It was on the night before his marriage. When they went out, he and a few friends had drunk themselves into a stupor and, as a gift, his friends had bought him a woman. He had remembered very little about her until now, years later, when a seventeen year old nun, the model for an angel, stood before him and looked at him with those same eyes - luminous, dark eyes, windows of the soul. They seemed to contain the same message.
He heard the arrangements from a distance. They would bring Sister Gabriella each afternoon for the sitting, until the mold was complete.
Elias ate his supper as he had every night since his wife had died. The hired woman moved softly around the kitchen. She bid him goodnight and left as she had every evening and then, as was his custom, he took his pipe to the porch and sat in the chair silently smoking as the dusk deepened.
He sat and felt his discomfort. Somewhere all the emotions that had lain dormant all his life were awakened. He yearned for something - his youth, the years gone by that had slipped through his fingers like water.
He thought about dying. What did it all mean? The night, dark, stole over him. The breeze brought the scent of lilacs and a dark moth fluttered, retreating and re-entering his vision, and he felt a fever come over him. He was filled with want. Never in his entire life had he felt like this. He wanted something - love, lust. Time to stop, let him catch up, reflect, find out what it was that he had missed.
The old nun came the next afternoon. Sister Gabriella walked behind her. Elias inquired into what they needed for her comfort. The old nun said "Pardon?" several times, as if she did not hear very well.
The rocking chair she asked for was brought out to the porch. She sat in it, rocking slowly, and soon was fast asleep. The deacon's bench was brought for Sister Gabriella and several cushions. He asked her to sit on the bench and he began nervously to knead the clay. He began the mold.
It was wrong. He started over several times, smashing the clay together and beginning again. She sat quietly and only her fingers moved, playing nervously with her rosary.
He began again and moved to her side, trying her profile in the soft moist clay. He found himself watching her eyelids - the soft upturned lashes as they fluttered. They reminded him of the dark moth. He was caught in the stillness. His hands seemed too large, too clumsy for the task at hand.
She sat as before - motionless - with only the whisper of her fingers on her soft gown as they picked at the rosary beads. The creaking of the chair stopped and the old nun snored.
Elias's whole life had been a void and now he felt himself being drawn to the edge of it. When the nun turned and asked, "May I move?", he caught the full gaze of her eyes and felt himself being drawn to the edge of an unknown whirlpool.
She saw the clump of clay on the stand, unmolded. Her lips quivered and threatened to smile, but instead she stood up and stretched.
"Maybe I should stand."
"Yes," he agreed.
Again he rearranged the clay and tried this time molding a gown, a figure. He would save the head until last. His fingers were grateful for the chance to mold, to touch, to smooth the clay.
The sound of the old nun snoring was between them. Again and again he smashed the clay and began again. The gown, the remembered flowing hair, were possible, but when he came to the face it eluded him. He glanced at her. He felt something jar. Pain ran between his temples - the day seemed too bright. It was the first time he had heard the birds singing, felt the glorious sensation of the south wind. He felt alive.
The sound of snoring stopped abruptly and the old one lumbered into the forge.
"Vespers. Come, Gabriella, we cannot be late for Vespers."
Elias walked down to the house, ate his dinner, bade the woman goodnight, and took his chair onto the porch as usual, but something was different. He felt blood coursing through his brain - not an unpleasant feeling, but heady, exciting, different.
The right brain had awakened. For the first time he saw - really saw - the purple twilight. Beauty touched his emptiness and he felt sad. An empathy arose within him and he was surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. He realized that he had missed something very important in his life.
Into the twilight, and the slice of light from the kitchen, it came again - the dark velvety moth, fluttering in and out of his vision. It awakened his imagination and he welcomed that unknown skill, not knowing that it came with a price.
He went to bed and fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of dark wings beating and when he awoke he saw the dark moth lying on his window ledge, dead. Elias realized with shame that he had had a wet dream.
