Except that God was not listening, and the more their preacher insisted that this tragedy was not a punishment from on high, the more they became convinced that Preacher himself had done something wrong. Displeased the Lord. Failed to make some proper . . . Well, they weren’t sure what—only heathens offered sacrifices, but they were convinced he’d failed to do something.
Or perhaps he had done something . . . for his foster daughter. Addie had lived, hadn’t she? Preacher could point out that Addie had been on one of her hunting trips when the diphtheria broke out, and as soon as she returned, they’d sent her back into the woods with supplies, to stay another week. Also, she was twelve, past the age of most victims. It didn’t matter. The preacher’s daughter had lived where their children had perished. And now his wife was pregnant? That would only seal the matter, which was why Preacher and Sophia had agreed to not breathe a word of it until they had to, hopefully months from now.
“Preacher?” a voice called as he stepped into the village lane. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
He turned. It was Mayor Browning, helping his wife into the community hall, where their son lay in one of those small coffins, the last victim of the outbreak.
“May I speak with you?” Preacher said. “I know it couldn’t be a worse possible time but—”
A commotion sounded at the end of the road. Someone calling a welcome. Someone else ringing a bell, telling the town that visitors had arrived, an occurrence rare enough to bring everyone out, no matter how dark the mood.
He was too late. The strangers had arrived.
ADDIE
Addie raced home through the woods. As she did, she tried not to look at the houses that backed onto the forest, tried not to remember the children who’d lived there. She hadn’t known most of them very well. She’d not even gone to school until her parents passed and she came to live with Preacher and Sophia. Still, she had known the children, and there’d been many times she’d come this way and seen them. Sometimes, if Addie felt Sophia’s invisible hand prodding her, she’d even call a hullo.
When she reached the mayor’s house, she circled wide into the forest, so she wouldn’t need to see it at all. Not that it helped, because her path ended up taking her by the fallen oak tree where she’d last seen Charlie Browning, the mayor’s son. They’d been tramping around in the woods before her hunting trip, before the sickness came. Just tramping around and talking, as they usually did. Then they came to the fallen oak and sat and kept talking. It’d been night, and she’d leaned back to look at the stars, her hands braced against the log. Her hand had brushed his, and he’d laid his on hers, and when she’d looked over, he’d given her a smile that was shy and nervous and not like Charlie at all.
She’d seen that smile and she hadn’t pulled her hand away, even if she thought perhaps she ought to, and now . . . Now she wasn’t sure if she wished she had or not. She thought of that summer night, and she was glad he’d been happy that last time they’d been together, but . . . perhaps it would have been easier if he hadn’t been. If she hadn’t been. If they’d fought and now she could look back and say she hadn’t liked him very much, that they hadn’t been very good friends after all. It hurt too much otherwise.
They hadn’t even let her see him after he’d gotten sick. Preacher and Sophia said it was all right, if it was a short visit and she didn’t touch him. But Mayor Browning and his wife wouldn’t let her, not even when she heard Charlie in the sickroom, coughing and calling for her. Perhaps tomorrow, they said. When he was feeling better. Only there was no tomorrow. Not for Charlie.
Addie circled the mayor’s house and continued on until she reached the little clapboard cabin she shared with Preacher and Sophia. It was one of the smallest homes in town, only four rooms. Addie had her own bedroom, and it didn’t matter if it was half the size of Charlie’s; it was hers, something she’d never had at her parents’ house, where she’d slept by the fire. Sophia assured her that when the baby came, it would sleep in their room, and they’d build a new house before it was old enough to need its own. Addie had said it didn’t matter, not really. It did, though, and she was glad they understood.
Addie went in the door and found Sophia at the kitchen table, composing lessons. Sophia wanted to reopen school in a week. She said the children needed to be reassured that life would return to normal. But Addie had heard people saying they weren’t going to send their children back. Perhaps next year. Getting an education wasn’t all that important in Chestnut Hill. It wasn’t as if you would do anything with it. Wasn’t as if you were going anywhere else.
Addie didn’t plan to tell Sophia there’d be no school. Her foster mother needed to get back to normal too, perhaps more than anyone else. Each death had been a blow that Addie swore she could see on Sophia’s fragile body. There’d been days when it was all she and Preacher could do to make Sophia eat. That’s when Preacher told her about the baby, so she’d understand how important it was for Sophia to be healthy. Addie had already known. Her mother had lost three babies after Addie, and she’d recognized the signs of pregnancy. She’d kept quiet, though, until they’d seen fit to tell her. Now she guarded that secret as ferociously as a bear with a single cub. It was theirs, and it made them a family—truly a family, trusting one another with their deepest secret. No one was going to take that away from her.
“Addie,” Sophia said, rising with a smile. “What did you catch?”
“Nothing.”
Alarm filled Sophia’s pretty face, and Addie could have laughed, as if returning empty-handed portended the end of the world. Sophia knew she always caught a deer or a few rabbits and if she hadn’t, then something was wrong. Having a person know you that well . . . it felt good.
“There’s men coming,” she said. “Preacher says they’re snake-oil peddlers, on account of the deaths.”
