Circle of the Moon

by Faith Hunter

  There were three girls in the kitchen with the mamas, cooking. One was making coffee in the ancient thirty-five-cup percolator. One was working dough in a huge wooden dough bowl. One was setting the table. The mamas were cooking bacon, eggs, grits, biscuits, and pancakes on the wood-burning stoves.

  That many people in the Nicholson house, with the woodstoves burning high, was unbearable hot, even with the summer fan in back dragging air through all the open windows and outside. I stood in the foyer of the big house, sweated, and watched the homey, happy commotion.

  Sunday breakfast and lunch were a multifamily, multigenerational event in God’s Cloud of Glory Church, and while I didn’t agree with much of nothing the church taught, I did think getting together with family once a week was a pretty great thing. I didn’t want to deprive my sister of the Nicholsons, of the love and social discourse and interaction that a huge family could provide. In the church, all the kids were well socialized. It was a survival necessity and a skill she needed, even in the townie world.

  The women and girls were in summer wear: long bibbed dresses over loose cotton shirts and, oddly, cloth sneakers. That was new. Anything new in the church was a good sign, but seeing Mama in red sneakers was surprising. Mama Grace was wearing sunflower yellow sneakers that matched the yellow plaid in her bibbed dress, and Mama Carmel was wearing sturdy, dour, navy blue sneakers to match her navy dress.

  Daddy looked quiet and happy. SaraBell was propped in a chair nearby, feet up, rubbing her belly in slow, steady circles, looking big enough to pop and utterly miserable. Her ankles were swollen and she seemed to be having trouble breathing deeply. I hadn’t asked, but it was possible that she was having twins. Or maybe a litter.

  Sam glanced questioningly at his wife, smiled at her so sweetly, so gently, a look so full of love that it made my heart clench. She shrugged. He turned back to Daddy and asked, “When are Ben and Bernice getting married?”

  “My courtin’s none a your’n beeswax,” a girl setting the table yelled at him.

  Bernice was one of my half sisters. She was sixteen and old enough to be considered a woman by the church and old enough to wed in Tennessee. The only churchman named Ben I knew, who was old enough to marry, was Ben Aden, a college-educated man who had courted me before I turned into a tree. Ben was blue eyed and dark haired and pretty as a model in a fashion magazine. We wouldn’t have suited at all. But it was a surprise to hear he was courting my half sister. I didn’t know how to react to it.

  “Nell!” Mud flew across the room, arms outstretched. I caught her and nearly fell back against the door. She wasn’t the skinny waif I had first seen only a few months past. Before she had become a woman grown, she had put on inches and height. But her hair was bunned up again. A tight, braided, twisted bun that had Mama’s handiwork all over it.

  For a good two seconds my brain struggled. I wanted to fight this. I wanted to make a scene and tell the Nicholsons that they had no right to bun up my sister, not even as a social consideration or to fight the heat. But I didn’t have custody yet. They did. And if I wanted custody of Mud, then I needed to keep my blasted mouth shut and save this battle for another day.

  I managed a slow breath. Then another. And gently set my sister aside with a slight smile and the words, “You look pretty.” Because I’d be hog-tied and set on fire before I put her in the middle of a battle she was too young to comprehend fully.

  Mud touched her slicked-back hair and asked, “You’un okay with this? It’s hot.”

  I muttered, “‘And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

  Mud’s eyes went wide and she froze at my cussing.

  “Shakespeare. I meant that we aren’t finished fighting this battle. We’ll pick our fights and now is not the time.”

  Mud grinned and leaned in closer, whispering. “I’m gonna cut my hair someday. ‘When the hurly-burly’s done/When the battle’s lost and won.’ I read some a your’n Shakespeare while you’un was a tree. He talks pretty and he’s right smart.”