The nuns came the next day. It was warmer. The old nun wheezed and sank heavily into the chair. Sister Gabriella stood as he worked on the gown, the folds. But the wind came from the north and blew the cloth against her and he could see the silhouette of her legs. He imagined the whiteness of her undergarments. She took the folds of her skirt and fanned and he glimpsed the black laced shoes, the cotton stockings, and the layers of white undergarments.
That night he dreamed that he had lifted her skirts, torn the stockings down, unlaced her shoes and removed them.
The next day the sun was warmer yet. He felt the sweat roll from his armpits. The old nun snored and he heard the incessant buzzing of a bee.
As if following his lead as he worked on the shoulders, she glanced over and looked at the sleeping old woman and then loosened her top, wrenching at the neck. The gown opened. He saw clearly the whiteness of her shoulders and her soft, perfect neck, where a pulse pounded persistently.
"It's so hot," she complained.
That night he dreamed that he had walked over and, with both hands, torn down her top. Where the black cloth hung at her waist, pinioning her arms, he saw the incredible whiteness of her body, the perfect breasts - nipples pink, fragrant, fragile, like shy spring flowers.
He awoke and heard the woman in the kitchen. He ate breakfast and outwardly seemed no different, but something raged within him. And until he saw them coming, picking their way slowly up the hill, the raging would not be still. It was like a novel gripping him - he had no idea how or when it would end.
The figure had been completed. He had no idea how.
When Sister Gabriella glanced over and saw that he had begun again on the face, she reached up and took off her wedding band and veil. He had no idea what to expect - he had always imagined that nuns were bald - but she had dark, close cropped hair. It reminded him of the silk fringe on the piano shawl.
He longed to reach over and stroke it. Her ears were tiny and pink - perfect, like sea shells. He felt a roaring in his head, his body, his groin. Her neck - slim, slender as a swan - turned slowly toward him.
He felt every emotion he had lived so long without - love, lust, fear, sorrow, and anger. Why had they come up the hill? He felt the helplessness of not knowing. He felt the torment. When the fence was done, he would wait and they would not come.
As was the custom, he worked until the old nun awoke, saying: "Oh my, I must have dropped off." She would make a production of gathering her skirts, looking at the mold, and then admonishing Gabriella to hurry, that they mustn't be late for Vespers.
Elias went to the house and ate and then sat on the porch and smoked and did something he had never done before - he daydreamed. He dreamed with his eyes wide open that it was she, not Sarah Elizabeth, that he had brought up the hill years ago. If only he were young and could take her to the soft feather bed and suck at her bosom - the ambrosia of the Gods. He was one with her and it was as never before - heightened, beautiful, intense. His body vibrated like a lost chord - an organ in an empty church. Oh, it must have been possible if he could imagine it as such.
But with the night the thought came - no, you are old, that time has come and gone. She is a woman of the church. Then he would correct his daydreams - update them - and with a feeling of lust thundering through him he would imagine her kneeling by the barren bed, the shadow of a cross upon her, lying down only to ri
se in her chaste gown and slip through the window and up the hill in the night. He would hear her shoes on the boards of the bridge.
His daydreams consumed him and in them they grasped each other and he threw her roughly to the ground, tearing at her stockings, unlacing her shoes - and possessing her.
They came in the grey afternoon.
"Oh, you're done," pronounced the old nun.
"Well, not quite," he protested.
"We can't stay long. It looks like a storm is coming." And the old nun took her usual seat in the rocking chair on the porch.
He knew it was over, finished, and that they would never come again. He must savor every moment. He wet his hands and smoothed several spots on the model - on the already perfect clay.
The sky darkened. Gabriella sat on the bench and she too realized the statue was done.
He went to gather the papers and his drawings. They fluttered in the wind. He put a rock on them and saw her wedding ring on the table.
Gabriella took her shawl and tiptoed out onto the porch and covered the old woman. She returned, sat on the bench and wondered - this bride who was not a bride - what it was like to know a man.
