When Silence Sings

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  The look on Ivy’s face as he stepped into the cottage and presented her with the flowers pinched his heart. He wondered if a man had ever carried her flowers before. He supposed her otherworldliness might keep suitors away. Fools.

  “Thought they might cover up any sulphur smell I carried back with me,” he said with a half smile.

  Ivy buried her nose in the blooms, inhaling the pleasant aroma. The paleness of the petals brought out a hint of color in her cheeks—or perhaps it was emotion as she turned those eyes like the sky toward him.

  “And white at that.” A slow smile spread across her face. She gave him a gentle hug and kissed his clean-shaven jaw, making his heart flip.

  “The ladies sent word for you,” Ivy said as she arranged the flowers in a crock.

  Colman settled in a rocking chair and stretched his tired legs out in front of him. “About what?”

  “Your preaching.”

  Colman laughed. “I haven’t started it yet and I’m thinking I’d better get to it soon before God decides I need more spurring on.”

  “But your stories—that’s the preaching they mean.”

  “Stories? Those are just Bible tales told with a little local color. I wouldn’t call that preaching.”

  Ivy began preparing the evening meal of trout that Colman and Hoyt had caught early that morning. “I’d call it the best kind,” she said. “The ladies have enjoyed it so much that they want to get up a brush arbor and bring their men around of an evening.”

  Colman sat up straighter. “I can’t sit around telling stories to a bunch of people expecting a sermon.”

  “But what if they were expecting stories?” She rolled the trout in cornmeal and set an iron skillet with a spoonful of bacon fat in it to heating on the wood stove.

  “I’d say that was an odd thing to expect from a preacher.”

  “And I’d say it’s a fine way to share God’s own Good News without boring people to tears.”

  Colman’s mouth watered as the trout hit the hot grease and sent up a nutty aroma. “Are you saying my preaching is boring?”

  “Not your preaching.” She cast him a coy glance over her shoulder. “Your preaching sounds an awful lot like tall tales told around the fire of an evening.”

  Colman laughed. “You’re telling me those ladies want me to tell their husbands tales?”

  “I am.” She deftly flipped the fish in the skillet, then moved to toss some gathered herbs and greens with vinegar and a little fat for a kilt salad.

  “I might could give it a try then.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, and the joy on her face made him certain he was doing the right thing. “Now, go see if you can run Grandpa to ground, and we’ll eat up this good fish you caught.”

  The crowd gathering under the brush arbor thrown up by Hoyt and some other men took Colman by surprise. It was midafternoon on the fifth of June. They’d chosen a spot in a stand of saplings that meant they could use some of the trees where they stood to support crosspieces for the makeshift roof. Colman closed his eyes and inhaled the sharp, bright scent of pine from the boughs laid across the top of the arbor. Opening his eyes, he noticed the way sunlight filtered through the dense branches, casting a green-gold light on the people clustered beneath it—most of them McLeans or kin to them. This should be an enemy camp for someone named Harpe.

  Colman knew full well that folks expected brush arbor meetings to last for days, if not weeks. He wondered if he had the stamina—or the words—to give them what they wanted. Especially considering that what he wanted was to blame them for the death of his cousin, as well as the suffering of his family. He’d spent the morning sitting outside the cottage with a pencil and paper, trying to think what God expected him to say. Even now he clutched the smudged paper in his hand. He read over it with dismay. Nothing seemed worth speaking aloud to these people.

  Ivy materialized at his elbow, wearing gloves and her hat—gauzy fabric draped over the brim to further shade her neck and shoulder. “Are you nervous?”

  Colman swallowed what felt like a frog in his throat. “Maybe some.” He hated to admit his weakness but couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. She’d seen him plenty weak.

  “Tell them a story,” she said. “The Spirit will lead you from there.” Then she walked away from the crowd and stood in deeper shade beneath an oak tree. Colman realized folks were watching her with looks that ranged from curiosity to suspicion. He didn’t like it but guessed now wasn’t the time to say anything.

  Colman crumpled the paper in his hand and shoved it in a pocket. Tell a story. He licked his dry lips and stepped up to a post with a split log laid across it for a pulpit.

  “How’s about we get started with a prayer and some singing?” he said to the gathering.

  Heads nodded here and there, with a few eager faces looking at him with expectation and others with suspicion. He bowed his head and prayed a simple, short prayer asking God to bless them and to guide his words. It was the most heartfelt prayer he’d sent up since he begged God for his life in the cavern.

  “Alright then, who wants to lead us off with a song?”

  Colman figured if no one volunteered, he’d jump in with “Shall We Gather at the River.” Then with hardly a glance at the crowd, Ivy stepped forward, opened her mouth, and began singing in her soft, lilting soprano.

  “O they tell me of a home far beyond the skies,

  O they tell me of a home far away;

  O they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise,

  O they tell me of an unclouded day.”

  Colman felt tears rise behind his eyes and blinked hard to fight them back. The people gathered in the shade of the arbor seemed spellbound, listening, until Hoyt joined in on the chorus.

  “O the land of cloudless day,

  O the land of an unclouded sky;

  O they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise,

  O they tell me of an unclouded day.”