The alarm on Sophia’s face grew. “Oh my.”
“It’s all right. Preacher will stop them. He just wanted me to tell you. Are you feeling poorly?”
A wan smile. “Better today. Let me make you some breakfast—”
“I already ate. Took biscuits this morning before I left.” Addie paused, still just inside the door. “Can I go back? Help Preacher if he needs me? He seemed mighty worried.”
“Go on, then. I’ll stay inside. Last thing anyone needs is hearing me tell those peddlers where they can put their wares.”
“You can tell me,” Addie said with a grin.
Sophia laughed. “Go on, now. Tell Benjamin I’m feeling fine. I’ll make a hot lunch for both of you.”
* * *
When Addie headed back out, she could hear a hullabaloo down the road and knew Preacher hadn’t been able to stop the peddlers.
Addie blamed Millie. True, the old woman had left as soon as Preacher asked, but Addie blamed her anyway, for taking up his time with something as silly as confession when he had so much else to attend to these days. Addie believed in God; Sophia said she ought to, so she did. She just didn’t figure He had time to be listening to old gossips confess their sins. Not if He obviously hadn’t had time to listen to Addie’s prayers and save Charlie.
Addie stayed in the forest as she circled around to the commotion. People were spilling out of their houses now. Eager for the distraction. As she drew close, she could hear the whispers starting already. The men were doctors. No, they were undertakers. No, they were from the government, putting the whole village under quarantine.
The advantage to moving through the woods was that Addie could get a lot closer to the situation than those who’d just come out their doors. Someone had brought the two men straight to Preacher and the mayor, down by the community hall, so she was able to creep alongside it and hear everything unfolding.
“We’d like to have a word with you, Your Worship,” the younger stranger was saying, and Addie figured that meant Preacher, but it was the mayor who answered.
“Whatever you’re selling, we aren’t interested.”
> “I’m sorry,” Preacher said. “It’s been a very hard month for us. We really would prefer to be left alone in our time of crisis. We’ll certainly provide a hot lunch, though, and replenish any supplies you need before you go on your way.”
“I understand your hesitation,” the younger man said. “But I can assure you that we did not come to profit from your tragedy. Instead, we offer . . .” He cleared his throat. “I hesitate to say more in public, Your Worship. Please, grant us a few minutes of your time. After hearing what we offer, if you wish us to move on, I assure you, we will, without another word to anyone.”
Mayor Browning clearly wanted the men to leave. He was a brusque man by nature. Now his only child had just passed, and he had no patience for intrusions, no more than he’d had when Addie tried to visit Charlie. Yet Preacher took him aside, pulling him closer to where Addie hid.
“Let’s allow them to have their say,” Preacher said. “They’re here now. If we refuse, they may try to sell their snake oil on the side. We’ll hear them out, refuse their offer, and escort them, politely, from town.”
Mayor Browning allowed that this was probably the most expedient way to deal with the situation. When he went back and told the strangers to have their say, though, they insisted on having the whole town council present at the meeting. That led to more discussion, but finally the mayor broke down again. There were only two others who made up the council and they were there, anyway, listening in. He’d bring them all inside and get this over with, so he could return to his grieving wife.
* * *
Addie went in the back door of the community hall. It led to a small kitchen, where they would lay meals for a festival or other special occasions. Now the table was covered in food brought for the bereaved, most of it left untouched for days and starting to stink.
She could hear Mayor Browning in the next room, asking his wife to leave for a few minutes. She argued—her child would be in the ground soon enough and she wanted to spend every last moment at his side. But the mayor was firm. She ought to go, but only briefly. Leave out the back door and take some air. He’d call her back when he could.
Addie quickly retreated and hid herself under the porch as Mrs. Browning left. Then she crept inside again.
The hall had two main rooms with a wall between them, which could be removed for large gatherings. During the funerals, they’d kept the wall up—bodies would be laid out in the back room, while the service for one victim would take place in the front. From the voices, Addie could tell that the men were holding their meeting in the front room, so she slipped into the back one.
As soon as she saw the open coffins, she went still. She’d just finished thinking that this was where they kept the bodies and yet she hadn’t really thought about it at all.
He’s here. Charlie’s here.
I won’t look. I won’t. I’ll just walk—
Walk across to the other wall. Where his coffin lay. She couldn’t see Charlie, nestled too low, but she could tell the coffin was his by the items laid on the table. All the parents had done that, set out small personal belongings that would be laid to rest with the child. Things that mattered to them. Things that mattered to Charlie.
An American coin from a trader who told wild tales of life in the south. A ribbon from a parade in Toronto, on his trip there five years past. A drawing of a pure black Arabian horse, the sort of fine mount he dreamed of owning. Finally, an eagle feather, from last summer, when they’d climbed the bluffs together. He’d wanted her to have it, but she’d found one for herself. Now she wished she’d taken his gift. Something to remember him by.
She could still take it.
Steal from the dead? What would Preacher say?
Addie swallowed and yanked her gaze from the feather. She could hear voices settling in the next room as the introductions finished. This was what she’d come for—to hear what the strangers wanted. Not to lose herself in grief and wicked thoughts.
