“Very good, Martha,” said Brother Whitelaw.
“I seek to serve God with my life,” said Martha, giving Tirzah a sidelong glance.
“We should all do that, I hope,” said Tirzah, a bit huffily.
“With humility and a grateful heart: Make me Thy loom and knit therein this twine, and make Thy Holy Spirit, Lord, wind quills,” Brother Whitelaw reminded them, his voice going stern. “You have a chance to redeem Eve if you can do your work without pride and without expectation of divine favor.”
The girls all exchanged uneasy looks, and finally Selah Wilkins, the most devout of the girls, said, “We deplore our sins, and ask only that God allows us to please Him in whatever way His purpose is best-served.”
“Amen,” said Charity with the others as she thought of her mother in her prison cell, and how God had rewarded her for her dedication to Him.
Grandmother was ailing; she lay propped up in her bed, half-a-dozen pillows supporting her; her breath was wheezy and she had turned the color of washed curds. Her hair was tucked under her cap, but the few, iron-grey tendrils that had escaped were lank. She had been fine until word had come, three days ago, that her daughter’s appeal had been denied, and that Salome would be in prison for another twenty-three years, barring any new legal maneuvers. Grandmother had not been herself since she had heard; she had retreated into illness and prayer, attempting to surrender her will to God, to embrace the martyrdom He had decreed for her daughter. Even now, she was whispering her penitent entreaty to God, to make her acquiescent to His Will.
“Do you want anything?” Charity asked as she adjusted the blankets around her grandmother’s torso. She, too, was feeling shocked, caught up in disbelief that her mother was being treated as if she were a dangerous serial killer. By caring for her grandmother, she hoped to ease the pain that gnawed at her. “I’ve got chicken broth on the stove, and both Missus Wilkinses brought over food for you. Lewanna Wilkins has taken Grace for the time being, so I can devote myself to you.”
“In the footsteps of saints and of martyrs I tread,” muttered Grandmother, reciting one of the Brethrens’ favorite hymns.
“That you do, Grandmother,” said Charity, doing her best to soothe the old woman. “You have always followed the saints and martyrs.”
“Let nothing stay me now from Thy Word fulfilled,” she continued, her eyes fixed on the middle distance.
“Grandmother,” said Charity, a bit more forcefully. “Do you want something to eat? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can take your oath as an angel, and make way for God to bring Paradise to earth,” said the old woman in sudden fierceness.
“Anything else? Is there anything I can do for you—right now?”
Grandmother blinked, then said, “Bathroom.”
Of all the services she had to render her grandmother, this was the one that Charity liked the least, but she nodded. “Let me help you.” She sighed as she turned back the covers, then positioned herself to wedge her shoulder under her grandmother’s arm so she could support her through the living room and across the little hallway into the bathroom, where she maneuvered her grandmother onto the toilet, then left her to do what she had to do, returning to assist her grandmother back to bed.
“Your father ... your father,” said Grandmother as Charity eased her back onto her pillows.
“What about my father?” Charity asked, not truly interested, for she had heard the same stories about him for years.
“He spoke against your mother, against the Brethren, so Brother Breedon told me.” She sounded stronger now, but also deeply ashamed. “He spoke in court against us all.”
“Spoke against?” Charity was baffled. “How could he? When?”
“Before the court that reviewed your mother’s conviction,” said Grandmother, and lowered her head in prayer. “Brother Breedon says that it was his testimony that accounts for the severity of her sentence. He told the unbelievers that Salome was falsely called an angel, one devoted to the expiation of the Sins of Eve.”
“But how is that possible? My father’s been dead for five years,” said Charity. “I put flowers on his grave last Sunday.”
“Oh, yes, dead. Dead.” Grandmother coughed and began to pray.
“If he’s dead, how could he—?” She stopped as she encountered the quelling stare her grandmother gave her.
“You go pray for his soul, girl; he’s dead as if he were in the grave. And bring me a bowl of broth and rice.”
Relieved that Grandmother was seeming more like herself, Charity adjusted the coverlet before hastening off to the kitchen, murmuring as she went, “Make me, O Lord, Thy spinning wheel compleat ...”
“The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make His Face to shine upon her and give her peace; the Lord be gracious unto her. Amen,” Joshua Breedon said as Grandmother’s coffin was lowered into the grave; the October day was cool and blustery, and there was a promise of rain in the scudding clouds. “Ten months an invalid, then God relieved her suffering.” Brother Breedon tossed the ritual handful of earth onto the unfinished pine box.
“Amen,” echoed all the Brethren; the entire commune had attended Grandmother’s funeral, a rare distinction among the Brethren.
“She has gone before her daughter, to make the way ready for Salome’s coming to glory as an angel of the Daughter of Esther,” Breedon continued, his stirring, musical voice as persuasive as the deep notes of an organ. “When she enters before God, the angels in Heaven will know her as one of their own. The heavenly hosts will salute her with trumpets and cymbals, and she will be given wings and a robe of white. Evangeline Milcah Blaine devoted her life to the tasks of faith. She prepared her daughter for the rigors of her mission, she sheltered her granddaughters, and provided an example for her granddaughter Charity. Hers was a path of humility and service, her devotion an example for all of us. Although she never went on a mission herself, she was prepared to do all that she, as a woman, could to open the way of salvation. As a distaff Elder of the Brethren, she was a living example of sanctity. We will honor her memory by naming the next mission for her, and the retribution we deliver will shine more brightly for her Grace.”