  By the time they’d finished the chorus, dozens of voices had joined in and were singing in harmony. Colman added his own, though he wanted nothing more than to listen to the music of the words pouring out of the mouths of people he still thought of as his enemies.

  They finished the song and then sang two more. By the time they were done, Colman had a story in mind to share with everyone.

  “Over in White Sulphur Springs, there was a farmer who had twelve strapping sons. Ten were by his first wife and the last two by his second wife, who was the prettiest, sweetest thing you ever saw. And maybe because of that, the farmer loved those two least boys more than the first batch—especially the next to youngest, who was named Joe.

  “Well, as you can imagine, boys being the way they are”—a chuckle ran through the crowd—“the older ones got jealous and decided they’d teach Joe a lesson. But things got out of hand, and they ended up talking some gypsies into taking their little brother away with them as little more than a slave. . . .”

  And so he told them the story of Joseph and his wayward brothers as if they lived in Fayette County. He told about Joe rotting in jail until he earned the jailer’s trust, how he eventually made his way to the mayor’s house, and how the mayor’s wife tried to seduce him. He told about Joe getting to be deputy mayor in spite of all those troubles and how his brothers showed up one day needing help.

  “Then Joe had ’em right where he wanted ’em,” Colman said.

  He could see folks leaning forward, some of the younger ones with their mouths hanging open. These people liked a good story, and Joseph’s tale was one of the best.

  “And you know what he did?” Colman leaned over the pulpit as though he had a secret to tell. “After he toyed with them awhile, he . . . forgave them.”

  Those who knew the story smiled like they were in on a joke, and the ones who didn’t know it looked like he’d just tricked them.

  “I know what some of you are thinking,” Colman went on. “Why didn’t that boy get his revenge? Why didn’t
he make his brothers suffer like he’d suffered? That’d be fair. But here’s what ole Joe had to say: ‘But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good.’” He let that sink in for a minute. “Basically, Joe said his brothers had failed when they tried to do something bad to him because God’s plan was bigger and better than theirs. God took the bad that was in their hearts and turned it into something better than even Joe himself could have dreamed.”

  Colman settled back on his heels. He was tired. He’d been storytelling for a long time now. His throat felt dry and his legs shaky. Worst of all, his gut was telling him he might need to excuse himself before long. But he wasn’t quite done. He looked to Ivy, whose expression was one of utter delight. He took a deep breath.

  “You see, we can do all kinds of things to try and make our situations better or someone else’s worse, but in the end, God’s got us beat. Whatever His plan is, that’s what’s going to happen.” He gripped the side of his makeshift pulpit. “Do you folks want to be at peace?”

  Heads nodded, and a sprinkling of people voiced an amen.

  “Do you want to feel joy?”

  This time the amens were louder.

  “Then stop fighting God,” Colman said. He bowed his head, then raised it again. “It’s like a fly trying to move an elephant. You might think you’re making headway, but if you are, it’s only because you and the elephant were already headed the same direction.”

  Colman wanted to sit down. A sick feeling rose to the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. Ivy’s expression changed, and he suspected she could see his discomfort. Hoyt moved to his side as if she’d sent him.

  “Close with a song,” he said.

  “How’s about we sing ‘Have Thine Own Way’?” Colman said.

  Ivy led off the singing as Colman eased to the side of the arbor and found a stump to rest his weary body upon.

  “Have thine own way, Lord,

  Have thine own way.

  Thou art the potter I am the clay.

  Mold me and make me after thy will

  While I am waiting yielded and still.”

  As the song ended and Ivy began another, Colman watched in wonder. How had he come to be here? Was he like Joseph—carried along by bad choices and circumstances beyond his control to finally be in the spot God had intended all along? He shook his head. He’d do well to practice what he preached.

  “What do you mean ‘everyone’s at the camp meeting’?” Serepta felt like her blood had gone hot all through her body. “What camp meeting?”

  Charlie flinched. “Colman Harpe has been preaching since Wednesday afternoon. They threw up a brush arbor over there near the Gordons’ place, and he’s been drawing a bigger crowd every evening.”

  Serepta moved behind her broad desk and pressed her hands flat against the cool surface as though pressing down her anger. “So the rabble has gotten over their fear of Ivy Gordon, then? Send Jake in to me.”

  “Yes’m.” Charlie ducked out like he was glad to go.

  Serepta stared a hole in the ledger centered on her blotter, considering her options. Jake wandered in and slouched into a leather chair across from her. He didn’t speak, but just looked at her the way he had when he’d been a boy and she deprived him of something he wanted.

  “Who have you found to stow our shipments on the trains?”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think I’ve found anybody?”

  “I’m assuming you have. Now I want to know who.”

  “Might be better if you didn’t know. No one can make you tell what you don’t know.” He grinned, lazy and sly.

  She stared until he shifted and straightened up. “Do you suppose anyone can make me tell something I don’t want to share?”

  “Could happen,” he said, eyes downcast.

  “Tell me who you’ve enlisted.”

  “Aw, it’s some brakeman comes through here every other day. Willis, I think.” He looked up and to the right. “No. Ellis. His name’s Ellis.”