  Tears, totally unexpected, burned under my lids. “Yes. He was. And now we need to eat. Then I need to talk to Daddy and the mamas and Sam about a variety of things.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The meal was noisy and hot and I had no chance for a private conversation with anyone. When the family left for church, Mud and me in with a group of womenfolk, Mama looked at me askance, me still wearing jeans and work shoes. I hadn’t kept a skirt at HQ. We filed into the Nicholson benches and I sat. This was the first time I’d been in the church since it had been shot up and Daddy and I had been mortally injured. I was a little uneasy being there, and found myself studying the wood pews for signs of bullet damage. I was glad that I had kept my weapon on me.

  The song leader led three hymns. There was prayer and the Lord’s supper. And then came time for the sermon. To my surprise, Sam stood up to speak. I had intended to zone out and not listen, but with Sam preaching that went out the window. My brother had a gift for talking, for leading a crowd through the scriptures, and today’s scripture verses were based primarily on First Timothy, and he spent an hour suggesting, hinting, and implying that polygamy was not the Christian way.

  I was delighted, though not everyone in the congregation was so impressed with the direction of the sermon. There were a number of men scowling, and an even greater number of women with their heads down. Being told the men were sinful for abusing women had to make the men mad. Being told that they were being treated like pieces of meat who had been forced into a sinful lifestyle couldn’t be easy on the women. My brother never said any of that, of course, but the implication and the inferences were there.

  I was proud of my brother. Prouder than I could say. Finally the ninety-minute service was over and I stood and moved to the back of the church, a hand on Mud’s shoulder. Until the movement of the line stopped. Three men stood blocking the Nicholsons’ way. Blocking the mamas. Blocking Daddy, who was still using a cane. Blocking Sam. And mostly, I feared, blocking me.

  I recognized Judah and Daniel Jackson, the younger sons of Preacher Ernest Jackson. Jackson and his eldest son were men I had helped kill, if only indirectly. If I hadn’t let Ming’s scions and Jane Yellowrock cross my land to search for a missing vampire, the old man and Jackson Jr. might still be alive. Maybe. Or not. Either way, I had a feeling Jackson’s younger sons were no better than their daddy or Jackie Jr.

  Meshack Lambert was with Judah and Daniel, carrying a shotgun. Gad and Esau McCormick were carrying cudgels. Five against Sam and me. I slid my hand under my jacket to the holster.

  Judah stuck out his chin and said to Sam, “You’un got no cause to impugn our way of life.”

  “You’un got no right to call our women harlots,” Gad said.

  “You’un got no right to bring your witchy sister here among God-fearing people,” Esau said. “A witch dressed in pants like the whore of Babylon.”

  Anger flushed through me, but I kept my voice calm. “You need to learn your scripture. The whore of Babylon wore scarlet and purple. Not pants. And I’m not a witch.” I chuckled low and added a social media quote that would go over their heads. “Mama had me tested.”

  “I will not speak to this whore and witch,” Esau said, his face turned away from me. “I will not be led into temptation.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Daddy assist SaraBell and the mamas between two pews toward a different exit.

  “She should be burned,” Gad muttered of me. He slapped his truncheon into his palm with a soft smack. “Burned at the stake.”

  I was turned at slight angle from them, behind Sam, and I eased my weapon free. Dropped my hand, the Glock GDP-20 at my thigh, my hand comfortable on the grip, trigger finger on the slide. There was no round in the chamber. I needed to remedy that, except that would be obvious and right now we were teetering on the sharp edge of violence. Racking
the slide might push us over into bloodshed.

  Daniel, who bore a strong resemblance to his daddy, stepped closer to me. Unlike his brothers, he had no trouble looking me over. “There might not be a punishment house anymore,” he muttered, “but I’m inventive. I’ll take care of the whore.”

  Mama Grace and Mama Carmel shoved the young’uns down, where they crawled under the seats toward the door. The Nicholsons always had an exit plan.

  “And then she’ll be burned. Her and all her ilk,” Judah said. “Her sisters and—”

  I raised my weapon.

  “That’s enough, boys,” Brother Aden said, stopping me before I fired. “There will be no talk of taking the law into our own hands. Vigilantism is outlawed by church charter.”

  Not to mention murder. But I didn’t say it.

