Teresa nodded. Melody's heart beat faster and harder, the vial burned in her hand. She imagined Teresa coming right across this room and prying open her fingers and calling her out in meeting for being selfish. Instead, Teresa was looking at the pot on the stove.
"Alright then, but I need to start dinner. Can you hurry?"
"I just need it hot. It doesn't have to boil," Melody answered. "As soon as it is, I'll call you."
"That's fine." Teresa took her jacket off the hook and put it on. "I'm going to get some tomatoes from the store. I hope we've canned enough to last the winter."
"I should be finished by the time you get back."
Melody let her go without showing her the bottle and now she thought that was ridiculous. Teresa wouldn't have been angry with Robert the way Duncan might have been. Later, after meeting, Melody would show it to her. Together they would decide how to tell Duncan so that he wouldn't think Robert was being dishonest when he had probably been forgetful.
Melody put the cap back on the bottle, went back to the washroom, and collected the other ones. Back in the kitchen, she put them up inside away from the regular spices and near the herbs she had dried and juices she had squeezed for her teas.
The water was boiling so she took it off the stove. She forgot all about the little bottles as she started to scrub the jacket. It was a hard job and by the time the stains on the jacket were gone, Melody was tired, Teresa was cooking, and the long night of meeting and Hours had begun.
By the time she fell into bed, she had forgotten about Robert's treasure.
CHAPTER 10
I'm awake in a strange place. I don't know how I got here. I only know that the color of my world has changed. In Hermosa Beach, the color of the world was Cerulean blue: blindingly bright and seamless. When I was with Billy Zuni the color surrounding me was Mars black: dense, deep, and unending. Once after that, I saw gunmetal grey: cold, flat, a neither here nor there color. Now my eyes are wide open and the dark surrounding me is the deepest indigo. I've seen this color in the early morning and I've seen it in the night sky, so it could be one or the other.
I check my body, and it is seriously out of whack. The only things working are my hands and eyes, so I use my fingers to see. They work their way across a worn sheet and a coarse blanket. I can move my head a little, and when I do something bites me. I pull at it and find it's the nub of a feather in the pillow. I let the feather go, and it floats into the indigo.
That pretty much takes all I've got in me.
My hand falls to my side, my head lolls the other way. Pain shatters through the top of my skull like there's a rave going on inside it. I raise my hand again. This time I touch stitches angling down from the top of my forehead toward my eye. The skin around them is hot and swollen. The really strange thought I have is that I must be healthy if I hurt so much. When I was sick in my heart about my life and a little crazy in my head, it didn't hurt when I cut myself. Now I feel every bruise, and scrape, and cut, and stitch.
I clear my throat just to see if I can talk, but all I hear is a moan; all I feel is a golf ball size lump at the side of my mouth. I panic even though I tell myself not to.
I breathe hard to rally all that strength everybody is so sure I have but it's bled right out of me. When no one comes through the door my heart beats like a friggin' jackhammer in my ears; my stitches pulse; sweat falls from my brow and it stings where the needle went in.
With every thing I have, I push myself up onto my elbows, pause, pant and then walk myself back. I collapse. I regroup. Finally, I'm propped up at an awkward angle on the pillow.
One, two, three.
I throw my arm out hoping to find some light, a switch, something, anything to calm my terror.
I hate the dark.
I think I sob. I think I sob for Billy.
I hit a glass and it falls to the floor. It shatters. There is no carpet beneath me. Everything that happens is a clue, not an answer.
Where am I? In a room with a hard floor.
Who put me here? Someone who cares enough to stitch me up.
Where is this place? It's not Hermosa. It's cold.
I collapse. My body is bent, my neck is crooked, my ear is folded, and I have no strength left to undo what I have done. My eyes roll. I see faint outlines of things: a chair, a table, a door.
"Somebody! Somebody!"
