Stone Field

by Christy Lenzi

  I open my eyes. The memory of last night seeps up like old floodwaters that have been hiding underground. Oh Hell. What have I done? It’s only been one night since I married Reverend Preston, and already I want to die from it. How could I do this thing?

  I can’t stay here.

  I sit up in the bed and listen. The house is quiet. The bedsprings hardly creak when I stand up, but I cringe, remembering how the preacher heard me leave the Lenoxes’ house that one morning, and how he carried me, kicking and screaming, back to the bed and tied me up.

  I shiver, still naked, and reach for my trunk, which Henry and Dora packed for me at the party when I’d had too much to drink. The lid opens quiet enough, but I almost cuss out loud when I see what’s inside. My trunk is full of Dora’s old dresses. Damn it. I throw them out, flinging each one across the room as hard as I can, and dig underneath, hoping they left me something of my own. But all I find are skirts, underclothes, and fool corsets. I slam the lid shut, not caring anymore whether he hears me or not.

  At least I have my suit.

  My skin’s all goose bumps from the cold, but I don’t care. I open the bedroom door and glance around the preacher’s house, looking for the chair where I left my suit, shirt, and boots. The chair’s there, but my things are gone.

  “Reverend Preston?” My voice sounds naked and trembly as my body.

  He’s gone. It looks to be late morning already. Maybe he put the clothes away for me. I run back to the bedroom and pull open the dresser drawers. But it’s just the preacher’s things. I’d rather wear nothing than have his clothes touching my skin. Where did he put my suit? I slam the drawers shut, and a note falls from the dresser to the floor.

  Dearest Catrina,

  I thought it best to let you sleep in this morning, but in the future, I look forward to leading our devotions as we study the Scriptures together when we rise, and again in the evening, before bed. In so doing, I will fulfill my duty as husband and spiritual head of our home and help prepare us for our long and fruitful life, yoked together in Christ.

  I usually require dinner at noon, and you may have our supper ready by six o’clock. I ask that no salt be added to the food and that you avoid using onions or garlic, as they upset my digestion. No doubt you are familiar enough with a household to find the things you need for housekeeping, but if you have need of me, I am in the church, practicing my sermon for tomorrow’s service.

  Your devoted husband,

  Samuel

  Lord. I rip the paper in half. Then I rip those pieces, too. I rip and rip and rip Reverend Preston’s words into tiny shreds and throw them to the floor.

  Where the Hell has he put my suit? I run around the house, turning everything over, searching for my clothes. A panic rises inside me. It takes hold and shakes me hard. Reverend Preston hid them. Just like the farmer and the selkie in Papa’s stories. The farmer stole his wife’s sealskin and hid it so she couldn’t escape to the sea where she belonged. She was trapped forever living the life of a creature she never really was. Oh God. My stomach churns.

  I throw open the front door and run outside. The October chill hits hard against my bare skin, but I don’t care. The farmer buried his wife’s sealskin in the dirt floor of the barn. I race to the little barn behind the parsonage. Faithful starts and whinnies when I fling open the side door. She snorts, wide-eyed, at me as I pace the floor and study the corners of the barn, shoving aside her straw and feed sacks. But I can’t find anything that looks like it was dug up and covered over.

  I sink to the floor on my knees.

  “Listen to the words of the Lord.”

  I raise my head at the faint sound of Reverend Preston’s liquid voice, pouring out his sermon for tomorrow from the church sanctuary.

  “‘And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.’”

  I push myself up. Maybe he burned my suit. How could he do this thing to me? And all at once, it’s as if he’s thrown a stick of fire on my own self, and I’m burning up. My heart is hot. My body’s naked, but I don’t feel the cold anymore. I’m swimming through a lake of fire as I run to the church.

  “‘And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband—’”

  I fling open the front doors. Reverend Preston’s face is lifted upward, and his fist is in the air, like he’s been tugging at God’s coat.

