A Simple Shaker Murder

by Deborah Woodworth

  Mairin grimaced. “I don’t know how to say prayers,” she said.

  “Oh, you poor child,” Josie said. “Never mind, we’ll teach you in no time. You’ll wonder how you ever did without them.” Then, seeing the child’s eyelids flutter and droop, she added, “But we’ll save the lessons until another day. Just sleep now.” Mairin’s eyes closed at once.

  “Now we’ll set you up with that poultice,” Josie whispered, and got to work wrapping Rose’s knee. By the time she’d finished, the valerian tea was unnecessary.

  TWELVE

  ROSE’S DREAMS PILED UPON ONE ANOTHER, ONE GROWING OUT of the last, to form a chaotic tapestry. Her knee was trapped under a fallen tree; the tree was growing out of her knee; she was limping through a wood, frantic to escape some unknown pursuer, gasping, clutching at saplings to pull herself along. Then she was back in the South Family Dwelling House kitchen, lying on the floor and listening to a rat scratch, scratch, scratch at bits of food.

  She groaned and awakened herself, and the scratching sound stopped . . . then started again. Rose opened her eyes. Across the room, huddled close to a small circle of light from a bedside lamp, Mairin sat on her bed, her head bent over what looked like a piece of cardboard. Her hand flew over the flat surface in drawing motions.

  As if sensing Rose’s gaze on her, Mairin’s head popped up. The lamplight caught the sparkle of copper in her eyes and transformed her hair into a feathery halo. Still half-submerged in a dream, Rose wondered if Mairin might truly be an angel, sent by Holy Mother Wisdom to guide them through this difficult time.

  “I’m sorry,” Mairin said, sucking in her lower lip. “I woke you up.” Her head moved away from the lamplight, and she became, once again, a shy young girl, scared of being punished.

  Rose eased herself to a sitting position. The pain in her knee had subsided to a dull throb, and she was able to shift her leg.

  “Nay, I was about to wake up, anyway,” she said, not sure if it was the truth or not, and not caring. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Mairin tossed her work onto her bed, away from the light. She curled herself into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her legs, and began rocking herself back and forth.

  “Were you drawing? It’s quite all right you know. I’m not the least bit angry with you. If you were drawing, I’d love to see it. Would you bring it over to me? I’d go over there, but my knee still hurts.”

  Mairin stopped rocking and sucked on her lip a while longer. Without a word, she uncurled and slid off her bed. Holding the cardboard against her chest, she approached Rose. She started to lay the object across Rose’s knees but stopped herself, apparently remembering the injury. Instead, she held up a large pad of paper on a cardboard backing, which Rose recognized as coming from the Schoolhouse storeroom. Usually Charlotte wrote lessons on the blackboard, but sometimes she used paper pads for individual tutoring. Mairin probably noticed them as she went through the storeroom from the back door. She must have gone back on her own, when the building was empty, and taken one.

  Rose turned on her own lamp and took the pad. Mairin had rummaged through the storeroom and unearthed some precious Crayolas, too, because the paper was covered with colored slashes.

  “Mairin, dear, I promise I’m not angry with you, but . . . did you leave this room while I was sleeping?”

  Mairin’s eyes widened in fear, but this time she did not pull away. After a few moments, she seemed to have come to a decision.

  “I just went to the Schoolhouse for a minute. I know I shouldn’t be out alone at night, but I’m used to it, and I knew I could get drawing things there.” Having taken the risk of confessing, Mairin withdrew into herself.

  With an ordinary child, Rose would be very firm in such a situation. With Mairin, however, she held her tongue. She was grateful that the girl trusted her enough to answer her question. The rest would have to wait.

  Rose held the pad of paper under her lamp. As she studied it, a shape began to emerge. Her heartbeat picked up speed. The colors were odd—violet and blue—but the design looked very much like a tree in full bloom.

  “What made you draw this picture, Mairin?” Rose made her voice as gentle as possible.

  “I dreamed it,” Mairin said.

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight and lots of nights,” Mairin said.

  “What was the dream—just this picture?”

