Dancing Dead

by Deborah Woodworth

  Rose gazed around the small room with a sadness she hadn’t expected. She would miss it. Some of the pegs lining the walls were worn and needed replacing, the mustard paint on the trim could use refreshing, and the pine floor was scuffed, but in the short time she had lived in the Ministry House, this room had become her favorite. As eldress, she had met friends and visitors from the world here, kept her daily journal and written letters at the desk, and studied the devotional and historic works that had lined the bookshelves.

  However, it was she who had wanted to move. Brother Wilhelm Lundel, the village’s elder, was not above reneging on his reluctant promise to close the Ministry House and move into the Center Family Dwelling House, where the rest of the village lived. When Rose had first become eldress, only a couple of years earlier, she’d had difficulty standing up to Wilhelm. He was a powerful personality, in his early sixties, while she was still in her late thirties and far less experienced. Wilhelm had pressured her into moving to the Ministry House and remaining separate from the community. She had moved against her better judgment and her deepest desire, which was to be with her Family.

  She and Wilhelm must provide spiritual guidance for the Believers of North Homage, with that they both agreed. Beyond that, they held opposing views on nearly everything. Wilhelm believed they should live apart from other Believers to preserve distance and authority. Rose believed they could light the way best if they lived among their Children. Somehow, she had prevailed upon Wilhelm to move with her back to the dwelling house. With their dwindling membership, she had argued, it was wasteful to keep an entire extra building open just for two people. Besides, they’d had more than their share of tragedies in the last few years, and the brothers and sisters needed the presence of their elder and eldress. Wilhelm had relented when she reminded him that their own Parents, the Ministry at Mount Lebanon, New York, had grown increasingly concerned about North Homage’s stability. It was a major concession on Wilhelm’s part, but he’d been sure to place a price on it. Rose must accomplish the move herself. Everyone else, Wilhelm had asserted, was needed for spring planting.

  Wilhelm had made her life difficult for so long, she almost wondered what she would do without him. Almost. His ferocious will cleaved to the notion that the Society must go back a hundred years to a time of strength and growth, and he spent every minute of every day thinking of ways to do that. He had adopted an archaic form of speech, which made a simple request to pass the peas sound like a homily. Before she had become eldress, he’d forced the North Homage Believers to exchange their simple but modern clothing for the old-fashioned loose dresses and brethren’s work clothes worn at least a century earlier. The sisters had spent weeks sewing, working far into the night to cut, fit, and stitch, using the old patterns. So unnecessary, when they had so few hands.

  There I go again, wallowing in uncharitable thoughts. Rose dusted another pile of books and packed them in a cart, to be transported to the dwelling house. She had gotten what she’d prayed for, so she would be wise not to complain—at least not in Wilhelm’s hearing. Though perhaps, since she had convinced Wilhelm to move, she might try her hand at returning the North Homage wardrobe to a more modern condition. Now I’ve added hubris to my lack of charity. Best to choose her struggles carefully, out of spirit, not pride.

  The front door of the Ministry House opened and closed, so Rose busied herself with another stack of books. It would not do for Wilhelm to find her wasting time. She felt eyes watching her from the doorway and concentrated all the harder on her dusting.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this all alone, Sister.”

  The voice was not Wilhelm’s, and Rose lifted her face with a welcoming smile. Brother Andrew Clark, North Homage’s trustee, grinned back at her. “I suppose this is your penance for convincing Wilhelm to move?” He grabbed a nearby rag and a pile of books. “I’ll cart these over to the dwelling house when you’re ready. Yea, I know what you are about to say, you are strong enough to do it yourself, and I am busy closing up the retiring rooms in the Trustees’ Office, but nevertheless, let me help. The task will be done all the more quickly, and you can return to more important work.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” Rose said. Andrew had been sent to them only about a year earlier, from another village, but she felt they had been brother and sister forever. At times, other feelings stirred, but she struggled to release them and asked for assistance from Holy Mother Wisdom. It was her profound belief—and Andrew’s, she knew, as well—that by doing so, she strengthened her love for God and for all others. But it wasn’t always easy.