  “What have you done with it?” I shout. My voice isn’t trembly anymore—my words are roaring flames shooting from my throat.

  His eyes are round and stunned, like a catfish yanked from the water.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  He lets go of God’s coat, and his arm falls to his side. His mouth hangs open as he stares at me. I feel his eyes take in my naked body, my dirty knees, tangled hair, my wild fire eyes.

  “C-Catrina.” He blinks his fish eyes and stumbles toward me. “What’s happened to you? Are you all right?”

  I shrug his hands away. “Give me my suit,” I whisper.

  “Didn’t you see the clothes Dora packed for you? Here—” He pulls off his own suit coat. “You’re freezing. Let me cover you.”

  I twist out of his arms, away from his coat and its sickening lavender scent. “I want my own clothes.” I peer into his eyes, begging him to see me, to understand what it means to me. “Please.”

  His face hardens, just a little, changing around the jaw and the eyes, like his skin is turning to stone.

  “Catrina, you are a wife now. The wife of a servant of the Lord. You yourself have tasted of the goodness of the Lord when He delivered you from your demon.” His voice softens and rises, the way voices do when people speak to children or small pets, but his face stays stony. “I understand it will be a trial for you, but it’s time for you to put away the things of the past, your careless and rebellious habits of dress and manner. As the Scriptures tell us, if anyone ‘be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.’ It’s time for you to put away the old, sinful ways of living, and embrace your new life. That includes dressing like a respectable married woman. I’m sure your father, brother, Dora, and Effie agree with me.”

  He takes my arm at the elbow and moves toward the doors. “Let’s get you inside the house before you catch—”

  I yank my arm away from him and walk out the doors by myself, ahead of him. My eyes fill with water. By the time I get to the house, the water has put out the bright fire inside me, turning me dark and cold again. I walk to the window seat and sit down, staring out toward Hudgens Hollow.

  The preacher follows me and says things to me—coaxing, gentle things with the voice of a long-suffering saint. But I don’t hear words. His voice hurts my head, like a sounding brass or tinkling cymbal. I cover my ears with my hands and stare hard, toward the faraway secret house I built with my true husband in the woods. All day I sit with my arms locked around my knees. Reverend Preston wraps a quilt around me, but I let it fall to the floor even though I shiver and shake. I can’t eat the food he makes me or even speak to him—all my words have flown away. Even if I had my seeing stone to lift to my eye, I would be too afraid to use it. What if it had lost its magic to find the beauty in the world—how could I bear it?

  I sit there for ages, staring at the woods, and I hardly notice at first that someone is out there watching me back. Then I see the wisps of dark wavy hair from behind an oak tree. The hair floats on the wind, and at first I think it’s some kind of netting caught on the bark, but then she steps out from behind the tree. No, she steps through the tree. And I realize it’s Mother. She’s wearing the same thing she wore to the molasses make, her calico dress sleeves undone and rolled up, almost to her shoulders. Her small, tight muscles show hard and round below the sleeves. She looks strong, but delicate, too, like a paper doll that could blow away in the wind. I hold my breath so I won’t scare her away by any sudden movement, as if I’m watc
hing a bird or a fawn, hoping she’ll come closer.

  But the front door opens, and the noise of it startles her.

  She’s gone.

  No! I bury my face in my hands. I want her to come back.

  I lift my face to see Reverend Preston walking through the door with Effie. I didn’t even realize he’d left. The slant of light through the window means it’s almost evening now. The preacher will not have had his dinner or supper on time. When Effie enters the room, I don’t get up for her. She comes to me, kneeling on the floor beside me, wrapping me in something made of yarn that makes my skin prickle. She pleads with me to stand, to eat, to talk. But I don’t speak to her, either. She asks me questions like a good doctor, but I don’t want to be doctored. I want my own sealskin back. I sit rigid as a stone on the window seat as she tries slipping her arm in mine.

  “Catrina,” she whispers. “We didn’t know it meant so much to you. They were just clothes after all.”

