Scryer's Gulch

by MeiLin Miranda

  Lockson stopped for breath, and Miss Duniway interjected, “The ethergraph office opened two years ago? You mean Simon Prake, I take it. Who is Mr Morton?”

  “Oh, Cole Morton was young Mr Prake’s business partner. They opened up the ethergraph office, and to support their endeavors until such time as the office could support them, they opened up Morton and Prake, the second but certainly the best hardware store in town. At that time, the ethergraph office resided within the hardware store, but business grew much faster than either supposed, and the rest of the Prake family followed within the year. Mr Morton packed up and left not long after that--I do believe it was about six months ago.”

  “Indeed,” blinked Miss Duniway. “And where did he go?”

  “I believe he went back to Jackson. Perhaps you might enquire of Mr Prake the younger. Now, on the heels of the ethergraph office inaugural, Parson William Billson founded the Methodic Church, a much-needed regulator on the town’s more coarse nature...”

  In all, Annabelle sat through two hours of Scryer’s Gulch history, and still Lockson only made it up to the first year and a half of the settlement. She frowned to herself as she walked back through the town to the Hopewell, avoiding the mangy dogs slinking around corners, and doing her best to keep the hem of her dress from the muck. It didn’t look good for Simon Prake’s innocence, and the name “Cole Morton” nagged at her. She frowned further as she sat in her room, poring over her code book as she wrote up an ethergram to Daniel Howman. But she smiled as she handed it over to Simon late in the afternoon to send to Washington DC.

  “How are you this Saturday, Miss Duniway? Enjoying a day off?” said Simon.

  “I spent a most...edifying, I think might be the word, morning with Mr Lockson, learning more about the history of the town,” she answered. “I’m hoping to relate its history to that of the nation, and perhaps use it in spelling lessons and the like.”

  “Very resourceful, ma’am,” said Simon. A minute or more of small talk, she paid her fee, and left. Simon wondered for the first time how a schoolteacher could afford so many ethergrams. Perhaps, he thought as he tapped out the message, that’s why Sheriff Runnels was so interested in her communications. He sighed, folded the message in thirds, and slipped it into an envelope to give to Runnels that night.

  Episode 20: Ethergrams and Homilies

  As it came to pass, Simon did not get over to the Runnels house that night. He stood outside for a fair piece looking up at the door, but couldn’t bring himself to walk up the steps, knock, and hand over Miss Duniway’s ethergram; revealing someone’s private correspondence went against everything he believed in as an ethergraph engineer.

  But in the morning, a reply came through first thing, a reply that seemed so nonsensical for such a quick turnaround that he started wondering about Miss Duniway himself. He delivered the ethergram to Annabelle, and ended up at the jail as soon as his office closed for the rest of the day, it being Sunday; back then everything closed for church, and an afternoon of either quiet reflection or wailing, depending on your denomination.

  “This is everything?” said John, looking up from his desk.

  Simon stood before him, trying and failing not to fidget. “I still don’t like this.”

  “I know you don’t, but there’s something strange about these ethergrams.”

  “It is odd she can send so many on a teacher’s salary,” Simon admitted.

  “She told me your father pays her very well. Surprised me she said it.”

  “Between our share and Bonham’s, she makes triple what the average schoolteacher makes. Hazard pay, I’d call it,” Simon smiled.

  “And I’m obliged to your father for making my share of her salary part of my pay.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not enough to be sending ethergrams to her Cousin Daniel once or twice a week. I tell you, though, Sheriff,” he said, his face lighting up, “if this new encoding of mine works, everyone everywhere will be able to get an ethergram whenever they want, at a low cost with no engineers involved--”

  “I’ll be mighty amazed if I see such a thing in my lifetime, Mr Prake, or Jamie’s, but don’t wind yourself up, now. I’m not likely to understand what you’re on about.”

  “Beg pardon,” Simon said wryly. “I do get carried away, and I have so few to talk with who understand high-level encoding here.”