  “Your’n son is in jail because of this whore!” Gad said.

  “Larry is in jail because he kidnapped an officer of the law. I love my son, but he has shamed himself, his family, and this church.” Brother Aden shook his head. “I brought my sons up to know better. To do better. I have offered up my son to the elders of the church for banishment.”

  The silence in the church was so thick I could have bounced on it like bouncing on a balloon. “Banishment?” Judah repeated. “But . . .”

  “The scripture tells us to test the spirits,” Sam said, “and that means to test ourselves, our elders and deacons, each other, and our understanding of scripture all the time. You want to teach a sermon on an opposing viewpoint, feel free next time your name comes up in rotation.”

  Sam took a step close to Judah and Gad, and the group of five moved back. Sam followed them and maneuvered his body between them and the rest of the Nicholsons. Without taking his gaze from the threats, he held out a hand, indicating that we should all go outside. I walked past, not making eye contact with the cadre of would-be attackers. At some point I might need to show some aggression, but not now while Sam’s wife was still waddling down the stairs and the littlest young’uns were still escaping out the back pews into the safety of the day.

  * * *

  • • •

  The adrenaline spike was long gone by the time the last of us got back to the Nicholson house. A teenaged boy was armed and watching out a front porch window, his face in shadow. The windows upstairs were open and I could see gun barrels resting on the sills. Inside, the young’uns had been sent to the third floor to play under the care of two girl children with unbunned hair.

  Sam helped SaraBell into a rocker and propped her feet up, looking her over top to toes for problems. “I’m okay,” she said softly, flapping a hand at him. “Go on. Take care a things.”

  He asked the teen boy at the window by the door, “Zeke. Placement of shooters?”

  “Me on the lower floor. Harry on the third floor at the front. Rudolph at the back of the house on the upper floor.”

  “Barn?”

  “Judith,” Zeke said, “positioned to see the greenhouses. Bernice just checked in; girl shooters are in place, one at your’n place and one walking home with Esther and Jed. Four girls are in the storage caves. All quiet.”

  “Girl shooters?” I asked.

  Daddy eased into his rocker with a breathy grunt. “You’un taught us our girls can fight. So Sam and the boys been teaching ’em to shoot. Mud too, if’n you’un approve.”

  “Yes,” I said. Girl shooters? In the church?

  Grimly, Sam said, “They wear handguns under their dresses at all times.” He stared hard at me. “Things’ve been hard around here, Nellie.”

  “Anything I can bring charges against?”

  “Nothing we can prove,” he said. “Petty vandalism in the greenhouses. Theft from the storage caves. Accusations with no evidence.”

  I frowned. Theft and vandalism had never happened in all the years of the church. But Sam was preaching an end to polygamy, so . . . things were changing and there was always resistance to change. “You get witnesses or photos, you let me know.”

  “So far nothing on the cameras,” he said, even more grimly. He led the way to the back of the house, to a closet once filled with baby clothes. The shelves had been cleaned off; instead of onesies, they now held a series of small computer screens and a piece of electronic equipment that handled all the camera input. There were twelve screens, each with multiple views showing from all the Nicholson clan houses, the storage caves where the church kept its supplies and seeds, the vampire tree, multiple views of the church and its parking area, the entrance, and the main roadways.

  “Wow,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. While the church freely used solar and wind power, they had previously not allowed TVs, computers, e-readers, or anything else of a worldly personal electronic nature. Now they had a security system and my brother was running it. I had known about it, but seeing it was disconcerting.

  From the front of the house Zeke shouted, “Ben’s here. So’s Caleb, Fredi, and Priscilla. And Caleb’s hurt.”

  Caleb Campbell was half carried into the house by Ben Aden. Caleb had been beaten; he had a black eye and a broken nose and was holding his ribs. Fredi, Caleb’s senior wife, was big pregnant, maybe eight months along, with her third, and Priscilla, my eldest sister, was nursing her second. The three squalling toddlers were carried out of the big room by Mama Grace and my mama, and Priscilla threw herself into a chair. “This is your’n fault,” Priss said to me, stern as a frozen ax.

