Cursed by Christ

by Matthew Warner

  As her carriage arrived at the graveyard, parking alongside Gramma’s, Alice frowned at the dried mud splashed in unseemly fashion on both vehicles’ sides. They were brand-new, after all. Poppa had recently replaced them because he had discovered secret compartments beneath their floorboards. He had suspected they were used for the transportation of runaway slaves. The slave carriage driver had of course denied it, first by saying it was only extra storage space, and then denying that he knew about the compartments at all. The carriage driver in question was thereafter replaced, also. Old Martin, a lifelong servant of the Whartons, now occupied the position.

  Martin held Alice’s gloved hand as she climbed out. She noted with annoyance that Major Norwick, crisp in his dress blues, was approaching up the footpath.

  “Madam Wharton,” he said and kissed her hand before she had walked two paces.

  “The hunt suspends not for decorum, eh, Major?”

  He appeared stunned. “I assure you my intentions are most honorable.”

  “Then you shall be honorable outside of the graveyard.” She reached to adjust her shawl—realized she had none—and continued onward. Old Martin followed.

  She didn’t quite understand her own reaction. Norwick, after all, had been acting honorably despite being forward. He was spending every spare moment from his army duties in chivalrous service to the family—organizing tasks such as the malaria-warding bonfire, and assisting John O’erseer in administrative duties—welcome relief while the entire plantation was overwhelmed with the care of guests and the trauma of losing its master and mistress. She would have to put in a good word for Norwick with Colonel Richards.

  Of course he had been despicably forward, but even that was not such a crime. Norwick was an answer to her prayers, in a way—a dashing and willing suitor—and on any other day she would have panted after him. And maybe that was the problem: Norwick knew she was interested. It hurt to be so vulnerable at so poor a time. Or maybe the problem was something else entirely—something she sensed about his character?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at the waist-high stone wall that confined the inner graveyard. Alice crossed the stile and joined Gramma by the open hole, right next to Poppa’s fresh grave. She gasped in pain when she saw Momma’s coffin already resting within. How could funeral rites be so insensitive—why not keep the coffin above ground until after the ceremony? A bucketful of earth waited nearby. At the appropriate time, Reverend Forney would beckon them each to cast a handful inside.

  Because she had been so immersed in her thoughts, Alice had paid little notice of the crowd of people who had parted to let her through. She had thought vaguely that they were more anonymous relatives, but now saw they were mostly slaves—the full hundred of them. Of course they were here; they had not been permitted within the church for the first funeral, but the outdoors were a different matter so long as they stayed outside the stone wall. Some of them, like Martin the carriage driver, had been with Poppa and Momma since childhood. Tears glistened in a few eyes. Alice was touched by the respect they showed by standing quietly, all of them dressed in their best clothing, which for some consisted of winter wools—too hot for this weather but worn for appearances. Even with Alice at the loom most days, it was nigh impossible to keep each slave outfitted with two changes of clothes, especially the growing children.

  “Gwine miss her,” old Martin said. “Called me her ‘black rose.’”

  No argument there. Alice had spent most of her waking hours staring at nothing with unblinking eyes. Even Martin’s bright-red handkerchief appeared gray. She was so exhausted she could barely stand. Rose, she thought. How ironic.

  She gauged Reverend Forney during the service, wondering how often Jesus visited his thoughts, telling him what to do. He did indeed have a prominent jawline, but couldn’t see why Momma had found it attractive. The hooked crucifix pendant blended perfectly with his exquisitely tailored black lapel—a clear violation of his own admonitions against vanity—and added to the visage of the fire-eating revivalist preacher. During her many years of attending his services, she had concluded Forney rather enjoyed being imposing. The sunken cheeks, the round-brimmed hat, the piercing eyes. Sometimes during a service, she would chuckle as she imagined him practicing his glare into a mirror.

  But those days were over. The only thing she imagined when she saw him now was his leer as he stood on the church’s doorstep. The hand caressing the buttock. You need my special rapport with God.

