A Stranger Here Below

by Charles Fergus

  “Yep, suicide. Has to be. Last evening, I would guess.” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  No, Gideon thought. It is Judge Biddle who is damned.

  He grimaced as he helped the doctor wrap the body in a blanket that Mrs. Leathers brought. He smelled again the dreck that had leaked out after Judge Biddle died and lost control of his bowels. The corpse was rigid and unwieldy and felt surprisingly light, like a husk instead of the dead weight that Gideon had expected. He took hold of the shoulders while the doctor lifted the feet, and together they carried the bundled body down the hallway, angled it through the front door, and placed it on the barrow. The barrow lacked sides but had a front piece. The doctor tucked in the blanket’s ends and used a rope to tie the bundle in place.

  People had begun to gather in the street. Eight, ten of them, standing there gawking in the rain. Gideon saw them looking at the blanketed corpse, and looking at him as well. He couldn’t read their faces. How had they learned of the judge’s death? Mrs. Leathers must have told someone. Or maybe the doctor’s wife. And that person told someone else. Soon the news would be all over town.

  “Who will lay this body out?” he asked Beecham. He envisioned someone, maybe Mrs. Leathers, maybe himself, washing the judge and clothing him in his best suit for burial. Would there be a wake? The judge hadn’t put it in his will. Did you even do that when someone killed himself?

  “My wife will take care of those things.” Beecham jammed his hat down on his head and turned his collar up against the rain. “She’ll make a shroud for the judge here. You know, Sheriff, an autopsy don’t leave a real pretty corpse.” He gave Gideon an inquiring look. “Want to be there when I open him up?”

  Gideon shook his head. He lifted the barrow’s handles and pushed it down the walk. The barrow’s wheel, a sycamore round, wobbled and squeaked across the stones.

  ***

  In the lot behind the judge’s house, Gideon fed the horse and dog. Both were ravenous. The gelding pitched into his hay; the setter wolfed down his tripe. Old Nick pushed his bowl around, licking up every scrap. The judge had been proud of the dog; he said he had a “long nose,” which meant he could pick up bird scent at a considerable range, then go charging or pussyfooting in, depending on what was needed to pin the bird. Gideon thought about all the times he had watched the red setter weaving through the brush, homing in on a hidden grouse or woodcock: the bell going silent as Old Nick came to a halt, his head low like a snake’s, his eyes bulging, his feathery tail sticking out behind. Such a sense of anticipation, as they crept up on the point. The sudden whirring of wings as the bird flushed; the abrupt thunderous shot. When the judge called “Fetch!” Old Nick would run on ahead and find the bird brought down by Gideon or the judge (usually the judge), bring the game back, and lay it in his master’s hand.

  Gideon went back inside the house. He disassembled the judge’s shotgun and took the barrels into the back yard. He got some soap and a pot of hot water from Mrs. Leathers and scrubbed clean the barrel that had fired the fatal shot. He dried the barrels with a rag and greased them. In the study he put the gun away in its leather case.

  A third time he searched for a suicide note and failed to find one.

  He walked back to the jail through the rain and hung up his coat and hat. He wondered where his own gun was, then recalled that he’d left it at the judge’s house. The judge had given Gideon his old shotgun last year after Gideon had accepted, with great enthusiasm, the judge’s offer to take him hunting. And now Judge Biddle had willed him his graceful Manton 16. Such a beautiful firearm it was! He felt a moment of greedy delight that quickly dwindled to despond.

  His deputy, Alonzo Bell, handed him an old sack. Gideon used it to dry himself off.

  “Why in Pete’s sake did he do it?” Alonzo said.

  Gideon shook his head.

  Alonzo was in his early forties, twenty years older than Gideon. His big jaw and protruding lower lip always put Gideon in mind of a contented horse. But now Alonzo looked as agitated and confused as Gideon himself felt. “Well, for crying in a bucket,” Alonzo said, then went stumping off to attend to chores in the cell block.

