He pulls away and turns onto his side. His voice sounds distant. “It matters to me.”
* * *
I wake up to the smell of the decaying roses and mint leaves, and I feel his warm body rise and fall in sleep beside me. It’s already late in the morning. Maybe we’re just dreaming. I stare up at the swaying feathers and wait for them to turn into wooden ceiling beams. I expect at any moment to hear Henry’s voice calling from the kitchen, but Henry’s still away, and I am in the woods with Stonefield. All I hear are morning birds and the bubbling creek. I close my eyes.
I want the dream to keep going.
I wonder if Joseph in the Bible felt this way when he dreamed about the sun, moon, and stars bowing down to him. But his brothers found out about it and threw him in a pit and sold him into slavery to keep the beautiful vision from coming true. He should have just lain still and kept on dreaming. It reminds me of the memory that Stonefield recalled last night, of the men who came to the mission and tried to sell him into slavery for not joining the army.
What will happen to Stonefield? If Creek Indians are considered Confederates and most folks around here are for the Union, will they turn him in as a traitor? I remember what Henry said before he left for St. Louis: exactly what those men at the mission school said, “There’s just no place for middle ground.”
Lord, Henry. Won’t he be worse than ever if he finds out Stonefield’s Creek like he thought. It makes me all-overish. I wish Stonefield would let his past alone and not go chasing after the missing pieces.
I want this dream to last, but our time is running out just like it did for Joseph. Henry and Dora are coming back tomorrow. I turn and lie on my stomach. My restlessness wakes Stonefield, and he stirs beside me. Mr. Whitman’s Leaves of Grass lies open on the ground beside him.
“What is it, then, between us?” The memory of the lines he read last night floats back to me. “What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not … I am with you.”
Stonefield sits up and yawns. He traces the dark circles of walnut ink on my back, gentle.
I breathe in the gingery smell of wet cedar trees. Go slow, I say to him, silent. I ration my breaths, stretching and measuring them to make each one last longer. Make time slow down. I want to stay here with you for scores or hundreds of years. Always.
Even as I think the words, a darkness moves over me like the shadow of a storm cloud. I want to stop it before it swallows us. “Stonefield,” I whisper, “please don’t tell Henry your memory’s returned. If he finds out you’re a Creek Indian like those Confederates, he’ll—”
A twig snaps outside.
I stop. The darkness rolls in thick. Something’s not right. We’re not alone.
Stonefield’s finger stops.
All the little hairs on my arms rise.
Please, no.
I don’t open my eyes—I screw them shut tighter.
Keep going. I hold my breath. It’s no one. Please, let’s keep dreaming.
Catrina—
But it’s too late. Someone gasps from our doorway.
I know that when I open my eyes, I’ll be wide-awake. I turn to look.
It’s Lu.
My heart sinks.
The words you’re a Creek Indian like those Confederates still hang in the air—I know she heard them. She stares through the ivy curtain at the circle designs on our naked bodies.
Oh Hell.
I never saw her look so stunned. She grasps an envelope tight in her hands like she’s trying to wring blood from it. I want to shut my eyes and make her disappear, but all I can do is stare back at her.
Lu blinks as if she’s trying to decide if we’re real or not. Her look of surprise turns to disgust. “Heavens,” she whispers in a shaky voice, “you really do belong to the Devil.” The crumpled letter slips from her fingers to the ground.
My heart turns cold as December as I watch her run away.
16
My name on the envelope is written in Effie’s steady, graceful hand. I imagine her across the hollow, up in the corner of her attic, channeling steady, graceful thoughts onto the paper—thoughts for me. I am unsteady and graceless—my hands are shaking as I smooth out the creases Lu made when she crushed the letter in her fist. I read it out loud to Stonefield, whose eyes are still lit with angry fire sparked by Lu trespassing on our secret place. My voice shakes worse than my hands.