  The funeral continued. Forney made brief comments about Momma’s industry and humility. Her fidelity.

  The slaves nodded in agreement, punctuating pauses with uh-huhs and praise Gods. It occurred to Alice just how much sway over public opinion Forney had. He could have chosen to kick the supports from under Momma’s reputation with a few well-placed subtexts. Perhaps a subtle, “She worked hard to overcome her shortcomings,” or, “She was a sinner, like all of God’s children, but …” But what came next wouldn’t have mattered, for the listeners would be thinking, “What shortcomings? What sins is he referring to?” Alice’s hatred of him and Christ notwithstanding, Forney was a powerful tool for his master, and she needed to tread softly. In its weakened state, the Wharton plantation could be brought down by such a man with one sermon.

  So she would stay away from him. She didn’t need to talk to him. Once things were settled here, she would contact cousin Jamison and make arrangements to leave the pain and suspicion of home, and to spend the rest of her life at the loom, foregoing all human contact lest Jesus use the angel’s wings against her.

  Except she didn’t want that, did she? To abandon all hope of redemption—and suitors like Norwick? She was only twenty years old, and despite what naysayers like Hannah said, she wanted nothing more than to be a wife and mother. Even that hypocritical piece of trash, the Bible, taught in Genesis how man and woman were of one body. To find the figurative other half of oneself, the continuation of humanity and the White race in particular, was the ultimate dream of every Southern woman. She had laid plans for this throughout childhood—had been groomed to be a wife—and the prospect of never getting married, never bearing children, was as horrible as …

  Well, as horrible as that night in Momma’s bedroom.

  Gramma touched her arm, imprinting crumbs of fresh dirt onto her sleeve. “Come on now, you too.” They were at the point of throwing dirt into the grave. Alice took a handful, resisted the urge to fling it at Forney, and dropped it onto the coffin.

  Was it time to bury something else as well?

  When the service concluded and the crowd departed, she caught up to Forney and threaded her arm through his. She relished Major Norwick’s expression of surprise. “I have a request,” she said, “but must ask it in private.”

  Forney raised an eyebrow. “Of course, my child.”

  They entered her carriage. As old Martin made kissing noises at the horses to get them moving, John O’erseer stepped onto the stone wall and ordered the slaves to fill the grave. The young man who had burst through the bedroom door for Gramma set the rhythm with his shovel. He startled Alice with his strong singing voice: “I sing it to de mountaintops!”

  The slaves not shoveling raised their hands and responded: “Lord, Loooorrrd, Lord!”

  Alice winced at the sound.

  “De love of de Lord, it never stop!”

  “Lord, Loooorrrd, Lord!”

  “De Lord, he love us, yes he do!”

  “Lord, Loooorrrd, Lord!”

  “His anguh ain’t for me an’ you!”

  “Lord, Loooorrrd, Lord!”

  Shuddering, she faced the road ahead.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  They made small talk on the way to the church—forgettable comments about the rice crop—and delicately avoided the obvious topics, such as the fate of the Wharton plantation. If Forney wanted to credit himself for being courteous, then that was fine with her. In truth, she didn’t wish to speak openly when there was even a chan
ce old Martin could overhear, and she needed time to gather her thoughts—her courage, also.

  She wasn’t very successful, however, and as she followed Forney into the church, past the large stack of wood that he proudly said he’d chopped himself, Alice felt as empty of confidence as the building was of people. At least this was the hour that would end this nonsense. Talking to Forney was as close as she could come to conversing with Christ, and she would make the most of it.

  Taking off his hat, the reverend led her up the aisle, and they sat at the very place on the front row where Alice had sat during Poppa’s funeral. Was this intentional on his part—a way to make her feel powerless?

  “I am pleased you have come to me,” Forney said as he sat. He crossed his long legs and stretched his arms behind the pew. Alice slid away when she saw that this put his arm close to her shoulders. “I knew your parents for many years, and we had a very … open relationship. You must feel free to be open with me as well.”