  Gideon sat down at his desk. He got out a quill and ink bottle and paper to prepare a report. He stared at the sheet and wondered how to begin.

  ***

  It was dusk when he got home.

  “True,” he said to his wife, “something terrible has happened.”

  She hugged him hard and kissed him on the lips. “Mrs. Sayers told me over the fence.”

  Their baby, David, seven months old, lay on a blanket on the floor. The child crawled jerkily toward his father, craning his neck upward, smiling and burbling and reaching out a tiny hand. Gideon picked David up and held him to his chest.

  True laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Was it you who found him?”

  Gideon nodded.

  “Oh, Gid.” She raised her hand and cupped his cheek. Her eyes searched his. “I heard he killed himself.”

  “He left his will sitting out on a table.”

  “Did it say why?”

  “No. Just a will. Nothing else, no explanation.”

  “You must be heartsick.”

  He let out a sigh. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Maybe you will find out by and by.” True took the baby from him and gently laid him on the blanket. “Supper’s ready. We need to eat right away so we can get to the singing.”

  He had forgotten. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You need to go. It will make you feel better.”

  ***

  The rain had subsided to a drizzle. True had swaddled David against the miasmas that rose from the earth at night, carrying disease. They hurried along through the muddy streets.

  The Methodist church was a low log building. Inside, tallow candles gave off a pungent smell and a wavering light. No organ, such as the one in the brick Episcopal church on Spring Street where the town’s better citizens worshipped; not even a piano. Here were only the voices folks had been born with.

  Forty people filled the church. They picked up the oblong tunebooks and sat down on benches made from split logs. Gideon sat with the tenors. True, holding David, sat to his right with the trebles. On the tenors’ left were the basses, and on the opposite side of the hollow square sat the counters.

  Before they began, an elder stood up and announced that Judge Biddle had killed himself: “Blew himself ’most in half with a shotgun.” Gideon saw people looking at him. Of course they knew he was Judge Biddle’s friend. Of course they’d heard it was he, Gideon Stoltz, the Dutch Sheriff, who had found the body. Two of the basses leaned their heads together and traded whispers. One was a laborer named Bevins, the other a fellow named Raines who worked at the hotel. They straightened and stared at him, their faces hard and their eyes narrowed.

  What was that about?

  The lead tenor announced the first song: “Idumea,” on page twenty-five. He pitched the starting notes up and down the scale and the singers tuned in, the sound swelling as the parts found their places: the high trebles, the lower tones of the counters, the grave voices of the basses, and above them the higher tones of the tenors, all blending into one sonorous trembling chord.

  The harmony was raw, in the minor mode, utterly different from the predictable, mellifluous Hoch Deutsch hymns of Gideon’s childhood. The congregation had been singing this new music for over a year, ever since a singing master had come down from New York and taught them to read the music. They’d dug deep into their pockets to buy the tunebooks—True made him contribute five whole dollars! At each singing they might do twenty, thirty hymns, with names like “Northfield” and “Delight” and “Cowper” and “Schenectady” and “Primrose” and “New Jerusalem.” The minister was glad, since the vigorous new hymns were building zeal and bringing more people to church. Gideon enjoyed the strange and unexpected harmonies; he often found himself humming or singing the songs later, when s
plitting firewood or working at his desk or riding somewhere on his horse. The hymns’ poetry, their lyrics, never failed to move him. Each song, it seemed, had the power to inspire him, or terrify him, or uplift him—or wound him. Some of them made him recall things he didn’t want to remember. Like his memmi’s death.

  He hadn’t mentioned this to True, who loved the singing. She said it strengthened her faith and brought her closer to God. She made sure they never missed a single Wednesday night.

  With his hand the leader beat out the tempo. The people sang out faw and sol and law and me, voicing the syllables of the differently shaped notes—triangles, ovals, squares, and diamonds—printed in the books. The second time through, they launched into the words. They sang loud and strong. Gideon let his voice soar. He knew “Idumea” by heart; the congregation sang it every Wednesday night and sometimes during Sunday service as well.

