When Silence Sings

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Mack, her younger son, slipped into the room. “Maybe now you’ll see that Jake doesn’t have the constitution to follow in your footsteps.”

  Serepta glanced at the son who favored her with his dark skin and wide blue eyes the color of the sky on a too-hot day. “Your brother is the eldest, and I’ve been grooming him for too long to simply set him aside because of one mistake.”

  “One?” Mack shook his head. “You know there’s been more than one. It’s just that this one can’t easily be swept under the rug. You sent me to school to learn about business. Let me show you what I know.”

  She moved to the wide window of her office at Walnutta. Rich draperies framed the view overlooking a manicured garden that would soon burst into bloom. She might have come from nothing, but anyone visiting her home now would see that she had impeccable taste as well as the means to satisfy it. Was she risking her legacy by entrusting everything to Jake?

  “You’ve already told me what you think makes the most business sense, and you’re wrong. Disposing of liquor sales—even at a profit—would be foolish.”

  Mack joined her at the window. His expression was calm, but frustration emanated from him in palpable waves. “With sufficient capital you could rule not only the coal industry but also natural gas. And you wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of crooked lawmen like Harrison Ash. Growth is coming, and we could be in the perfect position to capitalize on the many innovations that will require fuel—and not only from coal.”

  Serepta frowned and let him see it. She’d thought giving him training in business would benefit her. If she’d known it would give him such foolish ideas and aspirations, she would have saved her money. “My answer remains no. Now, if you can’t be a help, at least try not to be a hindrance.”

  Mack’s lips tightened and thinned much the way she knew her own did when she was angry. He clenched his fists but did not speak. Instead, he nodded once and left the room, shutting the door a little too firmly behind him.

  Serepta watched a bird building its nest in a rosebush. She’d tell Charlie to remove the messy pile of twigs. If only her sons were so easily dealt with. She wouldn’t be around forever and feared the world she’d so carefully constructed would crumble before she was cold in the grave if both sons persisted in their foolishness. At times she even wondered if they were intentionally trying to undermine her.

  Turning to her desk, she straightened her blouse and smoothed her hair back into its tight chignon. Immediate action was required if she wanted to strengthen her position in southern West Virginia until at least one of her sons came to his senses. A public appearance was in order, and she knew just where she would make it.

  Ill will and schemes for revenge stewed all week among members of the Harpe family. Colman managed to steer clear of much of the talk by keeping his head down and focusing on his work at the rail yard. He was also making notes for a series of sermons centered around Revelation and end times. There was going to be a tent meeting in nearby Glen Jean, and he felt sure he’d be asked to fill the pulpit a night or two. There were rumors the revival was a trial run for whoever was going to be asked to serve at the Thurmond Union Church. This could be the opportunity he needed to get his foot in the door.

  But Friday rolled around and no one asked him to speak. Instead, it seemed a preacher from North Carolina had been brought in, a fellow with a reputation for preaching love and forgiveness. Which were fine things to preach, but Colman didn’t think a peaceful message like that would bring the crowds in. Not the way a little fire and brimstone would. He told himself he wouldn’t go to the revival that started Sunday evening. But when the weekend came, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to go and see the competition.

  The first night of the revival drew a decent crowd. When Colman arrived, he found Sam leaning against a tree just outside the tent.

  “Hey there, Sam. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Aw, word got around that this feller is worth listening to. Plus, I thought a McLean or two might show up and stir the pot.”

  “They’d better not.”

  “No. I guess they’d better not. Still, I didn’t have anything else going on this evening.”

  Colman watched the crowd—at least two-thirds women and children—filter into the tent and settle. A cluster of elders from the Thurmond Church sat off to the right. Allen Spatchcock nodded at him, face solemn. Allen knew Colman wanted to fill the pulpit—they’d talked about it twice. Colman forced a smile and nodded back. He eased under the edge of the canvas and perched on a folding chair, angling his body so that his feet were pointed toward the trees. He’d listen for a while, but he didn’t see any reason to stay all night. If that bunch didn’t want him, he had better things to do.

  While they’d been having a streak of warm days, it was still cool of an evening. He saw women tucking shawls and sweaters around their shoulders and bullying children into jackets. He snugged his own coat across his chest and settled in to pass judgment on this out-of-town pulpit pounder.

  When Preacher Hickman stepped up onto a plywood riser at the front of the tent, Colman didn’t find him much to look at. Tall and lanky, his Adam’s apple was too big and his suit coat too long. Not to mention the ridiculous curl of hair that tumbled across his forehead. Colman didn’t hold out much hope he’d be any good. Which might have given him a measure of satisfaction if he let it. But he figured if he was going to sin by carrying anger against the McLeans around with him, he’d best ease up in the area of passing judgment on this wayside preacher.

  The young reverend invited them all to bow their heads in prayer as he asked the Lord’s blessing on the words he planned to share that night. As he worked his way toward amen, Colman sensed a stir in the crowd. It began down near the front and rippled toward him like a wave from a pebble dropped into a pond. He lifted his head as soon as it was proper and saw people shifting and angling for a better look. He did the same.