  “Priss. No,” Caleb said softly. “Nell was a trigger, nothing else. The church has been heading down this path a long time.”

  “I ain’t gonna let you divorce me,” Priscilla said, sounding stubborn, as if this had been often discussed and debated.

  Fredi, Priss’ best friend, burst into tears. And that sparked SaraBell’s tears. Pregnant and nursing hormones and emotional triggers were not a good mix.

  Thankfully, Sam’s cell phone rang. He spoke quietly for several minutes before saying into the phone, “Stand down. Everyone get home. We’re going Tomatoes.”

  “Tomatoes?” I asked, confused.

  “Today’s password for all is good and we can relax,” Zeke said. “I’ll make the calls and get the shooters back here.”

  Just that fast, it was over. “Come on, Mud. We’re going home.”

  Mama followed me to my truck and stood in the open truck door, blocking my exit, her face set and sad. “Mama?” I asked.

  “You think I’m sinning being with your’n daddy.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Mama, the church has never followed the laws of Tennessee. As to sinning, I went to a church in town. They got this plaque on the wall with the Commandments of Christianity. The first one is, ‘Thou shalt not judge.’ Only God can judge morality and whether someone is heaven bound or heading the other way. Whether you’re sinning is between the Almighty and you, Mama.”

  The lines in Mama’s face creased tight in some emotion I couldn’t describe.

  I touched her shoulder. “I was John’s second wife, and if Leah had lived, that would have been a relationship I entered into, knowing exactly what it entailed. That said, my job is all about the laws the church ignores, and the law says you can’t be legally married to Daddy because Mama Carmel married him.”

  Mama looked away, the frown lines beside her mouth deep grooves. “You’un gonna marry that Occam?” she asked, staring out over the trees.

  “I ain’t planning to marry at all, Mama. But if things change between Occam and me, you’ll know it right away. I promise.” I started the truck and Mama backed away so I could close the cab door. “We’ll see you in a day or two,” I promised, through the open window.

  “I love you, baby girl.”

  “I love you too, Mama.”

  She whispered, “You’un take care of your’n sisters.” And she walked away.

  A chill in my soul, I d
rove out of the yard, down the gravel drive, past the vampire tree, and out the gate toward Soulwood. On the way home, I pulled over and texted Brother Thad. He wouldn’t respond anytime soon, as his church services lasted from ten in the morning until two in the afternoon, with a break for lunch on the grounds. My text said, I’m free tomorrow if you want to send me the cost of upgrades. I had to get Mud away from the church. I had to push for custody.

  Seemed like I’d be going into debt for sure.

  TWELVE

  While I slept, a heat wave from the Gulf swept through, with the accompanying thunderstorms, high winds, slashing rain, and temporary cool temps. I loved storms and so did Soulwood. The land enticed me deeply into sleep as the sky watered our leaves and roots.

  The cool didn’t last, and my sleep didn’t either. The storms were followed by muggy, miserable heat and by late afternoon, I woke from confused dreams to find myself drenched in a soggy sweat. I twitched the sheets back to let them dry and dragged myself to the bathroom for a tepid shower. In the heat wave, I was almost ecstatic that my underground cistern kept my well water at a cool sixty degrees. It certainly woke me up fast. I dressed in cotton and followed the smell of coffee outside to the brazier, which had a percolator coffeepot on it. Two mugs were on the table nearby, and I fell into one of the two chairs someone had placed in the shade of the house.

  I poured a cup and sipped, watching my sister as she measured out a potential area for the greenhouse. She was dressed in my old overalls and work boots, toiling in the heat, working up a sweat as she hammered stakes into the ground. Stakes she had made herself, if the pile of split wood was an indication.

  Two of the cats lay in the garden beneath the bamboo-cane trellis, in the shade cast by leafy green bean vines. Torquil was lying at the edge of the woods at the base of a tree. All three cats were flat to the ground in the heat. “You’re gonna get eaten by a hawk,” I warned her. The cat ignored me.