When Silence Sings

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Then a wail pierced the air, and Serepta let her shoulders sag. Apparently whatever reprieve Ivy won had been short-lived. She started from the room when she realized there were more sounds than the child’s cry. Sounds of men and horses.

  Running now, Serepta met Charlie in the front hall. He held up a hand, and she froze. He lifted the muzzle of his rifle and pointed it toward the front door.

  “What is it?” Serepta hissed.

  “Bunch of them Harpes just rode up the drive.”

  “Why did Emmaline scream?”

  “She and Ivy were picking posies out front. Scared ’em good.”

  “Where are they now?” Serepta retrieved a pistol from the storage bench in the base of the hall tree.

  “Ivy done scooted the child round back.”

  Serepta nodded and moved toward the front door.

  “Where you goin’?” asked Charlie.

  “To see what our guests want.”

  She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her trousers where it could easily be seen and then pulled on a jacket. She stepped out onto the wide wraparound porch and felt as much as saw Charlie ease out behind her, rifle cradled in his arms. It felt good to have him at her back. She stood at the top of the steps and waited.

  Several men led by Webb Harpe rode horses up to the steps. One circled the house as if to see who might be hiding in the dairy, the smokehouse, or the corncrib. Serepta stared her enemy down.

  “We’re looking for my nephew,” Webb said.

  “And you thought he’d be here?” Serepta braced her hands on her hips, pushing her jacket back a notch as she did so.

  Webb’s eyes flicked to her pistol and then back to her face. He might doubt any other woman’s willingness to shoot him, but not hers.

  “Colman was on his way to White Sulphur Springs by train when he went missing not so far from here. Seemed like a good place to check.”

  “Ah, the one who fancies himself a preacher.” She sneered. “Did you think he’d come and try to save my soul?”

  “Some things aren’t worth saving.”

  Serepta wanted to laugh. As if such shallow words could wound her. Instead, she leveled her cool gaze on Webb and waited. Sometimes silence was the most meaningful response.

  “You got Jake in there with you?”

  Ah-ha. Now Webb had revealed his true intent. “What business is that of yours?”

  “He killed my boy.”

  “That he did.”

  Webb spit and narrowed his eyes. “Can’t let him get away with something like that.”

  Serepta kept her peace.

  “I’m betting if it’d been the other way around and your boy was the one dead, you’d be hunting his killer.”

  Serepta slowly lifted her chin and looked down her nose at Webb. “My boy would have had the sense not to get killed.”

  Webb’s jaw clenched, and she could see a vein popping out on his forehead. Good. Angry men made mistakes.

  The horse he was riding sidestepped, and Webb got a gleam in his eye. “Had any liquor go missing lately? Guess somebody didn’t have the sense to keep that from happening.”

  Now it was Serepta’s turn to grit her teeth. But she wouldn’t let this buffoon push her into doing anything foolish. “Liquor’s a lot easier to replace than a son. Maybe you’d better start looking to replace that wife of yours with one young enough to make you another heir.” She heard Charlie grunt but didn’t acknowledge the sound. It was too far, she knew it, but she would not let this man best her, even when it came to cruel words.

  Webb’s face paled, then flushed scarlet. He reined his horse around. “Come on, fellers. We’ve got a man to hunt and kill.”

  It was as though the words they’d spoken still hung there in the chill spring air. And they left Serepta cold—her words almost as much as Webb’s.

  After several hours—or had it been days?—the darkness began to feel like something brushing across Colman’s skin. He stopped his crawling to reach up and run a hand over his face. It was an odd sort of relief to feel the shape of his nose, the scruff of his beard, his dry and chapped lips. He closed his eyes so they would stop trying to find light in the blackness engulfing him. Except that closing his eyes made him hope there would be light when he opened them again.

  And there was nothing.