Dear Catrina,
Please excuse my use of a messenger, but I am host to visitors who have come to hear Reverend Preston preach this evening, and Lu kindly offered to deliver this to you at your father’s house for me. I trust Mr. Dickinson is well. I have heard the happy news that your brother and Mrs. Dickinson are expected to arrive home soon. Please express to them our congratulations on their recent nuptials.
As you know, my father’s houseguest, Reverend Preston, was holding tent meetings in the evenings as we finished building our new church. Now that it is finished, the reverend particularly requested that I invite you to the first meeting early this evening. We have a beautiful new bell in the roof of the building, and I will be ringing it myself. When you hear it, I hope you will come join us.
The hymn sings are lovely, and Reverend Preston is truly a passionate speaker. I’ve observed that the sentiments of the people of Roubidoux have been heightened by his stirring sermons to a fever pitch of religious excitement. The spiritual fervor seems contagious, drawing people from as far as two counties away to our ever-growing tent meetings.
But such a diagnosis worries me slightly. Although I am happy to see our friends and neighbors so eager to obey the scriptures, I fear that sometimes the good preacher’s sermons lead them to overzealousness in some matters, including harshly judging those who choose not to attend the meetings. Perhaps a cure to this problem may be found in the simple act of you accepting Reverend Preston’s invitation to join us this evening. He seems to have a particular interest in your spiritual well-being and is eager to be a friend to you, as he says that God has put you on his heart. Stonefield’s presence would also be highly desired. I believe the townspeople’s fears and suspicions about him might be allayed by his presence, and the congregation and Reverend Preston might come to know and understand you both better, bringing a healthy peace to all concerned.
Please do come, Catrina. My mind would be eased by your presence. Please give my kind regards to your father as well as my wish for his continued health. I remain always:
Your faithful friend,
Effie Lenox
I wait to hear what Stonefield will say. He searches my face to know my feelings, but I scarcely know them myself. I take hold of the page and tear out, careful, a phrase from the letter and read it aloud.
“‘Your brother and Mrs. Dickinson are expected to arrive home soon.’”
I smooth the strip of paper through my fingers. “Effie doesn’t want Henry to find us together—she knows he’d be a hothead about it. It’s a warning—she’s trying to help us.” I take the little strip of Effie’s words and pin it to one of the dangling feathers with a thorn. It waves and spins through the air.
“There’s another message in the letter.” Stonefield points to the middle of the page. “Look. This preacher person is saying bad things about us in his sermons.” He frowns at the paper in my hands.
I imagine the forget-me-not blue of Reverend Preston’s eyes and the earnest sound of his voice when he said God had wondrous things in store for me. “Effie didn’t say that.”
“It’s there between her words.” He points to that part of the letter:
“I fear that sometimes the good preacher’s sermons lead them to overzealousness in some matters, including harshly judging those who choose not to attend the meetings.”
My heart beats faster. “You think Reverend Preston is saying slanderous things about us from the pulpit? Why would he do that? Effie says he wants to be my friend.”
“She say
s he’s particularly interested in your spiritual well-being—maybe he thinks you need to repent before you can be his special friend.” Stonefield makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Something’s going on at his meetings that makes Effie uncomfortable. I aim to go tonight and find out what it is.”
My nose wrinkles up. “You mean you want to get cleaned up and wear a shirt and sit through a long-winded sermon?”
Stonefield shakes his head. “I don’t plan on doing any of those things. No, I mean I want to spy on this preacher man and find out what he says about people when he doesn’t know they’re around.”
I tear out Effie’s second warning and pin it to another feather. Her words twirl round and round in one direction until the slip of paper can’t twist any more, then it spins back the other way. I wish I could twist the words until Effie’s meaning is wrung clear from them. “When Effie rings the bell tonight, I’ll go with you.”