  But it’s more than that. It’s about keeping something that Henry and Reverend Preston want to take from me. It’s about all the things I am that people want to change and fix.

  I watch a large spider as it crawls up to the rafter and begins spinning. It casts a starter thread out of itself into the great space between the rafter and the window frame in the hope that a slight breeze will carry it across. It throws thread after thread across the gap before one finally catches on the window frame and holds, making a little silver bridge. The spider walks through the great space to reach the other side.

  I’m a spider without any silver thread left. I don’t know how to ever get across this great empty space around me.

  Effie’s hand on my shoulder is warm and calm.

  “Stop,” I say. I don’t want to look into her eyes. “I’m not sick. I’m not your patient.” I decided I wasn’t going to speak to her, but I can’t keep the words from coming out. “And you’re not even a doctor.”

  Effie pauses. Her hand starts to lift from my arm. I know that’s the meanest thing I could say to her, and I hope she’ll leave me again like she did before the wedding.

  But even though she must be mad, I feel her come back to me as she lets her hand rest again on my shoulder. “Are you hurting, Catrina?”

  I move farther away from her. “I feel fine.”

  “Maybe your body’s not hurting, but do you hurt on the inside?”

  My throat swells and it’s hard to swallow. Something breaks loose in my heart and I can’t be mad at her anymore. “Yes,” I whisper. My eyes sting.

  She nods. “Catrina, I prescribe this not as a doctor, but as your friend.” She moves closer to me and takes my hand, gentle. “Something inside you needs mending. Don’t fight it. Don’t make the wound worse. Care for it. Find a way to heal.”

  I turn my arm over, revealing the place where I tried to scrape Stonefield from my skin. My voice creaks like it’s rusty. “I don’t know how.”

  Effie’s eyes widen when she sees the gouges I’ve made, but she takes my sore arm in her hands. “Neither do I. But I know you will find a way.”

  I squeeze her hand back. Just when I think no one will ever be able to reach me again, Effie casts a thread my way and it catches, making a fine silver bridge to my heart.

  27

  The preacher’s at the church praying for me. When he brought Effie over, he thought it best to leave us alone. I’m glad he’s not here.

  Effie makes a salve and rubs it gentle over my wound and wraps strips of soft linen around it for a bandage. Then we make tea and toast. When she’s satisfied that I’m feeling better, she leaves, too, so I can rest. But I don’t want to sleep while the preacher’s gone. I can think more clear when he’s away. And I know what I need to do now. I need to make a new sealskin all my own.

  I sing Stonefield’s song as I work on it.

  “Come, live with me and be my love

  And we will all the pleasures prove

  And if these pleasures may thee move

  Then live with me and be my love.”

  It’s late in the evening now, and the room is steamy and hot, but I don’t care. I feel like my body’s cleansing itself from everything that doesn’t belong and leaving only the best of me.

  “There will I make thee beds of roses

  With a thousand fragrant posies

  A cap of flowers and a kirtle

  Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.”

  My heart’s thumping hard like it used to in Hudgens Hollow when I made wild work; when I was full of purpose, full of life.

  “A belt of straw and ivy buds

  With coral clasps and amber studs

  With gray feather of the dove

  Oh, live with me and be my love.”

  “Catrina?”

  Oh Hell.

  Reverend Preston stares at me with his mouth hanging open as I stand naked in the kitchen, stirring a bubbling pot of onion skins. I’m cooking a beautiful dye, the color of amber, the color of Stonefield’s eyes.

  His face falls. “Effie said you were … better. And resting.”

  “I am better. I can’t rest—I have too much to do.” I switch spoons and stir the other pot, full of liquid stained with pokeberries I found outside. This will be a rich coral color.

  “Are you dyeing something? That’s a strong odor.” He glances anxious around the parsonage at the mess I’ve made.

  “You don’t have to stay.” I keep stirring.

  “Catrina, what are you dyeing?” He sounds as if he’s afraid to hear the answer.

