The Gifted

by Ann H. Gabhart

  Sister Abigail did turn back to the roses and wasted no time in stripping off the petals as if she’d been harvesting roses every bit as long as Jessamine. But she wasn’t silenced by Jessamine’s firm words as she lowered her voice to ask, “Have you never thought of how it might feel to be kissed, Sister Jessamine?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she smiled slightly as she peered over the roses at Jessamine. “It will do no good for you to deny that you have. The stain of truth is on your cheeks.”

  “I know nothing about kissing.” Jessamine barely spoke the words above a whisper. It would not do for Sister Annie or any of the other sisters to hear them speaking of kisses. “A Believer doesn’t allow such worldly thoughts to distract her from her duties.”

  “Perhaps a Believer like Sister Annie.” Sister Abigail looked up the row at the other sister and lowered her voice even more. “A staid and common Believer. One who has no imagination for romance.”

  Jessamine tried to rein in her imagination. She had promised Sister Sophrena. “Mother Ann teaches us that our thoughts are character molds. They shape language and action. So it is best if we think on things of the spirit or our duties. Idle imagining of worldly things such as kissing can do nothing but sink us into trouble.”

  Sister Abigail laughed softly. “You certainly speak the truth there. Many a girl has been brought low by kissing when she allowed the wrong man too many kisses. Trust me. I saw much when I was working at the Springs last summer. Some good things. Some not. I even admit to letting myself be pulled back into the shadows a few times myself.”

  “Sister Abigail!” Jessamine stared at her.

  “You don’t have to sound so shocked. No harm came from it. He was only a year or so older than me. He worked with the horses and would often wait for me beside the pathways to the springs.” Sister Abigail sighed as she lifted one of the rose blossoms to her nose again. “His lips were very soft.”

  “Why did you come among the Believers?” Jessamine peered over at the girl. She seemed so resistant to everything Shaker.

  “It wasn’t a happy choice,” Sister Abigail said. “My father has ever been the kind to run after this or that idea. My mother and I and my little brother and sister had no choice but to follow him. Although if I could have found Jimmy to see if his kisses meant anything, I might even now be a married woman with roses in a vase on my kitchen table.”

  “But here you have row upon row of roses.” Jessamine waved her hand at the roses.

  “Roses that it is a sin to enjoy. How can it be a sin to enjoy a gift of the Lord?” Sister Abigail ran her hand over the rose blooms and then touched her lips. “Kissing is a gift too. The Lord put such desires in our hearts.”

  “While you are among us, it might be better to not dwell on such gifts. To think more on the gifts of the spirit and the gift of work.” Jessamine turned her eyes back to the roses and tried to concentrate on her work. It was not good to think how one’s lips felt every bit as soft as the petals. It was not good to wonder if a man’s lips might feel the same. To think that she could know exactly how a man’s lips might feel if she’d allowed her hand to stray from the cheek of the man in the woods to his lips. An image of his face popped in front of her eyes.

  She shook her head to keep from thinking on how his lips had looked. When she spoke again, it was as much for herself as Sister Abigail. “It is better to spend less energy on talk and more on our duties.”

  “Yea, I can’t seem to keep my tongue still as I’ve been told is the better way. Sister Annie says I am the serpent in the garden.” Sister Abigail smiled with no outward sign of being the least bit upset by Sister Annie’s accusation. “Perhaps she is right. For I look at you and I see someone who would like to taste of the fruit of the tree of the world. To know of things that the sisters here want to keep from you.”

  “I am often too curious about wrong things,” Jessamine admitted.

  “Like the man you and Sister Annie found in the woods. I have heard he is very handsome. Did you find him so?” Sister Abigail looked at Jessamine. “Or would you think it a sin to admit you admired his looks?”

  Jessamine looked up the row to where Sister Annie was clipping roses with such fervor it was easy to see irritation building in her to the point of sinful anger. At the other end of the garden, Sister Edna stood with her hands on her hips staring at Jessamine and Sister Abigail. Jessamine did not need to be near to know the look of displeasure that would be on her face. Displeasure that would surely grow darker if she knew their overabundance of chatter was about kissing. Sister Edna believed in following the rules. All the rules without exception. Without the possibility of excuses. Excuses had no place on a faithful Shaker’s tongue.