  Serepta counted to ten. “I don’t suppose you know his last name. Or where he lives. Or if his allegiances might be split.”

  “Whatever that means,” Jake said.

  “Give this Ellis’s information to Charlie. I have another job for you.”

  Jake came to attention. “I’ve been dealing with Ellis, and I guess I can keep it up just fine. There’s no call to get your house . . . man involved.”

  Serepta wondered if keeping her rage bottled up might eventually do her harm. She longed to cut loose and rain her wrath down upon her eldest son. But not right now. Glancing down, she noticed that she’d balled her hands into fists until her knuckles turned white. She sat, flexed both hands, and folded them in front of her on the desk. “I need you to go to the camp meeting Colman Harpe is running over at Hoyt Gordon’s place.”

  The change in conversation seemed to confuse Jake. “Camp meeting?”

  “Yes, son. I realize you’re not one for church, but I need to know what’s happening over there.”

  “Ma, it’s not like I’m scared or anything, but aren’t those Harpe men still hunting me? You sending me to a shootout at a camp meeting?”

  Serepta longed to lay her head in her hands, except she wasn’t about to let Jake see her exasperation. “Colman is the only member of the Harpe family there, and he seems to be under some mistaken impression that he’s going to bring holy enlightenment to the McLeans. He told Mack he’s here to preach, and now it would seem he’s doing just that.”

  “So? What harm is there in sermonizing?”

  Serepta shrugged. “Perhaps none. Then again, he wouldn’t be the first preacher to wrap his personal agenda in pretty words from the Bible. I need you to go over there and tell me what he’s up to. Take Mack if you want.”

  Jake rose to his feet as though it took a mighty effort. “And when did you think I’d find time to chase after this preacher?”

  “This evening. I expect you to go this evening.”

  Jake gave her a disgusted look, but she knew he’d go regardless. He was lazy, insolent, and headstrong. But she’d also been teaching him to fear and obey her ever since he was a small child. Oh yes, he would do what she asked. Whether he would do it well . . . that was another matter.

  chapter

  fifteen

  Colman wasn’t sure he could keep this up much longer. He didn’t know how he’d already done it for three days. More and more people kept coming. After telling Joseph’s story, he’d told them about David and Goliath, Moses being found by Pharaoh’s daughter, Joshua fighting the battle of Jericho, and Daniel in the lions’ den. He hadn’t even touched on the New Testament yet. He just got up in front of the crowd and told the stories he knew so well. And somehow they all ended up being a lesson on listening to and obeying God.

  Ivy handed him a napkin with fried chicken and a cold biscuit on it. He’d talked all afternoon, but he supposed the people gathered here even now eating the dinners they’d carried from home expected him to keep going.

  “I don’t know what I’ve got left to tell them,” he said to Ivy. “Maybe it’s time the people went on home.”

  Ivy sat next to him. “Let’s bless this food and then we can talk,” she said. Bowing her head, she took his hand, the texture of her glove an unexpected softness. “Father, thank you for sending Colman to share your Word in a way that seems friendly and familiar to all these people. Please continue to use him to accomplish your good work here on earth until we join you in heaven. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Colman tried to pay attention to the prayer rather than the bone-deep weariness dragging him down. She released his hand and removed a glove so she could eat. He followed suit, finding the crunch of the chicken and rich, buttered biscuit comforting.

  “Do you really want me to send everyone home?” she asked.

  Colman let his shoulders sag. “It’s not that I want them to go, it’s just I don’t think there’s any reason for them to stay.”

>   “They’re staying to hear the Word of God.”

  Colman set down his spoon. “They’re here for entertainment. I talk about the Bible like it’s a bunch of tall tales. I’m probably doing those people a disservice. It’s a wonder God hasn’t struck me down.”

  Ivy laughed. It was like someone tapping a spoon against a crystal goblet—pure and clear. When her face lit up that way, her eerie otherworldliness fled.

  “Why’s that funny?” he asked.

  Ivy turned those still-water eyes on him. “Because you have no idea what a gift you’re giving to hungry people.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin. “No, starving people. All the McLeans have known of the Harpes for generations is hatred. You’ve brought them truth from an unexpected source. I imagine it’s like it was for you when you first saw the light after being in the cave so long.” She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “At first it was overwhelming—too bright, too vivid. But when your eyes were ready, you could see things about the light that weren’t obvious before. You noticed the beauty and the wonder because you’d been deprived of it.”

  She picked up her chicken again. “These people have been robbed of love and peace and God’s own joy thanks to a feud hardly anyone understands. You’ve reminded them that there’s more to their world than hating the Harpes.”

  Colman could hardly breathe. “How’d you know what it was like when I came out of the cave?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “I could hear it in your voice. I could feel it in your touch.” She looked deep into his eyes, and he shuddered. “I’ve lived without certain things now and again and supposed it must be the same for you robbed of light, of human contact.”

  Colman vowed he would not cry. Not here, not in front of this remarkable woman who seemed to hear his heart the way he could hear a flaw in the wheel of a train when he tapped it.

  “But I didn’t even want to come.” His voice was hoarse, rough with emotion.