  John tilted himself back in his chair. “Well, now, I’d think you’re busy enough at the office to call for a second engineer, aren’t you? Any chance New Valley would send you a man to help? Then you’d have someone to talk with as well.”

  “I’d be surprised,” said Simon. “They say I’m doing fine on my own. Which translates to: we don’t want to pay a second man.”

  John chuckled. “How did you and Morton manage to talk them into it?”

  “Oh,” said Simon, suddenly subdued. “We each were on half-pay. The work wasn’t there yet. And we had the hardware store, of course...”

  John sensed a sore spot, and retreated. “Well, Mr Prake, thank you for overcoming your objections and bringing these to me. I appreciate it, and they won’t go beyond me.”

  “I hope you find they’re innocent after all, and I can stop this,” said Simon. “And on that note, I’m off to church. Perhaps Pastor Billson’s sermon will give me the solace I need.”

  Once he was through the door, a voice in the corner cell said, “All Pastor Bill’s jaw-flappin’ll do is put him clean to sleep!”

  “Shut up, Aloysius, I’m thinking,” said John.

  “Jest an observation,” grumbled the ghost before subsiding.

  John read the ethergrams again. Why in the world did Annabelle feel it necessary to ethergram her cousin such banal news as how well lessons were going, an oblique reference to his own son Jamie that puzzled him, inquiries into the health of their grandfather, and a business venture, something about watches. The cousin’s equally banal reply: the grandfather’s business venture went well, and he desired her to save money on ethergrams; she should hold onto Jamie’s penknife until she felt comfortable in her mind; and her cousin was proud of her accomplishments, and missed her.

  He took a pull on his over-boiled coffee, made a face, and reached for the last piece of sugar. A genteelly shabby childhood always rebelled against wasting sugar in coffee. But it was the cheap brown kind after all, and they could afford it now. He made a note to set Jamie and Mrs Smith to breaking more little chunks off the loaf to replenish the office bowl, and went back to the ethergraphs.

  Why did she mention his son? What interest could her cousin possibly have in Jamie? They were written in some form of cipher, he felt sure, and went over what he remembered from his military days. Troop movement reports and the like were often encoded, but his ciphering abilities didn’t go too deep. He ran over what he knew--look at the first letters of words, count in certain patterns to find letters to make up words, and so on--but found nothing. The best plan of attack was to inquire after his son’s penknife.

  Rabbit would be in after church, and John decided to leave early for a little walk. He stood up and stretched his long form, then slapped on his hat and took a quick survey of the tidy cells, currently unoccupied but for Aloysius. The wet-brained near-murderer had died in the night, and the town would miss its hanging. Many several men were bothered by this, but they all knew soon enough there’d be another fight, another dead man, and another murderer to string up. John didn’t look forward to it, but then he’d never been one to enjoy a good hanging.

  Pastor Billson ran him over as he stepped from the jail; in the collision, both men lost their hats. John retrieved them, dusted off the preacher’s first, and handed it over the the shorter man before brushing his own. “Pastor Billson, I’m surprised to see you out of your church at this hour.”

  “Oh, I had that burial to attend to, the unfortunate man who died last night,” said the Pastor in his high, melodious voice. “Devout Methodic. Came to church every Sunday, though I’m afraid he sat in
the back and stank a good deal of the whiskey he’d drunk the night before. I often preached temperance just for his benefit, but sadly... Will you ever join your family at services, Sheriff Runnels?”

  “I gave up the Method when my wife died,” he replied brusquely.

  Pastor Billson shook his head. “The Method can school us to face life’s sorrows, Sheriff.”

  “At the risk of rudeness, Pastor, I believe we both have places to be. Good morning, sir,” said John, walking toward home.

  Pastor Billson shook his head again, tugged at the waistcoat creeping up over his stomach, and continued up the street toward the Methodic Church, where his little flock was surely waiting for him. He passed the Hopewell Hotel; in the window of its still-crowded restaurant, he saw the neat straw bonnet of that schoolteacher, Miss Duniway. What a pity she was an Enthusiast! It surprised him greatly that Mayor Prake, himself the most prominent Methodic in town and the Pastor’s great supporter, would hire an Enthusiast to teach the children, though she certainly didn’t look like one--neither Irish nor Italian, and “Duniway” sounded like a good Methodic name to him. Was she a convert? That would be especially shocking.