  At times, Jessamine thought the only pleasure the woman had was in catching one of her sisters in wrong. Jessamine smiled grimly as she pulled off two more roses. If that was true, she had without doubt given the woman much pleasure. She suspected Sister Edna often owned the eyes that peered out from the hiding places to be sure none of the brothers and sisters engaged in improper behavior. Clandestine meetings in the shadows along the pathways of Harmony Hill were strictly forbidden. Certainly there could be no kissing. If a wayward sister or brother tried any such thing, watchful eyes would see and report such sinfulness to the Ministry.

  “It matters not how one looks on the outside.” Jessamine heard the echo of her words to the man in the woods.

  “Perhaps not here in this place where these people have turned the normal ways of life upside down,” Sister Abigail said. “But how one looks can matter a great deal at a place like White Oak Springs. The beautiful girls always have a dancing partner, and if a girl lacks in beauty, she’d best hope her father has money in order to make a favorable match.”

  “You make it sound so, so . . .” Jessamine couldn’t come up with the right word.

  “Common?” Sister Abigail looked over at Jessamine with her eyebrows lifted. “It is common. Men and women marry. Some for love as you want to imagine in your storybook romances. Some for convenience. Some for family standing. Some for a lark.”

  “Not here in Harmony Hill. Here we walk a purer path. A path without sin.”

  Sister Abigail laughed. “All paths have pebbles of sin that rise up to trip a person. Especially when the pebble is more like a stone dropped into your lap, Sister Jessamine.” Again she lifted her eyebrows at Jessamine, but this time with a grin that Jessamine had come to recognize meant she was going to say something she knew to be outside the Shaker way. “I hear you sat in the unknown man’s lap on your way back to the village from the woods. And how did that make you feel with him being so handsome and all?”

  “I confessed my sinful feelings to Sister Sophrena,” Jessamine said.

  “It is not a sin to think a man is good-looking in the world.”

  “We are not in the world.”

  “But don’t you desire to see him again?” Sister Abigail didn’t wait for Jessamine to answer. “I saw him in the doctor’s garden early this morning as I hastened to the privy before the morning meal. He looked very pale, but it is true that he is quite handsome.”

  “Outside so early in the morn?” Jessamine didn’t know whether to be glad the man was well enough to be in the garden or worried that he might be so well he’d be leaving before she caught sight of him again.

  “He was. Perhaps at doctor’s orders. I’ve heard some believe the sun can be a powerful healer. The same as some believe the water from the springs rising out of the ground at White Oak Springs has healing powers.” Sister Abigail turned back to her roses.

  And just in time. Sister Edna was stalking up the row toward them.

  “Dear sisters,” she said in a tone that negated every bit of the meaning of the word dear. “It is a dereliction of our duty to do naught but flap our lips. We are here to pick the rose petals.” She frowned over at the bare layer of petals in the bottom of Sister Abigail’s basket. “This is not a difficult task, Sister Abigail, if one ke
eps her mind on what she is to do, but it appears you are allowing Sister Jessamine to pick all the roses while you are content to stand and talk.”

  “She is only just learning the Shaker ways.” Jessamine spoke up as she kept her eyes on the red petals filling her own basket. She should have dropped some of her petals into the younger sister’s basket.

  “Excuses are of the devil,” Sister Edna said. “And the devil has no welcome in our rose gardens. It would be best if Sister Abigail goes to pick roses with Sister Annie for the remainder of our duty here.”

  “Yea,” Sister Jessamine said meekly with hopes that Sister Abigail would also lower her head and respond with meekness.

  “Yea, Sister Edna, if you think that best,” Sister Abigail said. “But we were only speaking of the good benefits of sunshine. That is surely what brings the abundant blooms here, is it not? And it can also cause the blooming of love in our hearts.” The girl smiled winsomely at the older woman and went on quickly. “Sisterly love, of course.”