  He’d slept for a time. Or maybe several times. He remembered leaving the cavern after sleeping. Then he’d slept again at some point. He supposed wandering through this maze of a mountain might not be the wisest decision, but it was better than simply waiting in one spot to die. While the men from the train might send someone looking for him, if the snow melted there wouldn’t be any tracks or other evidence to tell them where he’d gone.

  Colman had never felt more alone in his life.

  He still had two matches in his pocket but hated to use them. He’d lit three other matches to check his location as he moved around. Each time he found himself in a slightly different passage that came from nowhere and continued into the same. He’d hoped to find some wood or something else he could burn, but short of setting fire to his own clothing or the blanket that offered a measure of warmth, there was nothing. He’d stumbled across some water earlier, although he was thirsty again, so it must have been a while now.

  He rested on his haunches, hand against the wall to his left. He decided somewhere along the line to keep following his left hand. If he never let it leave this side of the passage, it seemed like at least he would not end up doubling back on himself. Each time he had to lift his hand to negotiate rocks or give his knees some relief, he felt a moment of panic. What if he somehow put his hand back in a different spot and missed . . . what? He didn’t even know anymore.

  Colman bit back the panic that had become a constant companion. Each time it swept through him he felt as though it sank a little deeper, as though he were getting closer and closer to a terror that would consume him. Kill him.

  If only it would kill him all at once, he might welcome it. He wished he’d gone ahead and faced the mountain lion or whatever it had been. A terror he could see, smell, and feel would be preferable to this slow agony.

  He stopped to quiet his breathing. He wasn’t sure if he was panting from the exertion of pulling himself through the rough cave or from fear. As his breathing slowed he thought he heard something. The sound reminded him of stew bubbling in a pot. Was he so desperately hungry that he was imagining things? He inhaled deeply as if to smell the richness of his mother’s beef stew, but instead he smelled sulphur. The aroma had come to him off and on all through the cave. Now the smell combined with the bubbling sound filled his mind with images of a fiery cauldron in hell. The panic was about to overtake him again.

  He pulled out a match and lit it.

  His eyes shied away from even this small light, but he forced them open and looked around hungrily, taking in the rocky floor, the rough walls, the . . . dead end. No. He would have to turn back. Then he saw a dark puddle that was indeed bubbling. Before he could make heads or tails of it, the match burned his fingers. He dropped the blazing stub and reared back when the very air seemed to burst into flame, then extinguished in a sulphur-scented puff. The image of the light remained burned in his mind’s eye, then even that faded away. He couldn’t think what had just happened, but the burst of light made the darkness seem even thicker. He felt a heaviness in his mind and his limbs that begged him to stop his striving. He turned and began crawling back the way he’d come, trying to focus his mind but failing. Finally, he curled on his side, wrapped his hands around his head, and cried out to God.

  Colman woke, blinking to clear the darkness until he remembered it was permanent. Or as good as. The skin of his face felt tight where tears had dried when he’d finally slipped into oblivion for as long as God granted him sleep. His head felt like he was coming off a three-day drunk. His stomach rolled, and he dry-heaved, his belly too empty to produce anything. Maybe that water hadn’t been good to drink. He lay on his s
ide and wondered if this was the end. Colman realized he was finally willing to resign himself to the fact that he was being punished—and rightfully so—for his disobedience.

  Tell the McLeans about Me.

  He could almost hear the words echoing through the cave. It wasn’t a complicated message. Carrying it out, though, that was trickier.

  Colman rolled to his raw knees and clasped his hands, sweat prickling his skin even in the cool of the cavern. It was his childhood pose for prayer. He remembered his mother kneeling beside him to hear his prayers each night. He’d peeked at her more than once, but she never moved, never cracked an eyelid, simply waited for him to speak to God. He tried to remember when it stopped, when he got too old and imagined himself too grown to kneel beside his mother. In that moment he missed her more intensely than ever before.

  Shoulders bent, eyes shut tight, sick in body and soul, he bared his heart to God. He prayed for a long time before finally coming to the end of himself. He took a breath and found a few more words buried in his spirit.