Power, she felt her power, a strange, wonderful feeling, alien to her. As a novice, she was not sure - she was beginning to tire of chaste, modest words. She enjoyed looking at this man's strong, brown hands - she had lived with women too long and was no longer sure. Boldly she looked at his trousers and wondered where it was. Did it hang on one side or another? She was sure it was ugly. She had never seen one except at the art museum and in ivory it seemed pure and desirable, but as a child the creatures on the farm - the males she had watched - seemed magical. Out of nowhere it appeared, large and terrible. Yet the mares stood still and obedient. She imagined they felt pleasure.
Forbidden thoughts wet her thighs. She fanned the dress. The coming storm blew bits of hay in the air and the soft brushing hay caressed her neck.
Both of their imaginations flared. She reached down to loosen her shoe and he recognized this sign from his dream. He fell on his knees before her and began unlacing her shoes. He heard her gasp of surprise.
His hand went softly up the black cotton stocking and in the quiet they both heard the snap of the garters. The stocking fell around her ankles.
She rose unsteadily as he still caressed her legs, unhooking her gown so that it fell around her feet. She lay down on the hay, her eyes wide and staring - dark whirlpools that tugged at him.
He went to her. She felt it and shivered. Warm and hard it lay against her skin. But all of the nights, all of the daydreams, all the days of wanting caught up with him. It was over before he entered her.
She waited in anticipation, fear making her tremble. Maybe she misunderstood. It was near, touching, but not touching.
She heard his harsh breathing. He rose and turned away, but not before she saw it - not swordlike - not powerful at all. He had tricked her, or her imagination had, or someone was responsible. Her loins throbbed and she felt anger flare.
In a calm icy voice, she said, "I'll have to tell Mother Superior."
She stood and began replacing her stockings.
"No," he pleaded.
The gown went over her head like a dark cloud, as a clap of thunder struck. The old nun muttered in her sleep.
"Rape - I'll have to tell Mother Superior," she repeated like a spoiled child.
Their mutual disappointment fell like the steady rain. When she reached for the wedding band on the table, he reacted. He grasped her hand and the ring fell, rolling away. He fell to his knees, snatching up her skirt. He tore the stockings. She screamed, but the sound was carried away into the wind that had begun to howl.
Like in his imagination his hands - strong and rough - clutched at her shoulders. The strong material hesitated and then tore. He grabbed her veil, accidentally scratching her neck. She screamed, full of fear and excitement.
The old nun awoke, shook herself, glanced in and saw them, and fell to her knees, muttering a million Hail Mary's.
The rain came down in steady, heavy sheets.
The old woman hesitated. Only when Elias had thrown Gabriella on the straw and begun, did she quit the hut and ran, slipping and falling in the blinding rain. They could hear the rushing of the water below.
Gabriella screamed again and again. But with the fear, he heard pure joy in her voice. He sucked greedily at her breast. His hands clutched her slender throat and he was reminded of the black swan in the pond. It was everything he had imagined and it went on and on, never ending.
He heard the sputtering of the forge and the rain was cold as it blew with the wind. His hand - rough and calloused - covered her mouth, muffling her screams. Convulsing, he clutched the pure softness of her throat.
Their mating was like nothing he had imagined. She tore at his fingers with her teeth. He tightened his grip, sinking his fingers into the soft flesh of her slender neck. It was an eternity of madness and exquisite joy, her body bucking frantically beneath him.
When release came, he dissolved into her ready flesh and was still. Except for his ragged breath and the beating rain, the world was still.
Slowly he started to rise, afraid to touch her now. He tried extricating himself from her clutching arms. He must look - would she be flushed and lovely? Instead he found the dark whirlpools that were her eyes were still and stagnant.
A scream, a groan, some noise inside him rose. It wasn't possible. He put his ear to her breast. No thundering heartbeat greeted him. He lifted her wrist, the flesh felt unyielding, strange.