She hurried to the wall and pressed her ear against it.
PREACHER
Preacher tried not to pace as the other members of the town council introduced themselves. It was not a quick process. While there were only four, including himself, explaining their positions took some time. No one in Chestnut Hill held a single occupation, not if they participated in public life. The village was simply too small for that.
To supplement his own income, Preacher hired himself out as a scribe, composing letters for the largely illiterate population. He helped Sophia with the garden and chickens. He rode four hours a week to retrieve the village mail. And he’d begun letting Addie teach him to trap, though that was primarily an effort to participate more fully in his foster daughter’s life.
The mayor also ran the trading post out of a room in his house. The blacksmith covered any issues of law enforcement. The doctor raised cattle and hunting dogs. And, of course, when each explained his council position, he had to make it sound more important than it was, necessitating further pointless delay.
“And my name is Eleazar,” the younger stranger said as the council finally completed their introductions.
“Eleazar? Is that French?” the blacksmith—Dobbs—asked.
“It’s biblical,” Preacher said. “The first son of Aaron.”
“Yes,” Eleazar said. “It is a foreign name to you, I’m sure, but my family has been in this country since before the war with the Americans. My colleague’s roots go back even further.” A smile flickered on the man’s face. “Rene is indeed French, though I hope you will not hold it against him.”
The old man gave a creaky laugh. Preacher marveled that he managed to stay on his feet, let alone that he had traveled here on foot. Rene had to lean against Eleazar even now, and as much as Preacher hated to draw this meeting out any further, he could no longer watch the old man teeter.
“Please,” he said. “Have a seat. We don’t have much time to spare, but your walk must have been long. Rest your feet.”
“Thank you, Benjamin,” Eleazar said.
Preacher stiffened at the use of his Christian name. He could tell himself it was too familiar and they ought to use his surname. But the truth was that after three years of lamenting the fact that he seemed to have lost his name, lost his identity, he took offense now. It felt disrespectful, as if the man was refusing to acknowledge his place as the village’s spiritual representative. Which was ridiculous, of course. Preacher was just being testy.
Eleazar continued. “I understand you have suffered a great tragedy. Diphtheria, wasn’t it?”
The men nodded.
“And, if I may ask, how many were lost?”
“Thirty-six,” Preacher said. “We lost thirty-six souls.”
“Most of them children?”
Preacher tried not to squirm. None of the men sitting here needed each fact recited, every reminder thrown in his face. He could tell by Eleazar’s soft tone that he didn’t mean it that way, but that was what it felt like. Each of these men had lost someone—the blacksmith his eight-year-old son and toddling daughter, the doctor two grandchildren, and the mayor his son. The pain of waking daily to a world without them was reminder enough.
“Yes,” Preacher said. “Mostly children. I’m sorry to be blunt, but if you would like a fuller explanation, I would happily provide that in private. I don’t think we all need to be part of such a conversation, not when Mayor Browning’s boy lies in the room behind us.”
Preacher kept his voice low, but he would admit that was a little sharper a rebuke than a man of God ought to give.
“Your Worship,” Eleazar said to the mayor. “I apologize. I did not realize—”
“There was no way you could,” Preacher said. “However, under the circumstances, you can see why we’re being more abrupt than is Christian. If you could please tell us what you want, so we can return to grieving for our children . . .”
“What if you didn’t have to grieve?”
Preacher’s head whipped up as his ey
es narrowed. “What?”
Eleazar leaned forward. “We are here to offer life, my friends. Renewed life. The resurrection of your children.”
Preacher shot from his seat so fast that it crashed over behind him. “You would dare—” He struggled to get the words out. “I have seen peddlers prey on the fears and misfortunes of others, but I have never, in my life, heard anything as outrageous or egregious—”
“We are not peddlers, Benjamin. We are, like you, men of God—”
“You are not.”
“Preacher,” the doctor murmured. “Let the man finish.”
Preacher glanced over at Doc Adams, normally the most level-headed and reasonable of the group. The old sawbones held himself very still, giving no reaction, but deep in his gaze Preacher saw something terrible. He saw hope, and he wanted to stamp it out, no matter how cruel that might seem, because this was the wrong sort of hope, the absolutely wrong sort.
“There’s no harm in letting him finish,” Mayor Browning said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.
Yes, Preacher wanted to say. There is harm. Great harm. He’s offering you the thing you want most. The thing you know you cannot have. You must resist the temptation by refusing to listen.
Yet how could he say that? These were grown men, not schoolchildren to be lectured by a teacher—or a preacher. If he suggested that they were not capable of seeing through lies to truth, he would insult them. Which he’d gladly have done, to be rid of these hucksters, but it was too late. They’d already heard the insidious whisper of the serpent. They would find a way—any way—to listen to the rest.
“Please proceed,” Preacher said stiffly as he righted his chair. “Forgive my interruption.”
Eleazar waited until Preacher was seated again. Then he folded his hands on his lap and said, “This is no snake oil, my good men. I would not exploit your tragedy that way. When my ancestors came from the old country, they brought with them special knowledge. Great knowledge. Passed on from God Himself.”
Four Summoner’s Tales Page 2