No one comes. Not even Billy. He must be dead because he would never leave me alone in the dark for any other reason. My throat is thick and lumpy, and I am going to cry. If I cry I will hurt everywhere. I am already in too much pain, so I don't cry.
I fall deeper into the pillow all the while wishing I were dead, too, if he is. I grieve and grieve and feed my anger and when it is hot enough I forge it into determination. I want to know how badly I failed Billy. With one more huge effort, I get myself up on one elbow. My arm shivers and shakes. I strain and grab at the things on the table but miss them. My heart tries to beat itself to death under the fabric of the nightgown like a bird trapped in a glass house banging itself against the false sky.
"Somebody?" I cry.
With the last push of hysteria, the fingers of my right hand scrabble over the top of the table next to me. I lunge, I'm on fire, but I touch something slick and grab for it. I fall back and in my hand is a bottle. I hold it to my chest. My face is covered with sweat. My eyes burn hot holes behind my closed lids.
With a scream, I hurl the bottle as best I can. It hits something – the wall, a chair, the floor – and the shattering glass sounds like an explosion. But it was nothing more than shattering glass. Still, someone has heard this time. I think it's a girl. I think the door has opened and she is looking at me.
I hyperventilate, my head is about to split open, my eyes feel like pinballs whacking around the sides of my skull, and, then, strangely, a great calm comes over me. It doesn't matter who this is. It matters that I am not alone. I hear a click and trill that sound like the throaty call of a bird. I think she must have spoken, but I'm too sick to understand.
"What?" I ask.
Then I see that it isn't a girl standing in the doorway looking at me.
***
As Duncan came up the stairs he was thinking of what Pea had said the last time he visited her.
Samuel 2:1-10
The Lord brings death and makes alive; he brings down to the grave and rises up.
The Lord sends poverty and wealth
he humbles and he exalts. He raises the poor from the dust
and lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes
and has them inherit a throne of honor.
This was the prophecy of the biblical Hannah and now there was a real life Hannah in this house and under his protection. Hearing this message from the lord, Duncan faced a conundrum that bothered him. Was biblical Hannah asking him to raise mortal Hannah? Or was the passage to remind Duncan to rise up and heal the congregation? Up from the ash heap? That might refer to them all. But a throne of honor? That might only be Hannah. Or Billy. No, Duncan rejected the idea that Pea was referring to the boy. Billy was not humble. He was not orderly. He was a pain in the neck. He was always after Duncan to let him see Hannah. Duncan would let him do that when the time was right and not before.
Duncan closed his eyes and leaned against the wall in the narrow hallway. He raised his face, giving in to his mystical senses. Thinking of these glorious messages felt like rain falling upon his skin, it was as if he saw the glowing letters and numbers of the passage dancing in front of his eyes, it was if the sound of Pea's voice pulsated in his mind, a mind that never got enough of her wisdom.
Standing alone, face raised, Duncan's contentment was spreading from the very core of his mind to the deep cavity of his heart when it was disturbed by the sound of something breaking. The sound came from behind the door in the room where Hannah lay and that, he believed, was the answer to his question. It was not the congregation but H
annah who was meant to be raised up.
"You are so blessed, Pea," he muttered and then bypassed his sister's door and went to Hannah's.
Duncan's heart beat slow and steady in his narrow chest as he prepared himself to speak with her for the first time, for the surprise of her voice, for the energy that would come from the woman awake. In the dark he could see the white of her gown and the sheets, he could see the spark of her gold colored hair.
The breaking glass was the cry of a baby newly born, the first crack of the shell as a chick fights it's way into the world, the blaze of a star escaping the hell of a black hole. Duncan's eyes, so accustomed to the dark, could see every twitch and strain of her struggle. He smelled her sweat and felt the tears welling in her eyes. The Lord had reached down to the grave and up she came. He waited to see what she would do next.
"What?"