  They worked in companionable silence for a time, interrupted by the occasional sneeze. Rose began to notice something odd—each time she crossed from the cart back to the shelves, she passed the library window, and she saw a surprising number of strangers pass by. At first she simply felt irritated because they were walking in the grass, rather than using the paths. Then she caught a man and woman staring through the window right at her. They gazed around the room, shook their heads, and turned away.

  “Andrew, what on earth is going on out there? Are we having a public auction and no one told me?”

  “Nay, they are just curious,” Andrew answered, without glancing up.

  “Curious about what?”

  “Oh, the ghost, of course. They will become bored and leave when they realize it’s just nonsense.”

  “Andrew, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What ghost?” Another man peeked in the window and looked Rose up and down as if assessing her qualifications as a specter. He squinted as if trying to see through her.

  Andrew frowned at the man, and he retreated. “I’m so sorry, Rose, I thought you knew, but of course you’ve been too busy with this move. The Courier printed an article this morning about a ghost supposedly roaming about North Homage at night. It’s idiotic, the sort of thing I usually expect closer to Halloween.” He related the contents of the article to Rose.

  Rose picked up a book, dusted it, then put it back on the shelf. Then she did the same with a second book.

  “Rose?”

  “Yea?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Rose looked at the clean row of books she’d begun to replace on the shelf. “Apparently, I am moving back in,” she said, with a laugh that died quickly. “I don’t like this, Andrew. Why would someone write such an elaborate lie just now as we are opening a new business?”

  “Well, if it is meant to destroy the Shaker Hostel, it seems to be having the opposite effect. We’d filled all the rooms before we opened, and in the past couple of days I’ve had numerous calls and letters from folks who want to stay here. So the story has boosted business.” Andrew looked sharply at Rose. “You can’t suspect that one of us planted the story—to lure people here?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Rose said. “I’ll wait and see.”

  The cart was filled with books, and Andrew said, “The supper bell will ring soon, so I might as well take this over to the dwelling house. Where shall I leave it?”

  “In the smaller meeting room. We’ll save the larger one for worship when the weather is bad.”

  “We won’t be closing up the Meetinghouse, will we?”

  “Not if I can help it, and I know Wilhelm is equally determined. I was so saddened to see the Meetinghouse in Hancock Village empty and deteriorating.” Abandoned buildings were not the only sadnesses Rose had witnessed during her recent stay in Hancock Shaker Village, in Massachusetts, but she had no wish to speak of them again. Andrew merely nodded. He began to push the cart toward the library door, then stopped and turned to face Rose.

  “I was wondering,” he began. Dark brown waves grazed his forehead as he frowned at the floor.

  “Is something worrying you?”

  “Yea, but it is my problem, and you have your hands full.”

  “Tell me,” Rose said. “If I can help, I will. Is it to do with the new hostel?” She hadn’t spent much energy on the hostel’
s development, apart from throwing her support toward Andrew and away from Wilhelm, who had opposed the project.

  “Yea, the hostel worries me. Or perhaps it is Wilhelm who worries me.” Wilhelm had made clear his conviction that the hostel provided an opening through which the world could invade the Shakers. He watched it carefully for any hint of evil, while Andrew guarded it like an infant. “Nothing I can put my finger on, just . . . Something doesn’t feel right. I ate supper with the guests yesterday evening, and it was a bit uncomfortable. I found myself longing for a quick, silent Shaker meal. Perhaps I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in the world, among the world’s people, but everyone seemed, well . . . cross.” Andrew met Rose’s eyes, and the furrow down his forehead deepened. “There were harsh words, and even my presence did not stop them from being spoken.” He shook his head and shrugged. “I’m just an herbalist,” he said. His thin face relaxed. “I can search out the hidden possibilities in plant life, but I’m stymied by human motivations, especially worldly ones. You are much better at that sort of thing.”