  And am I born to die?

  To lay this body down!

  And must my trembling spirit fly

  Into a world unknown?

  Others in the chorus kept time, arms rising and falling, hands clapping down on thighs, feet tramping the floor.

  A land of deepest shade,

  Unpierced by human thought;

  The dreary regions of the dead,

  Where all things are forgot!

  The words pierced Gideon’s own heart. He thought of Hiram Biddle’s soul wandering restlessly in the dreary regions of the dead, with no hope of entering into the light of God’s saving grace.

  Soon as from earth I go,

  What will become of me?

  Eternal happiness or woe

  Must then my portion be!

  The judge had committed suicide. His portion must be eternal woe. Yet Gideon prayed that Hiram Biddle’s soul might somehow find salvation.

  Waked by the trumpet’s sound,

  I from my grave shall rise;

  And see the Judge with glory crowned,

  And see the flaming skies!

  This Judge was God in all His power. On the day of redemption, those who had kept the faith would rise from their graves and join Him. The voices filled the church as the people sang the repeat, belting out again those final, awful words: And see the Judge with glory crowned, and see the flaming skies!

  Gideon could almost see the heavens red with fire, hear them crackling from one horizon to the other. But his mind stayed stubbornly earthbound.

  By killing himself, Judge Biddle had spurned the gift that God had given. There had to be some reason for him to have taken an action so dire. Was it something from the past? Something that he’d buried and tried to forget, only to have it emerge anew? Something evil, or scandalous, or grievously sad?

  Gideon felt resentment well up. The judge should have realized that it would be he who would find his body. He would have to forgive Judge Biddle for that.

  And he wanted to understand.

  He made up his mind to learn the reason why. Yes, he would do it. He would look, and ask, and listen, and figure out what had caused Hiram Biddle to throw away his life, on earth and in heaven everlasting.

  Give joy or grief, give ease or pain,

  Take life or friends away

  Three

  The rain had let up. Walking home through the dark and quiet town, Gideon carried David, fast asleep. During the singing Gideon had looked across at his son, held in True’s arms, and seen him smiling and waving his little hands and making hooting sounds as if trying to join in singing the hymns.

  True linked her arm in his, and he told her about the things that Judge Biddle had willed to him. She looked up at him, clasping his arm tight. “The dog and gun would have been more than enough for you to remember him by. But a horse and wagon! What a generous gift! And him in such turmoil and pain.”

  At home, Gideon banked the fire while True nursed David and put him in his cradle. She snuffed the candle, took Gideon by the hand, and led him to their bed. They undressed and lay down together. It seemed they always made passionate love after singings—and tonight especially Gideon wanted to lose himself in her. True ran her hand through his sandy hair. She kissed him gently on the mouth, then slowly moved her lips down his neck and chest. His stomach fluttered as her lips went farther down. She brought him nearly to a climax, then stopped. She lay down on her back, and he covered her with his body. She wrapped her arms and legs around him. He felt himself go deep inside her, even as he went deep inside himself, and as they moved together and approached the sudden cleansing release, he heard their cries as if from far away.

  Later, coming back to awareness, he heard her whisper in his ear.

  “You should see your legs,” she said. “I peeked when you dropped your drawers. Scratched and scraped all over.”

  He cracked one eye open. “From hunting in the briars, I guess.”

  She nibbled his earlobe, chuckling. “I like it when you talk Dutch.”

  “Hmm?”

  “‘Haunting.’ What you just said.”

  “I meant …” His voice trailed off.

  “I know what you meant. If my brothers heard you say ‘haunting’ instead of ‘hunting,’ they would ride you hard.” She chuckled again. “Though not the way you ride me hard.” She kissed his ear. “Foreigners, that’s what we call you Dutch.”

  Dutch. It meant German. Pennsylfawnisch Deitsch was the dialect Gideon had grown up speaking.