  The pebble dropped among them was none other than Serepta McLean. She’d settled in a chair in the middle of the front row as they prayed. Colman could see her glossy dark hair, shot through with silvery threads. Rumor had it she was a Melungeon. She’d been a Mullins before she wed, and that was surely a swarthy bunch prone to keeping apart from the rest of the world.

  It was as though a copperhead had slithered down the aisle and curled in front of the pulpit. How dare she? He noticed two of her hired men standing just outside the tent, eyes roving the crowd gathered there. On the lookout for trouble. The covey of elders glared, but none moved toward her. Colman halfway hoped they’d be foolish enough to give the hired men what they were looking for.

  Serepta turned in her seat, slow and regal, to scan the crowd. There were quite a few Harpes in attendance, anger rolling off them like early morning fog rising from the valleys. He wouldn’t have thought someone who condoned murder would bother to come hear a preacher, but maybe that wasn’t her intent. Maybe it was like Sam said—she was stirring the pot.

  He watched the unlikely leader of the McLean clan peruse those near him until her gaze finally rested on him. Her eyes were like the flash of a bluebird’s wing against her dusky skin, like a speck of unexpected color on a winter day. Her hair was pulled starkly back from a broad forehead, and her pale lips formed a straight line. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He thought he saw an almost imperceptible nod as though she were approving something. Certainly not him. Then she turned to the front again as Preacher Hickman launched into his sermon.

  Colman was so distracted by Serepta that he had a difficult time following what the preacher was saying. He kept forcing his attention back to the animated words pouring forth from the lanky young man up front. His voice boomed, and in spite of the stir Serepta was causing, Colman could tell the people around him were captivated by the words this man was sharing. But he couldn’t seem to pin them down, couldn’t get them to stick in his mind.

  Until a phrase nearly poleaxed him.

  “. . . evil ha
s come up before God. He has eyes to see the darkness dwelling in each person’s heart. And yet He is slow to anger, gracious and merciful.”

  Colman shook his head. The words struck a chord that seemed to vibrate through his very soul. Eyes to see . . . He had the feeling Serepta’s eyes saw more than he knew. Had seen more than he wanted to know. He felt a ripple of compassion pass through him. It was like hearing a cracked wheel—foreign and strange. He shook it off and refocused his attention.

  “. . . preach against wickedness. Do not turn away from God’s love.”

  Again the sensation that was almost a pain, as though opposing forces inside him were doing battle. And then a conviction washed over him, not so much in audible words as in an idea. A deeply compelling idea. Tell the world about Me.

  Oh yes. That he would do. Just as soon as that gaggle of elders gave him the chance.

  But there was more. Tell the McLeans about Me.

  Colman froze. He knew that voice and wasn’t sure which scared him more—obeying it or ignoring it.

  Serepta sat statue-straight in her chair right in front of the preacher. She paid him little mind, preferring to dig deep into her own thoughts. She’d seen the stir her entrance into the tent caused and was torn between pleasure that she had such power and frustration that she’d been forced to wield it here.

  She hadn’t set foot inside a church of any kind since her father forced her to go with her mother as a child. The only daughter of a man who valued sons, he thought women should keep house, attend church, and serve any man who asked, silently and speedily.

  The noisy preacher thumped the pulpit in front of him. She fixed her gaze somewhere around the middle of his forehead, so it would appear she was listening. She didn’t suppose anyone would be fooled into thinking her particularly pious, but it would certainly give them something to talk about, heads together in little clusters of gossip. Though she supposed she was a sinner, likely the only difference between her sin and the woman’s sitting two chairs down with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap was the degree.

  Of course, this evening it wasn’t her transgression but Jake’s that had driven her to the tent meeting. While there were reasons to kill a man, losing at cards wasn’t one of them. Jake seemed to have inherited all of her fire and none of her ability to bank it.

  In some deep recess of her mind, she knew what Jake had done was inexcusable. And yet it was up to her to show the community that she stood by her boy, even approved of his actions. To do otherwise would be to show weakness. And she hadn’t shown weakness since she’d learned to stand up to her father’s whippings when she was eight.

  According to Mack, Jake lit out of town about five minutes after he fired the fatal shot. Which was just as well. Serepta was too angry with him to see his handsome face right now. He had his father’s good looks—blond hair and fair skin in contrast to her own dark features. If only a woman would tame him like she’d done his father.

  The preacher finally came to the end of his sermon. She hadn’t heard a word. But she’d been seen and knew there were more than a few Harpes under the tent. She’d spotted Colman Harpe, who fancied himself a preacher. A wry smile twisted her lips. If he really thought of himself as a man of God, how would he be at turning the other cheek? She stood and tugged her jacket down over her trousers. In the mountains it was still a scandal for a woman to be seen in pants, and so she wore them all the time.

  Exiting the tent, Serepta scanned the crowd once more. She didn’t see Colman anymore. Maybe he’d turned his cheek so far that it had taken him right out of her sight. Fine. So long as he told the others that she’d been there. So long as they all knew she had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to fear.