  Father, I suppose I’ll die here in the dark. I’m sorry for my disobedience. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve inflicted and the blessings I’ve withheld. Please forgive me. If I ever see another person—especially a McLean—I promise I will declare that salvation comes from you. My joy is in my salvation.

  Colman stayed there, his knees throbbing against the stone floor. Then he blew out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes to find . . . darkness. He blinked and rubbed his itching, burning, useless eyes. Had he really been expecting to see light just because he’d poured his heart out to God?

  He patted his pocket. Did he dare light his final match? He was beginning to think this was the spot where he would lie down to die, and seeing the space, however briefly, felt like a comfort. He fumbled for the matchbox, his fingers thick and clumsy. His hand cramped and he dropped the box, the sound of the lone wooden match rattling inside and then the rattle stopped, and he knew he’d just heard a tiny stick of wood hit the floor of the cave.

  Colman froze. Then slowly, gingerly, he began to pat the stones and debris around him. Once, he could have sworn he bumped into a wooden crate but knew it was just him wishing. His searching grew more and more frantic until at last he groaned and lay down, a condemned man. So . . . this was how it would end. He thought he’d feel worse about it, but in a way it was a relief. He’d failed God and supposed he deserved to die here, deep inside a mountain. Maybe he could go to sleep and not wake up.

  Serepta drove Emmaline to Ivy’s by herself the next morning. Charlie hated it when she took the car without someone to drive her, but she did it anyway. Driving made her feel freer than almost anything. She wasn’t going to let Webb Harpe and his men change the way she lived her life. Of course, the fact that she was going out alone with a child was a pretty big change. Still, she told herself it was her choice and had nothing to do with the Harpe clan.

  The day before, Ivy had suggested that Emmaline’s crying fit might have come because she didn’t want to leave Walnutta and Serepta. With so many changes already, the little girl was likely clinging to anything that seemed even remotely familiar. So this morning Serepta had simply fed the child breakfast and loaded her in the car. As they neared Ivy’s cottage, she began talking to Emmaline.

  “Today you will stay with Ivy.”

  Emmaline gave her a suspicious look but didn’t say anything. The child could speak well enough, although her words were few and far between. Most of her communication related to having her own needs met. “Hungry,” “tired,” and “Mommy” were among her favorites, not to mention “no.” If Serepta had been told she was about to have someone in her life who told her no all day long, she would have laughed. She didn’t much tolerate being refused anything. But the girl’s sheer obstinance impressed her. Sometimes she would even refuse something she wanted, as though trying to exert control over some aspect of her life.

  Serepta could understand that need. And so when Emmaline said no, Serepta let whatever it was go if possible. Charlie clucked and shook his head, yet Serepta knew in her bones it was the right thing to do.

  Which is why she didn’t ask Emmaline if she wanted to go to Ivy’s this morning. She had to take her even if she refused to go. And worse, Serepta thought there was a fair chance the girl would prefer being with Ivy over her. If that was so, she’d rather not know it.

  The car bumped over the ruts leading to the cottage where Ivy lived with her grandfather. She parked the car and laid a hand on Emmaline’s curls. “Sometimes being an orphan is better,” she said, mostly to herself.

  They got out and walked through the woods to the cottage. Ivy stepped outside, staying in the shade as much as possible. She wore a smile beneath the shadow of her ever-present hat. Serepta felt her own lips curling in response before she caught herself. Ivy wasn’t a friend, she was an employee—a supplier of herbs and salves. She’d do well to remember this was nothing more than a business arrangement.

  “Good morning,” Ivy sang out, and Emmaline made for her like a bumblebee to a newly opened morning glory.

  “Morning,” Serepta said. “I thought I’d leave her with you until late afternoon. I didn’t bring anything today, but Charlie can send her lunch tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Ivy crouched down, and Emmaline leaned into her. “We’ll feast on fresh air and birdsong, and if that doesn’t hold us, I might could rustle up some biscuits.”