Before I fold the ragged letter back into the envelope and place it in the oak chest, I tear one more strip of words free from the rest and pin it to a yellowthroat’s feather. It flutters back and forth like a banner over me:
I remain always:
Your faithful friend, Effie Lenox
* * *
Even from the road, as we round the bend in the twilight, I smell the whitewash and fresh lumber of the new church. At first we hear nothing but crickets and cicadas, and if it weren’t for the horses and wagons out front, I’d think no one was inside.
A sharp “Amen!” cuts through the silence, then the noise seems to pour out all at once—a waterfall of amens, hallelujahs, and praise the Lords. Stonefield takes my hand, and we run toward a small grove of hawthorn trees near the door while the noise covers the sound of our feet. A flock of thrushes takes flight, shaking the thorny branches and rattling red berries as we hurry behind the trees for cover and watch through the half-opened windows.
The church is packed as tight as Dora’s corsets, with the bulging congregation overflowing up in front onto the platform where Reverend Preston strides back and forth, clutching a leather Bible. The shouts and murmurs fade again to silence.
The ribbons of Reverend Preston’s black tie flutter over his shoulder as his boots click across the new wood planks. His tousled blond hair stands on end, as if he climbed out of bed that morning with more important things on his mind than grooming. His eyes are closed so he can pay better attention to the voice of the Holy Spirit talking to him, but he doesn’t falter in his pace—he walks strong and sure like he knows God will catch him if he stumbles.
He stops in the center of the platform and opens his eyes. Even from far away, they shine bluer than the September sky above me. The congregation takes in their breath and holds it, waiting to hear the words of the Lord fall from the preacher’s lips.
“Beloved, listen to my voice.” It’s like asking thirsty people to drink. His voice flows, rich and mellow, carrying God’s words all the way to the back of the church without a speck of effort. “You are here tonight because you hunger after truth.” He squeezes the Bible harder till it trembles in his hand.
“Yes!” People in the congregation nod their heads.
“But the truth you seek isn’t found among the hills and hollows of this dark earth.” He sweeps the Bible toward the opposite window to indicate Roubidoux and all the land beyond.
“No, it’s not!” someone calls out.
He points with the Bible toward the congregation. “Nor is it found in the hills and hollows of your hearts.”
“No?” they cry.
Reverend Preston shakes his head. “No!” His handsome features tighten into a frown. “The truth doesn’t dwell in these dark, lowly places. Heavenly wisdom can never be found in earthly knowledge.”
“Tell us!” someone shouts.
“Say on!” Others join in.
Reverend Preston raises his Bible. “This truth that you seek comes from up above.” He points the Good Book toward Heaven. “The righteous pursue things of the spirit while the wicked ignore the words of the Lord. We should not waste our time reading earthly books written by sinful men.” He shakes his head. “This is the only book we will ever need!” He pounds the Bible with his fist.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “The wicked follow their savage hearts and seek pleasure in earthly wiles—charms of the flesh.” He gazes off into the distance, and a grave look settles over his features as if he is imagining what horrible things the wicked people might be doing with each other right this minute. “But the earth shall pass away, Beloved! It will perish along with the wicked heathens who cling to it.”
“Amen!” Lu’s voice catches my attention, and I notice her sitting at Reverend Preston’s feet on the crowded steps of the platform with a look of rapture on her face. I want to slap it off. I know she’s thinking of me and Stonefield and how we must be wicked for seeking pleasure in earthly things like being alone together, naked in the woods. I know she talks about us to people. Maybe even Reverend Preston.
Stonefield’s just as angry as I am—I feel his body turn stiff beside me.
I search for Effie and find her standing calm by the wall near the back, her hands folded neatly together in front of her as she listens. Only the tight way her lips are pressed together lets me know that she’s concerned.
Reverend Preston lowers his Bible. “The wicked belong to the Devil.”
Lu nods. “Yes!”
“They worship the created instead of the Creator, loving the natural realm instead of storing up spiritual treasures in Heaven.”
Stonefield makes a noise like a low growl in his throat. “You scullion!” he says under his breath.