  Colman watched Serepta sail off toward her waiting car, a thug on each side of her but two steps behind like some sort of human train. Silence and stares gave way to murmurs and darting eyes at her passing. The Harpe clan would be chewing on this for a while.

  The group of elders—Allen chief among them—stood with Preacher Hickman, who was watching Serepta go with a look like she’d taken his best hunting dog with her. He shook his head and tucked his Bible under his arm. He clasped Allen’s hand, gave it a firm shake, then turned and made his way to his own car, which looked like it might break down—or rust out—at any moment.

  Colman eased closer and listened.

  “. . . still think he could do a fine job. This feud nonsense will die down. It always does.” That was Percy Harpe, second cousin to Colman.

  Allen sighed and chewed on a thumbnail. “He was right clear about not wanting to play referee for this feud. Even a month ago I would’ve said it wasn’t a problem, but with Jake shooting Caleb and then Serepta showing up here . . .” He shook his head. “Add to that all the doings over at the Dunglen Hotel and, as he said, he’s not sure he’s the right fit for our church.”

  Percy grunted. “Well then, who in tarnation is a good fit? If a young go-getter like that one don’t want it . . .”

  Allen’s eye caught Colman’s, and Colman held it. Allen squinted at him, then jerked his head in a come here gesture. Colman sauntered over.

  “Guess you might’ve heard what we’re talking about, you having such sharp ears and all.”

  Colman suppressed a grin. “Can’t help it if God blessed me with ears to hear.”

  “Hunh.” Allen darted a look at the other elders, and Colman could almost hear what they were thinking. “Seems Preacher Hickman won’t be joining us over at the new church.”

  “Shame,” said Colman.

  “Right. Thing is, we need a preacher who’s proved he can do the job. Preached more than two or three times and demonstrated that he’s got the calling and not just the hankering.”

  Colman felt cautious hope rise in him and tried not to look overeager.

  Percy stuck his face in front of Colman’s. “How many heathens have you won to the Lord?”

  Colman jerked his head back like a turtle taken by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “How many souls have you ushered to the gates of Glory?” Percy poked him in the chest with a finger.

  “I, well, I couldn’t say for certain.” He tried to salvage his answer. “Guess that’s between them and God in the end.”

  Percy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I told you he’s too green.”

  Allen patted the air like he was smoothing Percy’s temper. “I know. I know.” He turned to Colman. “Maybe if we could see some evidence of your effectiveness as a shepherd for our flock, we’d be more inclined to give you a try.” He squinted one eye and raised the opposite brow. “Now Reverend Hickman was afraid of a little old feud. I hear you’ve stayed out of it over the years. Seems like if you could pour some oil on that sea of troubled waters it’d be a pretty good indication that you’re the man for us.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Colman said.

  “Either win that godforsaken woman to the Lord or run her out of the country,” Percy blurted. “Show her the error of her ways. Convince her to fly right or peddle her poison somewhere else.”

  Allen held up his hand. “Show us that you can tell the McLeans about God,” he said. “That’s all we’re asking. It’s up to God to set their hearts right—Serepta’s included. You do that, and I think we’ll have a pulpit for you.”

  Colman swallowed hard. This was the second time he’d heard those words, and there was no more pretending it was only his imagination.

  chapter

  three

  Colman did not sleep well that night in his rooms on the third floor of the National Bank of Thurmond. Normally, the sound of trains passing served as a lullaby, but on this night the whistle and chug rattled his brain. He finally rose from bed and opened a window to the cold night air still sharp with the scent of coal from the last steam engine. He breathed it in, the hint of spring tangible just under the familiar smell.

  He’d heard directly from God a time or two in his life. First when he was ju
st a boy and swore he could hear heaven’s music in the wind and the gurgle of a stream. His father told him not to talk nonsense, but his mother would take him into the woods with her and ask him to describe what he heard. She said he’d been given a gift for hearing more than the rest of the world—called it his legacy as a member of the Harpe clan. He guessed he’d developed an affection for words then as he tried to find just the right description to please his mother.

  After she died when he was thirteen, he’d stopped listening for a while. And then, when he wanted to listen again, it was as though the sound had dimmed, become more distant. That was when he heard from God again. It was a call to tune his heart to the Lord and share the gospel from the pulpit. He’d gladly followed that leading even though most of the Harpe men scorned it, saying a preacher wasn’t much good to them when it came to feuding. The way Colman saw it, being a preacher didn’t have to interfere with his scorn for the McLeans—it just meant he wouldn’t join in the rougher aspects of the ongoing conflict. He figured the McLeans were like the Canaanites. God sent Joshua and his crew into the Promised Land to rout them out. Not everyone would make it into the kingdom.

  Tonight, though, words escaped him. Well, except for the words seared on his heart under that tent and then when they fell again from Allen’s lips. Tell the McLeans about God.

  He knew it was a command but couldn’t think why God would send him on such a fool’s errand. Especially one that would put him at odds with his own family. While Allen might like to see Serepta and her clan following God, he suspected Percy and most of the others just wanted her to stop causing trouble for them.