  She searched his gaunt features. Did he realize what he was saying? But she reminded herself why she was here. Double meanings aside, she agreed with the face value of his words. Yes, they needed to be open with each other.

  “Do you consider yourself Christ’s agent on earth?” she said.

  He blinked, obviously taken aback. “All Christians are His agents, my child. ‘Disciples’ would be the better term.”

  “You’re playing coy, Reverend. I mean, do you consider yourself more of His agent than the ordinary Christian? A special … rapport, perhaps.”

  Now he was truly taken aback—and yet pleasantly surprised. Even in their dormant state, the angel’s wings sensed this much about his mood. He was being cautious, though. He folded his hands. “Child, I was ordained at the finest seminary in New England. My desires were purged except for those of the will of Christ.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “And is this adequate to establish my identity? The embossed certificate is in my office, if you wish to examine it.”

  With an effort, she ignored the sarcasm. She could not get through this if preoccupied with the notion that he was teasing her. “Yes, it does. My momma thought you had a special designation as well.” Light from a window reflected off his crucifix necklace, distracting her. “You see, I am here to speak plainly with the savior, and must be assured He hears me. I come on behalf of my mother’s immortal soul as well as my own.”

  “On behalf of? My child, I find that most presumptuous of you.”

  “Stop calling me ‘child.’ You’re not my gramma, and I’m not your slave.”

  Forney’s face tightened. He wagged a finger. “That, that right there. The presumption not only to represent thy mother’s soul, but to address Christ as if you’re His equal. This is not the way to pray, or to come to me for confession of—”

  “I’m not here to pray.” Oh, this was going badly. She would never convince him to lift the curse if they were both angry. “Please, I’m sorry. Let’s begin this conversation anew.”

  Forney settled back into the pew. “As you wish, but I remind you that you are not Christ’s equal.”

  “And you are?”

  “Of course not, but as we’ve just established, I am more of His equal than thou.”

  She huffed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

  “You are His creation,” the reverend said, “and exist at His sufferance. A request on behalf of your soul or any other will be granted by grace alone. And you must pray for it, not ‘speak plainly,’ as you say.”

  “But what about, ‘Ask and it will be given to you’? From Matthew.”

  “‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble,’ five Proverbs, three thirty-four,” Forney said. “‘Seek righteousness, seek humility; perhaps you will be sheltered on the day of the Lord’s anger,’ Zephaniah two-three.”

  Alice sighed, trying to stay calm. “I cannot match your knowledge. I don’t pretend to. I only ask—pray—that Jesus hear me with an open mind.”

  “Pray continue.” A sarcastic smile touched his lips. “‘Yet give attention to your servant’s prayer and his plea for mercy, O Lord my God,’ one Kings, eight twenty-eight.”

  Bastard. She had to look away for a moment to composed herself. “Reverend.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did my parents die?”

  “Is this a prayer or an interrogation?”

  “It’s a question.”

  Forney looked puzzled. The angel’s wings again detected the breath of caution. “They died of sickness, you know that.”

  “No, that is how they died. They were punished, were they not? With you as Christ’s instrument, poisoning their drink.”

  His jaw dropped in shock.

  “Punished for flouting the will of Christ,” Alice said, “though I less understand why Christ would be mad at Poppa.”

  Face darkening, Forney leapt to his feet and backed away. Whatever he’d been expecting had not come to pass. “I will not listen to these accusations!”

  “I accuse you of nothing but what I saw with Heaven’s own eyes. But again, I state only the ‘how’ of their deaths. Why does Jesus punish us? Why doesn’t He take back our powers?”

  Still retreating, Forney held up his hands. “Stay away, succubus!”

  She hadn’t moved a muscle. “Oh, how ridiculous. Will you sit down? I’m not going to hurt you.” The very notion amused her.