  Mairin’s face went blank. She shrugged. “There was other stuff, too, but I don’t remember it. This is all I remember.”

  Rose’s mind raced through too many possibilities. The picture could have something to do with what Mairin witnessed in the orchard, but why a strange-colored tree in full bloom? Hugh’s lifeless body had hung from a bedraggled and leafless tree. The tree in Mairin’s drawing reminded Rose of the old spirit drawings done by Shakers eighty and more years earlier, during the period of Mother Ann’s Work. The gifts appeared in dreams to Believers selected by the Heavens. These instruments created pictures filled with images of celestial beauty. Many of the pictures contained elaborate trees, as Rose remembered, though she had not examined the old paintings and drawings in years. Could this crayon drawing be a true gift from Mother Ann? Was Mother watching over Mairin, trying to send messages to help Rose protect the child?

  Rose was far too tired to think anymore. If she had to stay quiet for a day, it would be a good time to reacquaint herself with the spirit drawings. The Ministry Library had all she would need; Josie could collect it for her, so she needn’t risk an encounter with Wilhelm.

  “Could I keep this lovely picture?”

  Mairin nodded. Rose tore off the page and returned the pad to Mairin.

  “Will you promise me something, Mairin?” Rose looked into the girl’s eyes. “Will you promise, truly promise, that you will stay in this room the rest of the night? I get worried, you know.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you. Now, I’m falling asleep. How about crawling back into bed and doing the same? You can take your pad with you and draw more, if you can’t sleep.”

  Rose turned off her lamp and snuggled back in bed, grateful that the poultice was doing its soothing work on the pain in her knee. As her eyes closed, she saw Mairin climb back on her bed, settle cross-legged next to her lamp, and begin to draw again.

  The next morning, Rose slid her legs over the edge of her bed and lowered them with care. She stood on her good right leg and tried putting weight on the other. It was sore, but it held steady. Good. She was irritated by the thought of staying in bed all day, like an invalid. She wanted to sit awhile in a chair, if her knee would take it.

  She tried not to limp, and succeeded, as she walked to the rocking chair by her window. She took with her the drawing Mairin had given her, and the pad upon which the girl had made two more drawings. Within reach, on a side table, Josie had placed a stack of books from the Ministry Library. Rose was itching to delve into them. Next to the books was a tray with rose hip and lemon balm tea, a chunk of cheese, and some brown bread. Josie again. Bless her.

  She felt a twinge of guilt as she glanced over at Mairin’s empty bed, neatly made by the overworked Josie. Mairin had not known how to make a bed. Yet when Rose had awakened, moments before Josie’s arrival, Mairin was sitting on her bed, fully dressed and ready for breakfast and school. What a strange child. She was bright, self-reliant, and articulate when she wished to be, yet she didn’t know the simplest things. No wonder Celia considered her uncivilized. Had she been unwilling to learn, or had no one bothered to teach her with gentleness?

  Rose nibbled on a piece of cheese and began to sort through the materials Josie had brought her, most of which were old journals and handwritten memoirs of events from the time of Mother Ann’s Work. Rose flipped through pages looking for drawings or descriptions of spirit gifts. There was very little of any depth. Perhaps Believers of that time had been so involved in events or so used to extraordinary manifestations that they only remarked upon them in
passing. Or perhaps North Homage Believers had done more dancing and singing than drawing. Most likely, though, Believers had been hesitant to discuss the drawings because they had always been prohibited from displaying art for mere enjoyment.

  Finally she came to a section in an eldress’s journal, dating from 1855 and recording her trip to the eastern Societies. The eldress, whose name was Bertha, thought that eastern Shakers seemed more readily inclined than western ones to receive gift drawings. For that reason—and in defense of her own people—Bertha was tempted to dismiss the importance of spirit drawings as true messages from the celestial realm. But she was interested enough to describe her observations and sketch a few of the drawings.