She asked this as if he had spoken and that pleased him. Her first word, a question, had no answer and yet a host of them all at the same time. It was for him to interpret which it was. This was yet another sign that she had been delivered to him for some heavenly reason.
Duncan went to the stove and opened the grate. The wood had burned to near cinders and the light cast was no more than a shimmering trail of firefly dust. He walked through it, shoulders back, head high, his stride long and purposeful. The girl on the bed was twisted and turned. He well knew that her face was hardly a face at all, but swollen and stitched up like Frankenstein. The skin around the stitches was scarlet, her hair a mat of knots, her breath was foul, and her heart was fearful. It was up to Duncan to make it all right. But first he must find out what her sin was. That was the only way to understand her destiny. That was truly the only way to heal her.
Sweeping up a ladder back chair, Duncan lifted it easily. He set it down just close enough to the bed to reassure Hannah, and far enough away to show he meant no harm. One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut, but he could see that both of them glittered, sharp and piercingly green. They were stunning eyes; gorgeous eyes; mesmerizing eyes. Those eyes assessed him as no other person ever had, and he waited for her to make her peace with what she saw.
What Hannah saw was a man moving through the indigo darkness. She had seen old men carry themselves like they were twenty and twenty-year-olds bent down as if they were old men. Until she saw his face or his hands she could not tell which he was. Not that it mattered. He was a man and men had not done well by her. She couldn't sit up, she couldn't roll over, and she could not protect herself if he turned out to be a bad guy. All she could do was lie there and wait for him to prove he wasn't.
Hannah tensed when Duncan reached for her but all he did was pull the chain that turned on the lamp. Hannah's eyes went toward it. She had pushed it so far that it teetered on the edge of the table. One more lunge and it would have gone over the side along with the glass. The man adjusted it so that it was stable, and then he drew it closer so that she could see him better.
"You've got yourself into a pickle," he said. "Let me help you."
Duncan slipped his hands under her head and cradled her skull. Hannah pulled back. He was not surprised. He had once awakened in a strange place himself, hurt and fearful and young. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. He was about to reassure her when she whispered:
"Are you a maniac? Are you?"
***
Mama Cecilia made new curtains for her son's room. She took down those of his childhood and put up yellow ones. The new curtains looked happy, but she didn't expect them to make her son happy when he came home. She didn't even expect him to pretend they made him happy, but she thought he would say that he noticed them. That would be enough for her. If he noticed that she had made curtains and mended his sheets and changed the pillow on his bed for the one from her bed that was a finer pillow then that notice would be good.
On the third day after she was alone, the mail came with another message from her granddaughter, Susan. Again, the girl asked for money. Mama Cecilia felt very tired when she read that letter. She sat down for a bit in her chair and looked out the window and into the purple/blue sky. She thought very hard about her life and how it had come to what it was. She put her head back as she thought. Soon she was asleep.
She slept a long while, and when she woke up she thought she was very much like her son who slept so he didn't have to look at his problems. Mama Cecilia didn't think she liked being like her son, so she got up and did some more chores. She thought about her granddaughter, waited for her son to come home, and for a sign as to what she might do when her house was clean.
***
"No. I'm not a maniac. You don't have to be afraid."
He straightened her head on the pillow and stepped back only to swoop down again. This time he put one arm under her shoulder and another under her hips. He lifted her up and set her right, before pulling up the covers and tucking her. She bit off her cries of pain; he talked all the while.
"It's easy to say that, isn't it? It's easy to tell someone not to be afraid. It's very hard not to be. I know. I truly do. I've been there."
He stepped back and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
"On top of that, even if you can make yourself unafraid, it's a whole other thing to believe there is no reason to be, isn't it?"
Hannah watched him as carefully as she could, which wasn't carefully enough for her liking. She started to speak, but her vocal cords were tight and unused. She tried a second time.
"Where's Billy?"
"Safe and almost well. I think he's with Glenn now." Duncan pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed. "You need to have faith, Hannah. That's pretty much it. When you have no information, when you find yourself in the most confusing circumstances, you have to let yourself go and believe that you are being told the truth."