  Just like an Enthusiast to eat before church, he thought as Annabelle wiped her mouth. Scandalous to breakfast before church. Even as the thought occurred to him, he remembered the smell of the apple pie his Chinese cook took out of the oven early that morning. How hard it had been to leave that pie unmolested! It would be waiting for him in three hours, a chunk of good cheddar and a pound of bacon beside it, plenty of coffee with cream and sugar, maybe even fried green tomatoes seeing as how his kitchen garden wasn’t likely to produce much more this season. He sighed, patted his grumbling if reverend stomach, and walked in the side door of the church.

  Meanwhile, happily breakfasted, Annabelle took a short walk round the encampment to settle Ralph’s cooking, then headed for the Church of Our Lady of the Great Hullaballoo. An hour of Enthusiasm awaited.

  Episode 21: An Enthusiastic Hour

  Annabelle preferred to sit in the back pew at church; despite her general self-confidence, church always made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She’d been raised both Methodic and Enthusiastic, the product of a rare mixed marriage and a childhood spent bouncing between one set of relatives and the next. She loved the clean formality of the Methodic Church and its emphasis on logic, but when it came down to it, she chose Enthusiasm: the brightly clanging bells, the incense wafting over everything, the exuberantly decorated altar, the music so loud it shook her bones, the shouts of the faithful in response to a good sermon. And the sermons were much shorter.

  Her mind was Methodic, but her soul was Enthusiastic.

  Her burning cheeks were back-row-ish, but her social standing in town forced her toward the front. When it was her turn to sing the Joyful Noise, as each member of the faithful was called to do, she focused her eyes on the benevolently smiling statue of the Great Mother and improvised as best she could. Her voice always sounded clear and true in the higher and lower registers, but every time she hit a mid-note her voice warbled and cracked like a boy becoming a man. Every time, she wondered if perhaps she might still become Methodic, but then the choir would respond to her offering with a window-rattling “Aaaamen, child of the Mother, AAAAMENN!” in four part harmony, and she’d remember why she followed her mother’s people instead of her father’s. She sat back down and listened to the rest of the congregation in their turns, ending with Ralph, Julian Hopewell’s general factotum, his off-tune contribution to the Joyful Noise scraping and creaking but heartfelt.

  Then came time for the somber part of the service, the Wails and Apologies. This part was why Enthusiastic churches used to be located a ways out of town; now, they just use acoustic tile and put them wherever they like, but then, the only ones who’d settle within a hundred yards of one were fellow Enthusiasts, and there weren’t enough of them in Scryer’s Gulch who could afford their own houses to build up much of a surrounding neighborhood for Our Lady of the Great Hullaballoo.

  Wailing is good for the soul, says the Good Book, and Enthusiasts take that up with a passion as I’m sure you know if you are one, or have seen a service on the EV, or live near an old church that can’t afford the soundproofing. Unlike the quiet contemplations across town of the Methodics on their trespasses against the Method, the Enthusiasts tore at their hair, wept, rolled about in the aisles, prostrated themselves before the Mother, and generally carried on about what rotten human beings they’d been during the week just passed. It behooved the choir to recover from this orgy of regret first, and take up the traditional “Forgive us, Mother, we didn’t mean it, truly” chant, starting out loud to cut through the noise, and then softer and softer as people recovered their equilibrium, straightened their hair and clothes, dried their eyes, and took their seats.

  At the end of the choir’s chant, Brother Fattipickel took the pulpit and cleared his throat; the congregation shouted a welcome, each in their own way. “And a good morning and welcome to you all, children of the Mother! Mrs Smith, you’re looking well this morning,” he beamed down at the Runnels’s housekeeper. “And Miss Duniway, my, aren’t you a picture of loveliness. Isn’t she pretty, folks?” Everyone loudly complimented Annabelle; one miner, his hair slicked back and the dirt mostly washed off from his bath the night before, even shook her hand and agreed heartily with the Brother.