  Though it was roughly drawn, Rose recognized the first sketch as the Tree of Life, drawn by Sister Hannah Cohoon, who lived in the Hancock Shaker village in Massachusetts. Rose smoothed her hand over the ink scratches, remembering a day perhaps twenty-five years earlier when Agatha, vibrant and wise, had explained to her the meaning of the tree—that just as the branches brought forth the rich, shimmering red and green fruit, so were Believers to create a heaven on earth. That alluring image had stirred the beginnings of Rose’s faith.

  In all the materials before her, Rose found only two more pictures. The first contained disturbing images, prophecies of horrible disasters, such as earthquakes and fires. The artist wasn’t identified, but Rose remembered hearing about such drawings.

  The other sketch was more gentle. Though it was drawn to a tiny scale, Rose recognized sweet images of flowers and fruit floating around an elaborate bird. Again, the artist’s name wasn’t recorded, but the image looked like the lovely gifts drawn by Sister Polly Reed.

  Rose remembered one more bit of Shaker history. Agatha had told her that the Era of Manifestations was an exciting time to be a sister, because it was the first time in anyone’s memory that Holy Mother Wisdom had visited her children on earth. Many of the gifts had been brought by her and delivered through a chosen medium. Holy Mother Wisdom was all a mother should be—tender, gentle, loving, and protective of her precious children. Agatha’s eyes had shone when she spoke of those times, just ending when she was a young child. An orphan almost since birth, it was, for Agatha, her first experience of a powerful maternal presence, and the feeling of complete safety had never left her.

  Rose spread Mairin’s three pictures on her lap and studied them. After the strange tree, Mairin had drawn what looked like a long yellow-and-orange serpent that wound around on the page until it had filled almost every space. When Rose traced the labyrinth to its end, it looked as if the head had been hacked off. Rose pulled a blanket around her shoulders against the chill inside her.

  Mairin had jammed an elaborate array of food images into her third picture. Rose smiled. Mairin had probably been getting hungry. Very hungry, judging from the loving detail on the plump red strawberries, complete with tiny white dots to represent seeds.

  Rose was more confused than ever. What could all this mean? Each of Mairin’s pictures was reminiscent of the older gift drawings, yet different Mairin’s tree was haunting, rather than lush. The snake image seemed as violent and disturbing as natural disasters, but the severed head implied the evil intervention of man.

  Again, Rose studied the delectable foods in the third drawing—shiny purple grapes, so juicy they looked about to burst; succulent meats; fancy pies, cakes, and puddings; and even a generous slice of sweet potato bread, such as Rose had fed her the day of Hugh’s death. The picture seemed very much a reflection of Mairin herself.

  In her excitement, Rose had forgotten her knee, but now it began to throb again. She gathered up the books and drawings, and limped back to her bed. A few minutes of resting with the rolled-up towel under her knee brought the pain to a tolerable level. Rose lifted her nightgown to her thighs and examined her knee. The swelling had lessened, but the skin was an angry black-purple and tender to the touch. She had surely bruised the bone underneath, but with luck, she’d be able to walk more or less normally soon. Not just yet, though. She lay back and closed her eyes to rest until the noon meal arrived.

  The persistent ringing of the telephone in the hall awakened Rose after just a few moments. At least, it seemed like only a few moments. A glance at her bedside clock told her it had really been an hour. Rose counted twenty rings before the phone stopped. She’d considered limping out to answer, but she decided not to risk a setback in her recovery. She had no intention of staying in bed for another day.

  A firm knock on her retiring room door startled her just as her eyes drifted shut again.

  “Rose? It’s me, Lydia.” The Ministry’s kitchen sister swept in, carrying a tray with soup, biscuits, and more tea. She clucked when she saw that Rose still hadn’t finished her breakfast.

  “You must be feeling poorly, to pass up this lovely food,” Lydia said, setting the new tray on the bedside table. Lydia herself was small and slight and claimed to be always hungry. Of course, she probably was, given the nature of her work. For each meal, she helped out in the Center Family kitchen, then packed baskets with enough food for Wilhelm—and Rose, too, if she was there—and toted it back to the Ministry, where she warmed and served it. After washing up, she carried empty serving containers back to the main kitchen and helped the kitchen sisters with the final clean-up and whatever additional cooking or preserving projects were scheduled. Lydia insisted she loved the job because it enabled her to eat more.