  “I admit to nothing,” he said.

  “Now who needs to confess his sins?”

  Lowering his hands, Forney seemed to regain his composure. He glanced at the doors, as if to confirm they were still alone. “If it be the will of Christ, then it’s not a sin.”

  “That’s indeed a relevant topic, but not one I wish to broach today.”

  He came closer but remained on the other side of the prayer rail. “Why then do you torture me with your words, and your …” He gestured at her bodice.

  Confused, Alice looked down. She’d long ago ceased to regard herself as attractive, as it took a moment to realize his meaning—the neckline’s dip, the lace trim meeting at the swell of her breasts. She stared at him in disbelief. He’s mad, she thought. He thinks this is about sex.

  “I assure you I came here not to ask—pray for—the same absolution as my mother, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Why then do you pursue me?”

  “I—” She cast about in exasperation. Pursue? “I thought I stated why I was here. I want to know why Jesus doesn’t take back the angel’s wings. Please take them back. Why were my parents punished when such a sin is so easily corrected?”

  His large jaw spasming, the reverend retreated until he stood upon the altar dais. He pointed down at her. “Again, behold the hubris of Satan that suggests thou hast the same wisdom of Christ! Who art thou to dictate the expungement of sin?”

  Alice rose to her feet for the first time. “I am my parents’ daughter, who has inherited a most unjust estate.”

  “You are a lowly, dirty whore whose only hope at redemption is to do exactly as I say.”

  She gasped, outrage covering her from head to toe. She refused to stoop to that level, not so long as she was a Southern lady. “Obviously, sir, you hope I will submit to the same repulsive indignities as my mother. I will do nothing of the kind. Just as she wanted, I wish Jesus to respect my morals.”

  “Foolish child.” Forney stepped down from the dais and advanced, the jawline that so entranced Momma now flaring red. “Morals come from Christ. You have none of your own. And He wants you to commune as He instructs.”

  “Then He’s a hypocrite, teaching bread and wine, but practicing adultery. Preaching love and forgiveness, but having spite. Or perhaps I have it all wrong, and you’re not Jesus’s agent at all? A teacher of goodness, but really a disciple of Satan.”

  He faced her across the prayer rail. “Oh, I assure you, I am as real an agent of Christ as your mother was a thief of celestial powers. With each new moon of her w
oman’s cycle, as she told me, Satan infected her control over the angel’s wings. In the end, she was a willing servant of chaos—a witch. Wizards and necromancers, ‘For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord,’ Deuteronomy eighteen-twelve. And even if the initial pilferage was not intended, her desire in the end made her a thief.”

  Oh, what nonsense, she thought. Momma had hated her powers and what they did. It was all Momma could do to control them and to help Alice control hers. She couldn’t think of a way to say this without swearing, however, so she let it go. Instead, her thoughts struck off in a new direction as she dipped into her own cache of Bible verses, learned at Forney’s knee: “From Luke: ‘If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into.’”

  Instantly, she regretted saying it. Rage bled into Forney’s features. He towered over her. “Think you have the mind of Christ? I’ll tell you what He thinks of you. So sayeth Exodus: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  The wings did not sense what came next.

  Screaming in rage, he seized her shoulders and wrenched her forward. Her feet left the floor as she fell over the rail, but that didn’t matter because he was lifting her into the air. Over fifty-years-old, skinny as a split fence, yet he carried her overhead like a tow bag. Only now did she remember the huge woodpile out front—which Forney had said he chopped entirely by himself.

  “Put me down!”

  “Oh, I’ll put you down,” he said, carrying her to the altar. His hands were bear’s jaws. “Right down into hell.”

  He settled for the altar table, slamming her onto her back. Her shoulder pushed the Bible and unlit candles to the floor.

  On top of her, Forney choked her with one hand as he reached up her skirt. She couldn’t even kick him because his body was between her legs. In disbelief, she felt him tear at her underclothes.