  Emmaline giggled and smiled, making Serepta have second thoughts about leaving her with Ivy. What if the child became so attached to Ivy that she refused to come home? Truth was, the girl didn’t really have a home. Serepta had learned that her family had been in the process of moving to Hinton so the father could work for the railroad. No other family had turned up since the accident, and there was literally nothing and nowhere for the child to return to.

  “You send word if you have any trouble,” Serepta said. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Serepta started back toward the car, then returned and knelt in front of Emmaline, who gazed at her with serious eyes.

  “Home is with me,” she said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’ll see. I’ll be back for you.”

  Emmaline nodded and glanced at Ivy, who smiled and smoothed her curls.

  Serepta stood and headed down the path again. Before she lost sight of the house, she looked back to see Emmaline laughing as Ivy tucked herbs and early flowers into her sling. A stab of something like regret pierced her heart, though she couldn’t say why.

  chapter

  nine

  An angel was singing, piercing the silence. Colman guessed he’d made it to heaven in spite of his shortcomings. Maybe he wouldn’t get many jewels in his crown, but he thought that wouldn’t matter so long as he was free from the dark of the cave. He wondered if he would see his mother.

  He couldn’t make out the words at first, just the melody. Then it came to him—“Sweet By and By.” He grunted and sat up. Funny, he thought his aches and pains were meant to be gone now, and shouldn’t there be heavenly light? Fear crept back into his consciousness, but the pure melody continued, and surely that was a good sign. He felt the blanket from the train still wrapped around him, the floor of the cave still beneath him, and darkness still hemming him in.

  Well then. Not dead. So where was the singing coming from?

  He got to his hands and knees, wobbling from side to side, and crawled in the direction of the angel’s song. There was a slight incline with loose stones and dirt. He started up it, being careful not to hit his head or anything else. As he moved, he dislodged a large stone, and dirt gave way beneath him. He rolled to the side and lay on his back, panting. Was this some sort of cave-in? Was he making things worse? He grunted. Things couldn’t get much worse.

  Rolling back onto his hands and knees, Colman stilled. The sudden movement had made stars burst behind his eyes. The dizziness was almost worth
the sensation of light, even if it was imaginary. He breathed deep and waited. But some of the specks didn’t go away. He sat back on his heels, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

  Was that light? And was the singing louder? Now the melody he heard was “Softly and Tenderly.” His mother used to sing that one. He lunged for one of the specks of light—imaginary or not—and began clawing at the earth.

  When the fall of dirt and rocks finally gave way to freedom, Colman couldn’t stand to look at the light. He gulped fresh air, longing to soak in the sight of the trees, the sky, the sun . . . but it hurt too much. Eyes squeezed tight, he crawled to level ground and knelt there, hands pressed to his eyes. He just needed a moment to adjust. A moment for the world to stop spinning.

  The singing stopped, and as he heard footsteps approaching, Colman tried to look and see who or what it was. Fear gripped his belly, sending it into spasms once more. He squinted and blinked against the oppressive brightness that sent bolts of pain into his skull.

  “Keep them closed.”

  The voice was soft, almost musical. The unexpected sweetness of a human voice brought tears to his throbbing eyes.

  A gentle hand touched his forehead. “You look like you’ve had a rough go of it. Were you lost in the caves?”

  “Who are you?” His voice sounded rough and raspy, barely intelligible even to him.

  “My name is Ivy. I live near here.”

  “Where’s . . . here?”

  “Near Hinton—my grandfather and I live outside the town proper.”

  Colman shuddered, tried to open his eyes again. He staggered to his feet, but then stopped. As if he could run away. Hinton was where Serepta McLean lived, where God wanted him to go and share His message of love and grace. How far had he traveled beneath the earth? How was it possible that he’d ended up right where God wanted him?

  That same soft touch brushed his arm. “If you’ll let me, I’ll walk you to our cottage. You look—” there was a long pause—“like you could use a good meal and maybe a bath.”