  “Felt clasps and studs.” The green dress I brought out and hung over the chair catches his eye. For a moment his face lightens, but when he sees my wild work on it, his mouth falls open a little.

  “What are you doing to the dress Dora gave you?”

  “I’m making it mine.”

  “It’s been shortened—this hem will show your legs. That’s worse than wearing pants. Are these leaves you’ve sewn onto it? And this belt—it’s made of straw and vines. And … feathers? You can’t wear this, Catrina.” He shakes his head. “It’s not proper.”

  Lord.

  “I won’t allow it. People will question whether you are really healed of your evil spirit if you behave this way—”

  “It’s mine.” I raise my voice louder than his. “You can’t stop me.”

  “The Bible says that a wife must submit to her husband in all things.” His voice is calm and smooth as always, but I hear something underneath it—something hard and tight that wants breaking. “Perhaps you’re not healed from demonic influences as well as I thought. I knew this spiritual battle for your soul would not be easy, but I won’t give up on you, Catrina. That would be the same as giving up my faith in God.”

  Reverend Preston lifts the Bible he carried in with him and opens it. He holds it out, in front of my gaze. I refuse to see the words, and I look past them at the white spaces in between. But then he places something on the pages, and I can’t make my eyes not see them. The twisted bindings made of strips of linen that he once tied around my wrists. They lay nestled in the crack of the open book like writhing baby snakes.

  “Catrina.” The preacher clears his throat again. But his voice is a whisper. “Perhaps the demon has returned to torment you?”

  At first, the sight of the bindings sends a shot of fear racing through my bones. But then Effie’s gentle words come back to me: Something inside you needs mending. Don’t fight it. Don’t make the wound worse. Care for it. Find a way to heal.

  “There’s no demon,” I say to him, straight. It feels so good to tell the truth. “There never was an evil spirit.”

  Reverend Preston shakes his head, slow. His blue eyes look sorry for me. “The minions of Satan try to deceive the servants of the Lord.” He steps closer and touches his fingertips to my forehead. “Who am I speaking to? What is your name?”

  My heart pounds to be let out of the cage. “I’m me—Catrina!”

  He reaches for the bindings, but I
grab them first. His Bible drops to the floor as he lunges for my wrists, but I’m faster than he is. I hit him in the face as hard as I can with my fist.

  As he reels from the shock of it, I run to the stove and throw the bindings into the fire. “I’m me!” I scream. “Me!”

  Reverend Preston stares at me. Who does he see? His eyes search me deeper than before. But still, he doesn’t quite find me. He holds his jaw, where my fist has left a red mark. “Shh,” he whispers. “Quiet. I won’t hurt you.” He reaches out slow and cautious, like a person trying to touch a deer. I don’t move. He tries to embrace me, but I have turned into a frozen girl, and his arms can’t hold me anymore.

  * * *

  It’s Sunday. The preacher rises early and heads for the church before I get up. He doesn’t leave a note for me this time. He thinks I will stay here. He’s probably wondering what to tell his congregation about his new wife, staying home from church on her first Sunday as Mrs. Preston.

  But I won’t hide here in this place. I’m not afraid of them anymore. And I know what I need to do to heal. I need to face them, let them see me in my own sealskin.

  I take my wild work down from where I hung it to dry near the bed all night so no one could steal it from me while I slept. Careful, careful, I slip into my new clothes. I’ve cut most of the skirt away above the knee so I can walk free of its confines. I used the cut-off material to sew deep pockets to hold my things. The pale green clothes are soft, like a second skin floating over mine.

  I walk outside. The twilight month of September is long gone. No more hazy days that linger between summer and fall, and are not quite one or the other. It’s autumn. The morning air is clear and sharp with late October cold. This is the month we cut the sorghum stalks and crush them in the press till all the sweet juice is wrung from them. October is when the golden leaves fall to the ground and the spirits who have gone before us sometimes visit us again, when the wall between this world and the next is thin. This is the month my mother died.