  Rose laughed. “And yet, as our trustee, you do business daily with the world, and you do it well.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Yea, I suppose it is. Is one particular guest causing discord, perhaps making critical or unkind remarks that set tempers on edge?”

  Andrew ran his hand through hair that was just a shade longer than Wilhelm preferred. “I would have to say that none of the guests has mastered the art of pleasant conversation—none except Gennie, of course. Even Gennie doesn’t seem her normal sunny self.”

  “Nay, she is not. I believe she is in need of rest, so she might be unusually quiet while she is here. She is always observant, though. Shall I speak with her? She may be able to put into words what you perceived.” Gennie had moved to the hostel from her boardinghouse in town to, as she’d put it, “give the place a boost.” She had confided her real reason to Rose alone.

  Rose had been pleased with Gennie’s decision, mostly because it meant having her back in North Homage. Rose never gave up hope that someday Gennie’s heart would bring her back to live in the village, to sign the Covenant and become a Shaker sister. In the meantime, their friendship endured.

  “Yea, perhaps consulting with Gennie would help,” Andrew said, “but I would appreciate it greatly if you would have supper in the hostel this evening. Then you could judge for yourself. I’m probably worried for nothing, but . . .”

  “It’s nearly time for supper now,” Rose said. “I doubt the food will stretch to include another person.”

  “I know. That’s why I took the liberty of telling Mrs. Berg to expect you.”

  Rose couldn’t help laughing. “Truly, Andrew, you should be an elder.”

  “Supper’ll be on the table in a minute, if nothin’ gets in my way.” Beatrice Berg stared hard at the invader to her kitchen. The man just smirked in that silly way he had and kept his fat behind on the stool. She wanted to be ruder, usually couldn’t stop herself, but she really was in a hurry. Horace von Oswald was a guest at the Shaker Hostel, and so was she, but only by grace of her willingness to work for it. The housekeeping was tedious, though she enjoyed seeing what all folks had in their rooms—especially the things they tried to hide away. And she did love the cooking. If Sister Rose or Brother Andrew got wind of her being lax in her duties, she’d be thrown out, no doubt about it.

  “Anything else I can help with?” Brother Linus Eckhoff put the last thin piece of aged wood in a box by the kitchen door and brushed off his hands on his work pants. Brother Linus was a slight man with a kind face. Beatrice liked him, even though he had a strike against him for being a man. At least he was respectful.

  “Come back in an hour,” Beatrice said, as she squinted at a handwritten recipe. “Does that say ‘dill’ or ‘fill’?” She held out the paper to Brother Linus. “Gotta be dill. Don’t make no sense otherwise.”

  Brother Linus took the paper, being careful not to touch Beatrice’s hand. He held it at arm’s length. “I don’t have my spectacles, but I’d say it’s dill.”

  “Shall I read it?” Horace asked, extending his hand.

  Beatrice ignored him. “Come back after supper, like always,” she said to Brother Linus. “I’ll have a passel of victuals for you to cart back.” She wished she could ask him to stay and keep Horace out of her hair. At least Linus was willing to work. He didn’t sit around on his behind asking fool questions.

  “So tell me, how do you like working for these Shakers?” Horace asked, when Linus had left. Horace had a pasty, round face and one of those little button noses, so when he smiled he reminded Beatrice of an unbaked gingerbread man. No one should be that well-fed; it wasn’t right. What was he getting at with these questions? Was he testing her?

  “They’re fair to me,” she said.

  “Yes, they certainly have that reputation, but . . .” Horace cocked his head at her. He had messy, uneven hair, as if he hacked at it himself and then never combed it. His clothes looked secondhand and stretched tight across his round body, as if they’d been made for someone thinner. And, mercy, those eyes—they could scare the bejabbers out of a person. Small, round, and black, like clumps of dirt.

  Beatrice plunked a serving platter on the table a little too hard. She wasn’t going to say another word, and that was that. Horace could hint till he shriveled up and died; she wasn’t going to fall for it. If he wanted to know about the Shakers, he could go and ask them.