Hannah stayed silent. What was there to say? Faith hadn't gotten her very far in her young life. Her mother told her things would be fine. She was eight when she realized that was always a lie. The court told her things would be fine. They weren't. It was only with Josie that Hannah ever had faith and that turned out to be a good call. One out of three wasn't a great track record. Now here she was, sitting with a guy telling her to take him at his word.
"I'm telling you the truth, Hannah, you don't have to be afraid."
He touched her again. His fingers rested on the back of her hand. She watched him do it and felt nothing bad when he did. Maybe that was the worst thing of all. Hannah had no faith in her own perspective. She was afraid to take her eyes off him in case he was lying, but she longed to know what he could tell her: What was this room? How badly was she hurt? How soon would he turn on her if she looked away?
"Are we good so far?" he asked and withdrew his hand.
She nodded once and clenched her hands. Her fingers tapped against the inside of her palm. Her eyes never left his face.
"Billy?" she whispered.
"He's well," Duncan answered. "Maybe not well, but recovering better than you. You've been gone from us for days."
"How long . . . in the truck?" she asked.
"We don't know. Robert – my brother – found you. Bless the Lord." He shook his head and his fringe of fine hair shimmered in the half-light. "There are miracles. You were saved for some wondrous reason, Hannah."
"Where is this . . ."
A sudden pain cut off her question. Her fingers went to her head but Duncan caught her hand before she touched her stitches.
"Don't touch. You are in Clara's Landing. It's a very romantic name for a place that only has three buildings and a dock." Carefully, he lowered her arm to her side. He pressed her hand into the soft bed so she would know he meant for her to stay still. "Do you know what state you're in?"
"Alaska." Hannah licked her lips.
"Yes, that's great you remember. It's been quite a chore keeping Billy away from you. As for visitors, we've only let the women come in, and me, of course. Melody and Teresa. Do you remember
seeing them?"
Hannah moved her head so slightly it would be hard to know that she was shaking it, but Duncan knew.
"That's alright. You'll get to know all of us," he said. "We've tried to keep you isolated because we don't have a doctor here. We have only the most basic medications." He opened his hands as if to show her that what he was saying was true, but to Hannah he only proved his hands were empty. "We have good intentions in abundance, though, but that's not going to help if you get an infection. Do you understand that?"
Hannah nodded, but just barely; Duncan smiled, but just barely. She looked so fragile with the white nightgown buttoned up to her chin, the little fringe of lace framing her battered face. Her green, oh-so-painfully expressive eyes were filled with such fear and caution that the look of them cut Duncan to the quick. Still, he had no doubt that if the occasion arose to defend herself she would. She would be truly unique in their little community.
"Yes, well, I didn't really expect an answer to that. My name is Duncan Thoth. I am the head of this little group. The spiritual head, I suppose you'd say."
"Cult?" Hannah whispered through her cracked and dry lips. The swelling on the side of her mouth made it impossible to form her words properly.
"A group of like minded people," he answered as he looked at the shattered water glass and over his shoulder to where she'd thrown the bottle. Yet when he got up, he went out of the room without even trying to clean it up. When he came back he had a wet towel, and he put it to her lips.
"It's not much, but it will help. I'll have Melody or Teresa bring another glass for water when they come, but they're cooking now."
Hannah took the towel and held it to her lips. It was cold and fresh as if it had been dipped in snow. Her eyes closed. She had never felt anything so wonderful. When her hand started to shake, Duncan reached for the cloth. She let him have it, and he put it against her cheek.
"You don't have a fever. That's the good news. But your face is pretty beat up. Your leg is in a cast. You have fifteen stitches in your head. Now, hold this against the side of your mouth. That's where the swelling is the worst." Hannah did as she was told and he took his seat again. "You've got a lot of questions, yes?"
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