  “Now don’t blush, ma’am, because you know it’s true,” continued Brother Fattipickel. “And that’s the text of our sermon today, friends: are we open to the good the Mother sent us down from on high with? Or do we turn it away with blushing cheek? It makes no sense to deny what you are! Miss Duniway, you’re pretty and you’re smart! Ralph there, you’re the best white cook in town, but I’ll say this, Mrs Smith’s peach pie beats even Ralph’s!” He rained down loud and happy compliments on his congregation, praising one’s housekeeping skills, another’s way with a pickaxe, until he’d said something about each and every one of them. Throughout, the congregation shouted, “That’s right!” or “Believe it, child!”

  Once everyone felt good and jolly, the deacons passed the collection plate. Annabelle put in her little mite as befit a modest but pious schoolteacher, and then the choir struck up the final hymn, this time “We Are All One and Different in the Mother,” Brother Fattipickel walking down the aisle swinging the censer. At the door, he gave the final benediction: “Bless you, children of the Mother, and may you face your week to come with Enthusiasm!”

  Everyone filed out, shaking Brother Fattipickel’s hand. When he got to Annabelle, he stopped her. “Miss Duniway, I’ve been meaning to ask how you get on! How is life in our schoolhouse treating you? A pity we have no Enthusiastic children as of yet.”

  “I’m sure they’ll arrive in time, Brother,” she smiled.

  “We do tend to large families! I am the youngest of twelve, myself. How many brothers and sisters do you have, if I might ask?”

  Annabelle blushed. “I have two brothers, sir.”

  “Ah yes?” Brother Fattipickel blinked, confused. “Well, when you marry, I’m sure you will make sure your own children don’t grow up alone.” She nodded, bid him a flustered goodbye, and hurried toward her rooms. Marriage was the last thing on her mind, and church always reminded her it should be at the forefront.

  The Methodic Church was just getting out as well. First to emerge were the Bonhams, corking traffic through the doorway while Jed made a show of his great friendship with Pastor Billson, which arose from his great financial sponsorship of Paster Billson; if he shook the Pastor’s hand once, he shook it a dozen times, until Charity loudly remarked that Mrs Walters was holding breakfast for them, and Lily fairly pranced with impatience, her long gold curls bouncing. Jed spotted Annabelle, and touched his hat with a subtle leer. Charity gave her the evil eye, and Lily craned her neck behind them to see if Amelia Prake had come out yet.

  Next through the door in the general flood of impatient, hungry worshippers w
ere Deputy Rabbit and Jamie. Rabbit gave her a wide grin and tipped his hat; Jamie scowled and made a face before they both hurried off to breakfast. Annabelle wondered why John wasn’t with them, and sighed in disappointment before she’d quite realized she’d done it.

  Mary and Anatole Prake came out into the morning air arm in arm, with their three children close behind. Little Amelia waved at Annabelle before running to catch up with Lily Bonham, lagging behind her father. Georgie gave his teacher a sullen, imploring look before he resumed kicking the dirt up in the street.

  Annabelle caught Simon’s eye and smiled; he blushed, smiled, and glanced away. Very nearly a guilty smile, she thought, and frowned to herself. Had he guessed she was watching him? If so, how? She wondered if her ethergrams had given more away than she thought, and for the first time was glad Chief Howman had told her to resort to regular mail except in emergencies. With that, she hastened her steps to the Hopewell, and perhaps a nap with Misi.

  As the Prakes walked home to the big breakfast finally waiting for them, Simon’s insides griped from more than hunger. Annabelle Duniway had such a penetrating gaze! Did she know somehow he’d given her ethergrams to the Sheriff? How would he ever explain himself? He resolved to keep all future correspondence to himself, no matter how much Runnels threatened or cajoled, and somehow, he would confess what he’d done to Miss Duniway, if she hadn’t already figured it out. He’d never felt more guilty in his life.