  “You’d best get to the dining room,” she said. She figured he wouldn’t budge, and he didn’t. She leaned over to read the next item on the recipe that the Kitchen Deaconess, Sister Gertrude, had given her to try out—another potato soup, the third since the hostel had opened. Each time it was different. Gertrude was trying out various combinations of herbs and vegetables. Beatrice had been instructed to follow each recipe exactly and to save a portion for Gertrude, Rose, and Andrew to taste. Beatrice didn’t like being told how to cook. Sometimes she would add a little something extra and have a good laugh to herself. She probably shouldn’t tonight, though, what with the eldress coming to supper.

  Beatrice heard Horace take a breath like he was going to open his fool mouth again, so she turned her back on him and pretended to be searching the kitchen for an ingredient. The kitchen was small; she couldn’t go very far.

  “What do you think of this story we’ve been hearing about a ghost in North Homage?”

  “What ghost?” Beatrice asked, turning around in spite of herself.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard,” Horace said, with that irritating grin. “There was an article in the paper about it, just this morning. Someone is supposed to be roaming around the empty buildings at night, someone who died unjustly.”

  Beatrice felt a sudden chill as if ectoplasm had passed right through her. Some people were afraid of snakes or mice or of catching influenza, but not Beatrice. Nothing scared her—nothing except ghosts. Ghosts terrified her. If there was a ghost around here, she’d have to skedaddle. She’d wait and see, though. This was the best place for her to be, all things considered. Safe and out of the way. She’d have to find out more about this ghost, but not now. If she didn’t get this food on the table lickety-split, she wouldn’t be worrying about no ghost. She’d be out on her ear.

  Ignoring Horace, Beatrice lifted the heavy pot of potato soup from the old wood-burning stove. One of the reasons she’d gotten this job was that she’d grown up cooking on one of these old things, and the Shakers couldn’t afford to buy new kitchen equipment. They’d raided the old stuff from kitchens they no longer used.

  “You’d best find yourself a place,” Beatrice said to Horace. “Get the victuals while they’re hot.” She sloshed some soup into a tureen and put the pot back on the stove to keep warm. When she turned around, Horace was gone. The kitchen felt safe and cozy again, as if Horace himself had been the unquiet shade seeking vengeance. Maybe he was. Maybe he’d been sent right to her, which meant there was
no place for her to hide, not on this earth. Beatrice clucked impatiently at herself as she lifted the heavy tureen and headed for the dining room. No ghost could do anything to her, she told herself, except maybe scare the bejabbers out of her, and that was only if she let it. From now on, she’d keep an eye out.

  Three

  ROSE ARRIVED A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THE OTHERS AND took a seat at one end of the old trestle table Andrew had moved into the Shaker Hostel dining room. She wanted a clear view of everyone present, while keeping her distance from the men. She suspected the hostel guests would skip saying grace before eating, so she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the coming meal. If the smells wafting from the kitchen in the next room were any indication, supper would be well worth her gratitude.

  Andrew had done a good job with the room. He had struck a subtle balance between traditional Shaker simplicity and the more elaborate decoration of the world. Blue cords with silky tassels gathered sheer white curtains into graceful curves. Instead of wooden pegs, hooks encircled the pale blue walls, and framed photos and small bookshelves hung from some of them. Another hook held an old Shaker candleholder on which Andrew had placed a red glass vase, which a grateful visitor had once given the community. Since Wilhelm wanted them to follow the old rules, the village grew no tulips or daffodils for spring bouquets. Flowers, he reminded them, should be useful, not decorative. Andrew had bent the rules, as he often did, and a basket of dried calendula and sage served as a centerpiece.

  The table itself had been used decades earlier in this very building, previously named the West Dwelling House. The building had once housed the outside family—folks who weren’t quite ready to make the commitment to sign the Covenant and live the Shaker life. Hence, the former dwelling house had only one entrance and one stairway, instead of the two normally provided so brothers and sisters would not accidentally brush against one another. Rose thought the building a perfect choice for worldly visitors, and she was glad to see it in use again.