At the Shakespeare insult, I turn to look at him, but Stonefield’s not smiling. His jaw clenches, his eyes are on fire. “Lu’s talked bad about us to people, Catrina. He’s preaching about you and me because we don’t come to his church and we want to be left alone together. Didn’t you hear him? He said I have a savage heart. Just like those soldiers who came to my classroom and called me savage. And my teacher saying I spoke a savage tongue. He’s saying you and I are the wicked heathens.”
“He didn’t say it was us.”
“He didn’t have to.”
“You’ve seen them,” Reverend Preston goes on, “the ones who give in to the temptation of the Devil and this world.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them!” Lu cries.
Stonefield’s arms are taut, as if he wants to strangle the preacher with one hand and Lu with the other.
Reverend Preston turns to Lu, his blue eyes burning like the hottest part of a flame. “The wicked live in sin and refuse the fellowship of the godly, ignoring the goodness of God’s truth.”
“Yes!” Lu stands up. Her body’s rigid, shaking. “I’ve seen them with my own eyes!”
My hands tighten around the hawthorn branch, its thorns cut into my skin.
People in the congregation are hungry to hear more, and they call out for Lu to “Say on, say on!”
Effie is the only one who seems to want her sister to stop. She shakes her head at Lu, but Lu doesn’t pay attention.
“They live like filthy animals, sinning for all the whole world to see! They’re wicked, wicked!”
Hawthorn berries burst in my clenched fists, red juice squeezes between my fingers like blood. I feel Stonefield separating from me, moving through the trees, toward the doors.
No, Stonefield, wait. I follow, trying to catch hold of his arm, but he’s out of my reach.
Reverend Preston’s eyes close again and he doesn’t see us through the windows. He keeps preaching. “Beloved, such souls are in grave danger. Spiritual danger.” His voice grows deeper, stronger. “There is a spiritual battle—a war—waging in their savage hearts, and they must choose a side. They must choose between this earthly kingdom, which brings only death, and the Kingdom of Heaven, which brings eternal life. Such a soul can still be saved. It must be saved. For on the Day of Atonement, if it has not repe
nted, God will throw it into the very pit of Hell!”
As Reverend Preston shouts Hell, Stonefield opens the door. The new hinges squeak. People turn and cry out, surprised to see Stonefield standing all quiet with his fists clenched, glaring at Reverend Preston.
Lu clutches the preacher’s arm. “It’s him—the Indian heathen! He’s a Creek Confederate, too. And look at the mark of the Devil on his chest—it’s the same as the one in Dickinson’s field!”
The whole church comes alive with voices.
“Look!”
“It’s true!”
“Lord help us!”
I run to him. “It’s not true!”
“Look at her,” Lu gasps.
Everyone speaks at once, crowding in.
“It’s the Dickinson girl.”
“Is that blood all over her hands?”
“What’s she done?”
I wipe my hands on my pants, but the hawthorn berry stains won’t go away.
“What happened?”
I shrink, pressing back into Stonefield for support. They’re all staring and shouting and crowding in on me. Like the day I killed Mother, they’re trying to suffocate and crush me. My darkness comes rolling back.
Stonefield’s strong arm reaches to slide around my waist, but it’s too late. My darkness takes me. I go limp and slip from him, falling against cold hands that reach out to grab me.
“Look—the Devil’s sign is on her, too—you can see it through the back of her shirt!”
“Mercy, it’s a man’s shirt, too—and pants!”
They’re closing in and I’m a coon stuck in a trap, wishing I had the strength to claw and bite my way free of them. Stonefield!
Growling like a bear, he grabs their hands, tearing them away from me. “Leave her alone!”
Now they’re grasping for him, seizing him. The whole room shifts back and forth as I’m jostled and thrust forward. I fall, and my head slams the edge of an oak bench. My knee cracks against the floor.
Pain shoots up my leg and down my skull.
Catrina—
Everything disappears.
17
Stone Field Page 11