  “You didn’t just phone up here, did you, Lydia?” Rose asked.

  “Nay, of course not. I wouldn’t pull you out of bed like that, and besides, I’ve never been too lazy to climb one tiny flight of stairs!”

  “I wondered because—”

  The phone rang again.

  “I’ll just take care of that right now, Rose. Don’t you stir.” She bustled into the hall, and the ringing stopped. Rose could hear her puzzled voice but not what she was saying.

  “Rose, it’s little Nora,” Lydia called, poking her head into Rose’s outer room. “She wants to come over right away and talk to you.”

  “Nora! What about?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me—just that it’s ‘really, really, really important.’ She did sound scared.”

  “Where was she calling from? Where’s Charlotte? Oh, I’d better talk to her.” Rose flung aside her blanket and grimaced as she tried to move her leg too fast.

  “Nay, you don’t move from that bed,” Lydia said, holding her down with surprisingly strong arms. “I already told Nora to come on over, so you just sit tight.”

  “You should be an Infirmary nurse,” Rose grumbled.

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  Lydia tucked the blanket around Rose and laid the tray on her thighs. “You just have time to eat something before Nora arrives. Get busy, though. If I know Nora, she’ll run like a jackrabbit.”

  “Does Charlotte know you’re here?” Rose asked, as Nora squirmed into a rocking chair too big for her.

  “Um, sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you first, and I didn’t want to get Mairin into trouble, and anyway, maybe she didn’t even do anything wrong.”

  “Did you sneak out again, Nora? Have you been telling Mairin how to get out without being seen?” Rose spoke as firmly as she could manage, tucked in bed with her long hair loose on her shoulders. Even though she’d opposed Wilhelm’s edict that they revert to nineteenth century dress, now she felt uncomfortable without it.

  “That’s not fair!” Nora jerked and set off her rocking chair. “I haven’t shown Mairin anything like that—she’s been showing me . . .” The rocking chair slowed to a stop as Nora held her breath.

  “Nora, what are we going to do with you?”

  Nora looked as if she’d like to offer a helpful suggestion, but she was wise enough to keep silent.

  “I want to hear everything Mairin has been showing you. Now tell me
what was so urgent that you had to come running over here during the school day.”

  “It’s noon, so there isn’t any school right now ’cause everyone is eating.” Nora’s hungry eyes focused on the tray of food, and Rose handed her a biscuit.

  “Go on.”

  Nora nodded and swallowed a mouthful of biscuit. “Well, we were outside playing, and—”

  “When?” Rose tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  “This morning, when Charlotte gave us a play break. She said we were too ram . . . rambuc . . .”

  “Rambunctious?”

  “Uh-huh. So she sent us outside to play for a while, and she corrected our papers. We were playing—Mairin and me—we were playing on the grass in back of the Schoolhouse.” Nora’s narrow face drooped, as if she were recalling a sad scene. Rose let her collect her thoughts without urging.

  “The other kids can be awfully silly,” she said, popping the rest of the biscuit in her mouth. “Especially the kids from town. They’re kind of afraid of Mairin, so they won’t play with her, and they make fun of her, so we just ignore them and play together as far away from them as we can get.” Nora paused for breath, and Rose sipped her tea.

  “Mostly I always stay with Mairin,” Nora said, “but then Betsy called me over—I’m mad at Betsy ’cause she won’t play with Mairin and me, but I went over ’cause I thought maybe I could get her to come back with me, and then we could be friends again. I was only gone for a few minutes.” Nora’s gaze dropped to her small hands, tightly knitted together.

  “Just tell me what happened, Nora. Whatever it was, I won’t blame you.”

  “Betsy wouldn’t come with me. When I turned back, Mairin wasn’t there. I got really scared. I ran all the way around the Schoolhouse, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.”

  “Exactly where had you been playing?” Rose’s heart hammered against her ribs as she struggled to free herself from her bed linens.