  Sister Edna’s eyes narrowed on Sister Abigail as she seemed to be searching for fault in the girl’s words. At last she said, “A glib tongue is not the best tongue. Silence is much to be desired, Sister Abigail, and a gift you should prayerfully seek.” She turned her eyes on Jessamine. “And you too, Sister Jessamine. It is a danger to one’s soul to lead a young sister astray.”

  “To do so would bring me sorrow,” Jessamine said. “I will mend my ways and pray for more wisdom in my conduct.”

  Sister Edna’s face didn’t soften even though she spoke words of acceptance. “Very well, sisters. Let us continue our duty with no more lagging.”

  She put her hand under Sister Abigail’s elbow to propel her up the row to where Sister Annie continued to strip the rose blooms with the energy driven by anger. It promised to be a long day for both Sister Annie and Sister Abigail.

  But Sister Abigail’s spirit wasn’t bothered. She waited until Sister Edna looked away to flash Jessamine a smile over her shoulder and whisper, “Love the sunlight.”

  “What are you whispering about, Sister Abigail?” Sister Edna gripped the girl’s arm harder and gave her a jerk forward.

  “Just being thankful for the warming gift of the sun. And wanting to share that gift with my sisters,” Sister Abigail said with an innocent smile. “Is it not proper to share gifts with our sisters?”

  “Not gifts of mischief. I don’t know why Eldress Frieda ever thought the two of you could work together. I will be informing her of your slack work here in the gardens.”

  “Will I be denied the evening meal?” Sister Abigail asked as she moved up the row toward Sister Annie. “Like a naughty child?”

  “Nay. You know little of our Shaker way,” Sister Edna said. “Wrong actions and thoughts bring their own punishment and steal the peace that can be yours. We deny no one the food necessary for health.”

  Jessamine sighed as she watched them move away. She did not intend to be forever in trouble. She rose each morning with the intent to walk the Shaker path with obedience, but something was continually tripping her up.

  As she began clipping off the roses and stripping the petals, she tried to think only of the silky feel of them on her fingertips, but that brought to mind Sister Abigail’s words about kissing. And that brought to mind the man from the woods. She did have the desire to see him again before he left the village, but she knew Sister Sophrena would never allow that. But what if she did happen to walk past Brother Benjamin’s medicinal garden? With the sun rising in the east. Or perhaps sinking in the west. The doctor’s garden received sunlight morning and evening.

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 15th day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  Sister Edna reports a lack of dutiful mindfulness to their task of picking rose petals by Sister Jessamine and Sister Abigail. Sister Edna is gifted with an observant eye when it comes to seeing lapses and faults. Such gifts are sometimes a help in maintaining proper discipline in our village, but I must say I am glad I do not share that gift. Even listening to our sister relate the wrongs she sees makes me weary. I often find it hard to sit silent as the list goes on and on. Small sins, but as Sister Edna insists and correctly so, sins nevertheless.

  I do have to admit to feeling a heavy sigh build up in me as she continued on about Sister Jessamine’s improper attitude. Sister Jessamine seemed so ready to work to recover the proper peace of a Believer, but wrong thoughts tempted her yet again. She is so young. Even younger inwardly than outwardly, I believe. Her mind is much too easily entranced by fanciful ideas. She confessed that her worldly desire to see parasols was the reason she led Sister Annie on that wild-goose chase through the woods—a caper ending with the two of them perilously close to danger. Parasols of all things. It quite makes my head ache. I despair of ever teaching the girl proper discipline unless she can rein in her curiosity about such trivial things.

  Perhaps it would be wise to move Sister Abigail to a different retiring room. Sister Edna reports the two have been heard whispering during the time for sleep. I do have to agree with Sister Edna in regard to that young sister. Sister Abigail has little desire to be among us. Her natural father forced his family to come among us. Such sisters—those compelled to come into the village rather than coming of their own free will—have much more of a struggle believing in the truth of the Shaker way. I have spoken to Sister Abigail many times, encouraging her to confess her sins, to seek the truth, to pick up her cross and live a life of belief and duty. She smiles. She speaks words of confession empty of meaning.

