people of Faith, who care for the land, and for our children, and who want only peace. I myself am enjoying a sense of pride and good fellowship when suddenly all that is shattered.
“This is bullshit!” Tobias stands up and knocks over his chair.
The hall falls silent for a moment. Everyone is staring at Tobias, who is glaring red faced and slit eyed at his uncle.
“You said I could go with you!”
“Tobias,” his uncle says, “I said I would come here and look things over, and I have. I made no promises.”
“Bullshit!” Tobias says. His cheeks are burning red.
“Tobias, my business would make it difficult for you to come live with me. I travel most of the year, and you have no friends in Denver. You’re safe here. These are good people.”
“Bullshit!” Tobias says as if it’s the only word he has left.
“Tobias, please,” his mother says, holding out her hand.
Tobias slaps her hand away. “Why did you bring me here? I never wanted to come. I hate this place and everybody here. And you —” He turns on his sister. “It’s all your slutty fault, getting knocked up. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be home with my friends instead of in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of crazies.”
Tobias’s sister looks away from him.
“Please sit, Tobias,” says Brother Enos. His voice sounds perfectly calm and reasonable, but I sense something hard and dangerous beneath it.
“Screw you!” Tobias yells, his voice cracking. His eyes roll like those of a trapped animal and land on Congressman Raney. “You have to help me. I’m being held prisoner here. They had me locked in a dungeon! They tortured me!”
Raney stares at Tobias, saying nothing. I cannot tell if he is angry, frightened, or simply embarrassed. Tobias looks over at the sheriff. “You’re a cop. They stole my clothes and all my stuff. I want to press charges.”
The sheriff appears as nonplussed as the congressman.
“These people are crazy,” Tobias says. For a moment he locks eyes with Father Grace, who is standing calmly on the far side of the room, a gentle smile on his face. Tobias points a shaking finger in his direction. “That guy, Father Grace, he’s got like four wives, and one of ’em is just a girl. Ask anybody. Ask my mom. Look, you can’t leave me here. If you do they’ll lock me up again.”
One of the congressman’s aides is whispering in his ear. Raney brushes him off and says to Sister Judith, “Are you this boy’s mother?”
Sister Judith’s face looks as if it is about to cave in on itself. She nods miserably.
“Are you here of your own free will?” Raney asks.
“Yes.”
“And how old is your son?”
“I’m almost sixteen!” Tobias says.
Congressman Raney listens as his aide whispers in his ear again. He nods and says to Tobias, “Son, we did not come here to take children from their home. If you are unhappy, it is a matter you should take up with your mother.”
“They locked me in their dungeon!” Tobias says. “That’s child abuse!”
Brother Enos says, “Tobias was given a time-out for fighting with one of the other boys.”
Raney looks from Enos to Sister Judith, who nods.
Tobias’s face grows impossibly redder. “This is bullshit!” He kicks his chair and runs out of the hall.
For a few seconds, nobody says anything. Then Tobias’s uncle says, “Are you sure you want him to stay?”
Raney approaches Sister Judith. She looks as if she wants to shrivel up and die. He takes her hand and says, “Sister, I know what you’re feeling. I raised six kids. Every one of them went through their teens, and every day was a trial. But they all came through okay. I’m sure your son will come around.”
Congressman Raney must have made some signal to his companions, for they are all standing, gathering their things. Raney releases Judith’s hand and walks over to Father Grace, who has not moved an inch since Tobias’s outburst. The two leaders walk out the front door together, followed by the congressman’s aides. Enos continues speaking quietly with Tobias’s uncle and mother. The other groups slowly return to their conversations. Naomi and the other women are bringing out trays of cups filled with sweet ephedra tea. I look at Lynna. She is staring at Tobias’s empty chair, and I wonder what she is thinking.
A few minutes later, one of Congressman Raney’s aides comes back into the hall and walks over to Enos and hands him a manila envelope. It looks like the same envelope Enos offered to the congressman earlier. Enos accepts it woodenly. The aide leaves. Seconds later we hear the limousine’s tires crackling on gravel as it rolls up the road toward the gate.
Tobias’s eruption has cast a pall over the room. Everyone drinks their tea quickly, and soon our visitors are shaking hands and making their way back to their vehicles. I manage to escape through the back without attracting Naomi’s attention. I limp around the hall to wait by the front entrance, hoping to exchange a few words with Lynna, but she is already climbing into her father’s truck. It is almost a relief. I do not know what I would have said.
I watch the convoy until the last vehicle disappears, then I head back to Menshome. I need to lie down for a while and let my ankle rest. As I pass the Sacred Heart, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. It is Brother Andrew, standing outside the gate, watching me with his milky eyes. Pretending to not notice him, I proceed to Menshome and make my way to my cell.
There is a thick, folded piece of blue fabric on my pallet. I pick it up by one corner and let it unfold. It is a hooded sweatshirt with BRONCOS printed across the front in orange, the same shirt Tobias was wearing when he first arrived. I am perplexed. Tobias’s Worldly garb was taken from him the night of his arrival. Who placed this garment here on my pallet, and for what purpose? I notice then a slip
of paper on my pillow. I read what is written upon it.
Clearly the note was written by Tobias. He must have recovered the shirt from wherever his clothing and other Worldly possessions had been hidden. I do not understand why he left it on my pallet. I take the shirt down the hallway to Tobias’s cell. He is not there. I look again at the note.
I don’t know what “BTW” or “Hasta la vista” mean, but it feels like good-bye, and suddenly I am certain that Tobias has left Nodd.
I know I should report this to Enos immediately. But what then? The note would tell Enos more than I care for him to know. I stand undecided in Tobias’s cell. What if they catch him and bring him back? I think of Von’s dead eyes, and I know I cannot betray Tobias.
I hide the sweatshirt under my mattress, then go to the toilets and tear the note into a hundred tiny pieces and flush them away.
Tobias’s absence is not noticed until Evensong. Enos directs several of us to search for him within the Village, but he is gone. Brother Peter suggests that he may have stowed away in one of the visitors’ vehicles. The search is called off after an hour or so.
“The boy may be with his uncle,” Enos says. “But I do not think so. The man showed little interest in taking the boy. If he concealed himself in one of the other vehicles he will be returned to us when he is discovered. If not —” Enos shrugs. “He has done all the damage he is able to do, and one day he will suffer the fate of all apostates.”
I want to ask Enos about the manila envelope that he offered to the congressman and was later rejected. But I am certain he will only say it is none of my affair. Later that night, I bring it up with Brother Benedict. He gives me a measuring look and says, “You are observant, as always, Brother. I did not know our offering had been returned. This is not good to hear.”
“What was it?” I ask.
“A contribution to the congressman’s reelection campaign. I do not know the exact amount, but it was substantial. If it has been refused, it can only mean that we cannot rely on Congressman Raney for protection.” He shakes his head. “Father Grace will not be pleased.”