  His people had lived in Pennsylvania as long as True’s Scotch-Irish clan, but that didn’t stop the Deitsch from being treated as foreigners, along with the French, the Catholics, and the Jews.

  He disliked it when others made fun of his accent or scorned him for being of German descent. But True could tease him all she wanted. He knew what she was trying to do: take his mind off the day’s events. Well, he’d play along. “We Dutch are the worst of the lot,” he said. “We love to hold a grudge. Schtubbich, set in our ways. Some of us even refuse to learn English.”

  “It didn’t trouble me any, you being Dutch. I wouldn’t have cared if you were a Frenchman or a Jew or even an African. Though if you’d’ve been black, I expect the jaybirds would’ve killed you.”

  “Jaybirds” was what True called her brothers: James, Jackson, Jared, and Jesse Burns. All of them worked at the iron plantation at Panther, east of Adamant, where True had grown up. Gideon had a hard time pronouncing his J’s. To him, those rugged men were Chames, Chackson, Chared, and Chesse.

  True kissed him on the lips. And again. “Dutchman or not,” she said, kissing him one more time, “I do love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He lay upon her, resting his weight on his forearms, breathing in her scent. He felt safe in the warmth of her embrace. He dozed off.

  Suddenly she was pushing at his chest, grunting, “Get off!”

  He rolled onto his side.

  She sat up, her head lowered and held between her hands, her hair draped over her arms.

  “True, honey, what is it?” He reached out, placed his hand on her back.

  “I saw something.” Her voice was small and quavering. She took rapid breaths. She raised her face and looked at him, her eyes wide. “It just … came into my head. I saw it like it was right in front of me. Two people, a woman and a man. They were arguing. Screaming at each other! I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell they were angry, angry and in pain.”

  She shuddered beneath his hand.

  “Then they were gone, and I saw two candles flickering on a table, side by each. All of a sudden, they both guttered and went out.”

  Gently Gideon rubbed her back. True had told him that sometimes she had visions, saw things that had happened in the past—or would take place in the future. She called this troubling ability “the second sight,” or just “the sight.”

  But who could believe in such things? Gideon considered himself a rational man, a man who saw only those objects that were in front of him, in the here and now. He had no time for visions and superstitions.
Then he thought with a start of how, when confronted with the judge’s body this very morning, he had suddenly seen his memmi. He had seen her vividly, as if she lay on the floor in front of him, bloody and ravaged and dead. But that wasn’t a vision—it was just a horrible memory, one that had been burned into his brain, a memory he’d never been able to get rid of.

  True lay back down. He settled the quilt over them both. He turned his body toward hers, rested his hand on her hip, and pressed his lips against the soft skin at her temple.

  “It’s the sight,” she said. She stared up at the ceiling. “I wish I didn’t have it. Seems like nothing good can ever come of it.” She shivered and pulled the quilt tight around her. She claimed to have gotten this unwanted gift from her gram, who believed it hit every other generation.

  He had met True’s grandmother once, at her parents’ cabin at the ironworks. Arabella Burns was the mother of True’s father. Gideon had been introduced to her quite casually, which seemed to be typical of the way True’s people behaved, even at times when you’d think they’d be formal and polite. The old woman was small and thin, yet she seemed large and powerful in some strange way. She had said little, sitting perched on a stool in the corner of the room, erect and proud, watching over things with a sharp eye.

  “When I was little, Gram had this raven’s foot,” True said. “It was big, black as tar, with scales all over it and sharp claws. The toes were clenched most of the way shut, except for this little hole between them. She could look through that hole and see things that would come to pass.”

  True turned her face toward his. He could barely see her features in the dim light. Her hair was dark and thick, her eyebrows arching. Gideon thought of the trim strong body beneath the quilt and felt himself wanting her again.

  “Gid, do you believe in the sight?”

  He paused before answering. “No. I can’t say that I do.”

  She looked away. “Well, at least you’re honest.”