  That doesn’t mean she won’t change. Many do. I think of myself when I came to the village. I too carried doubts and worries and the desire to look over my shoulder back toward the world. But I found love here. Such feelings as I had never experienced either at my childhood home or in my sinful marital union. Those same feelings of love are available in abundance to Sister Abigail and have been known by Sister Jessamine for nigh on ten years here among us.

  But I fear our Sister Jessamine is experiencing some new feelings not as pleasant or to be desired as the feeling of love between our sisters. Feelings brought on by her encounter with the man of the world.

  I cannot keep from hoping he will soon recover his senses and be on his way and take his worldly temptation with him. I have to confess a sinful hope that Sister Lettie is wrong when she says he is showing interest in our way of life here and may linger among us to explore the Believer’s way. It is wrong of me to harbor the desire to deny him that blessing, but I do worry about Sister Jessamine.

  That is certainly nothing new.

  I should leave my worries behind and sweep them out of my mind. The devil puts such concerns in our thoughts to spoil our peace. It would behoove me to consider my proper duty as a journal keeper. I err by dwelling on such worries instead of reporting our progress here in our village. I must marshal my thoughts in proper directions.

  We are harvesting an abundance of rose petals. There will be much rosewater to sell to the world. The brethren planted a late crop of corn and our East Family sisters have begun to pick the first bearing of green beans for our tables. The peaches are swelling on the trees. Thankfully, the late frost did not do the damage we feared. The cherry trees are heavy with fruit. The pickers will go out today to harvest the sweet fruit before the birds can steal them. My mouth waters at the thought of the pies we will enjoy from our trees.

  Sunday we will go forth to labor our worship songs. We are allowing people of the world to come to our Sunday morning meetings again. I wonder if it might not have been wiser to continue to bar them from our services. Most only come to ridicule our ways. In my time here at the village—going on fourteen years now—I have only known of three to convert to our ways from witnessing our worship times. But then Eldress Frieda would remind me to offer praises for those three.

  Would that I have reason to offer praise for the injured
stranger. May he set his feet upon the way to salvation among us. Meanwhile I shall endeavor to keep Sister Jessamine busy with so many tasks she will have no time to wonder about the world.

  7

  Tristan didn’t know why he said Philip. The name just flew out of his mouth when the Shaker doctor asked if his memory had returned. He knew a Philip in the army. Philip Jeffries. A slight young man with no chance at all of fighting off the fever. He died right next to Tristan without making a whimper of protest. Tristan hadn’t even realized Philip was dead until they carried his body away.

  It didn’t seem right to die so quietly before one even reached the age of twenty-five. Better to go out fighting. To die on the battlefield dispatched in a moment of glory, although Tristan hadn’t witnessed many of those. He’d seen plenty of dying, but little glory. His father told him the battlefield charges would seem more glorious after a few years dulled the memory of the blood and fear. Tristan supposed enough years hadn’t passed for him as yet. He doubted they ever would. He remembered sand and the burning sun and the tormenting flies along with the boom of artillery fire and the stench of spilled blood and putrid flesh.

  While Tristan willingly volunteered to fight the Mexicans, he wasn’t a soldier. His father was the soldier in the family, ready to jump into the fray at the first clash of sabers. Tristan joined the Georgia militia in an attempt to offer up the Cooper blood so his father could stay home. But the old soldier refused to pass up the chance to fight for his country and had paid for it with his life. Not killed in any of those glorious charges on artillery positions but by an insidious disease he’d carried home to Georgia.

  Tristan’s father had not been well enough to begin the final assault on Mexico City. Instead of boarding the ships for the embarkation, he’d been discharged and sent home. The fever caught up with Tristan before the army reached Mexico City. Whether it was the one that afflicted his father or that caused Philip Jeffries to stop breathing hardly mattered. Fever in a sick camp was fever. The Grim Reaper cared not what label man put on death. So when they carried away the body of young Philip Jeffries, Tristan had every reason to expect he might soon join the man in the mass graves outside the camp. But he determined his would not be a silent surrender of his last breath. He’d go out warring against the devil himself if need be.