Dead - Dead - she was dead.
In that moment in time he had killed her.
He was afraid. He wanted to blow into her lovely mouth, but she had become something different and angry blue thumbprints blossomed on her ivory throat.
Naked, he crouched and rocked back and forth, cold and angry as the rain pelted him. He wept - loud sobbing noises. Rocking. Rocking.
"No" - "No" - "No," over and over he protested.
The rivulets of rain on her face finally calmed him. With care he took a cloth from the table and gently wiped her face - too late; with the gentlest of hands, he brought her out of the rain.
His sobs had turned to a soft hum, his mind searching for the tune to a forgotten hymn his mother used to sing.
He put on her camisole, the white cotton pants and petticoat. With care he slid the stockings up her legs and carefully laced her shoes. His tears rained down onto her silent face.
He could not bear to put the ring back on her rigid finger and he threw the veil into the forge fire where it blazed up green.
He tried closing her eyes, but they would not stay shut. The whirlpool that had spoken to him was still.
He laid her carefully in the straw and in the blinding rain went down to the house.
The woman had his supper ready and rushed out apologizing that she must go quickly because of the storm. But she was back in five minutes saying that she must stay the night because the little bridge over the creek had been washed out.
Elias went to bed and that night he did not dream. He lay in bed and stared at the pattern in the wallpaper until dawn.
In the morning, Elias took several planks and put them across the stream. He told the woman that he could manage for a few days and then went back to the house and dressed in his best suit to wait.
He imagined they would come early, but lunch and dinner time came and went and then it was dark. The air cleared and he smelled no rain in the night.
He walked up to the forge to convince himself he had not dreamed the whole thing. He shivered in the presence of death - this strange form clothed in black was alien to him. He imagined one finger moved and hurriedly went back to the house and spent a restless night anxious for morning.
When the sun finally rose, he dressed again in his only suit and waited. About noon he saw them carefully picking their way across the boards. He walked down to meet them.
Father Dismas wa
s first.
"You've heard of the tragedy? Sister Teresa's body has been found at the fork of the creek - drowned. The young nun, Sister Gabriella, has not been recovered. We can only imagine she must have been swept away down river."
Elias nodded. He was dumbfounded. The nuns wept softly and awkwardly he offered refreshments. They refused politely and went away.
Elias went back to the house and sat on the porch smoking. He was numb. His life had become full of surprises and temptations, but he need not feel their scorn and hate. He need not swing from a gallows. They need never know. The old nun, on her way to tell them, had been swept away and this was taken as providence by Elias.
That night he dug a grave in the soft earth behind the forge. Then he forced himself to approach the still form in the forge. Her open eyes, unfocused and covered with a deep grey film, seemed to move. The harsh sound of breathing filled the forge, but Elias finally realized with relief that it was his own breath rushing out - roaring in his ears.
His hands would not obey him. They reached out only to shrink back. He could not bear to touch it. It was no longer a she - death had converted it to an unnameable something.
He froze for a full ten minutes watching. Could those windows of the soul see him through their murky lenses? Did the finger on the right hand move just a fraction?
He stared at the white band where her wedding ring had rested. To make amends he had to replace it. It was something he simply must do, but how? He found the golden band among the straw and rolled it between his finger and thumb. Looking away, he scooted forward, reaching into the space where her clenched fist lay. Like a blind man his hand wavered back and forth, missing the mark, touching the hard mound that had been her yielding breast.
He shrank back with a quick gasp of surprise and a pain ran up his arm into his chest. He turned his head, and careful to look only at the hand, he forced himself to touch it. It was hard as stone - the finger he sought was unyielding to his touch.
He must do it - he must replace the ring - the ring must cover that band of white. It made no sense, but Elias had become fixated with that thought. With a sharp intake of breath, he forced the finger forward and heard a distinct crack as it left the nest of the others. Quickly he slid the band on.
Elias's Fence Page 2