Another chorus of “Amens” endorsed this last, and a few of the men took shovels to begin to cover Charity’s grandmother’s coffin with dirt.
Tirzah Flemming, standing next to her father, looked over at Charity, her manner prim but satisfied. “The Brethren will decide about your grandmother’s house tonight,” she said just above a whisper.
“I know,” Charity whispered back as she held Grace’s hand tightly so her sister would not try to play in the earth being piled on Grandmother’s grave.
“They’ll probably assign someone to live with you,” Tirzah said, speaking a little more loudly, a hint of smugness in her pious smile. “It wouldn’t be right to let you live alone.”
“I am old enough to manage,” said Charity, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the two panel trucks lumbering out of the main drive, carrying off commune honey to the organic markets in the nearest cities. In a few days there would be more trucks, and they would take pickles and preserved fruits to market.
Joshua Breedon held up his hand for silence. “There is much to do. Go about your tasks with watchful hearts, so you do not encounter snares left for you by Satan.”
“Yes, Father,” said Tirzah, staring at Charity.
Ruth Bradley glanced at Charity, her face so guarded that there was almost no trace of her thoughts showing there. She nodded once and followed her stepfather away from the grave; she never looked back.
“What do you think will happen now?” The question came from Isaiah Breedon, who was fourteen and becoming restive.
“I’m going back to my grandmother’s house,” said Charity, and started to walk away.
“But you will have to send your sister to someone who can care for her.”
Charity kept on walking.
The year fad
ed into winter; at Christmas Brother Breedon announced the betrothal of Charity Blaine to Noah Whitelaw; he moved into her grandmother’s house with her the day they were married. She tried to esteem him, but secretly found his habits disgusting, though she said nothing to anyone. Her pregnancy was confirmed at the start of June, and her training for her angelic mission began in earnest.
“You will need to make a practice journey into the city,” Brother Breedon announced to Charity in August.
“But—” She indicated her expanded abdomen. “I can’t move quickly, and I’ll attract attention.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll give you instructions to find the place you are to go. People will help you, seeing that you’re with child, and a young woman. If you tell them you are lost, they will help you more.” He beamed at her, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Your marksmanship is improving quite satisfactorily, and it is time you learned the targets you will be searching out. You will not only punish the ungodly for their faithlessness, you will be revenged for your mother’s incarceration.”
“I’ll try to do what God wishes me to do.”
“As angels will do,” approved Brother Breedon.
As eager and curious as Charity had been about seeing the huge, sinful city where her mother had been tried, she found herself developing a knot in her belly almost as large as her growing baby. The streets were so crowded, the people so unfamiliar that when the truck driver hauling pickles and preserves from the commune dropped her off in front of the court house, Charity wanted to climb back into the cab and hide there until they were once again out of the city and back at the commune.
“Angels persevere in God’s work: My words and actions that their shine will fill Thy way with Glory, and Thee Glorify,” she said aloud, repeating the lesson Brother Breedon had told her before she left. “God will not look lightly on those who fail to avenge His Cause.”
She stood facing the Franklin County Court House, tempted to cross the street and go inside, though her orders had told her to go into the small park behind her and find a place from which she could shoot when she came back with her rifle. It took her a few minutes to select a crosswalk; by the time the light changed to allow her to walk, she had turned all her thoughts to the Judgment and how she would do God’s work in bringing it about through the deaths of those who had turned away from God.
The park occupied half a city block, with a fenced playground at the far end. Charity went in that direction, looking up into the branches of the old oaks that clustered along the east side of the park. She realized that she would be able to climb up the playground fence and get into the branches of one of the trees, and her heart leaped in anticipation. After her child came, she could do the climb. On the day of her mission, if she arrived before dawn, she could be in the branches with no one the wiser. Satisfied that she would be able to fulfill the task set for her as an angel, she made her way to the supermarket that the truck driver had pointed out to her.
“So there you are,” the driver called out. “Do you want to see where your fruits and vegetables and honey end up? I can wait if you want to take a look around inside.”
Charity thought of her father, lured away from God by such things as the worldly luxuries offered inside the store, and shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t want us to be late, getting back to the ... farm.” She had been told not to call her home a commune or a compound, and was relieved that she remembered.
“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” The truck driver started the engine and eased the gears into place; the truck rolled forward.
“Yes, I did.” She beamed at him, knowing that when she returned, she would be cleansing the earth of sin and restoring Eden in all its goodness and simplicity.
The truck was moving faster and the driver changed gears again, making his way through the traffic with ease. “You ever been to the city before?”
“No,” said Charity. “But now I’ve seen it, I know I’ll be back,” she added as the truck bore her back to the compound and her final preparations for her angelic mission.
OLD MR. BOUDREAUX
Lisa Tuttle
LISA TUTTLE was born in the United States, but has been resident in Britain for almost thirty years. She began writing while still at school, sold her first stories while attending university, and won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Science Fiction Writer of the year in 1974.
She is the author of eight novels (most recently the contemporary fantasy The Silver Bough) and numerous short stories, in addition to several books for children. She edited Skin of the Soul, an anthology of horror stories by women, and Ash-Tree Press is publishing a multivolume collection of her short fiction, beginning with Stranger in the House: The Collected Short Supernatural Fiction, Volume One.
“When I was growing up in Houston I loved to go exploring along the banks of Buffalo Bayou, in the hidden no-man’s-land that existed just beyond the end of our street,” remembers Tuttle.
“I was reminded of this a few years ago when, on a visit to Houston, some friends took me to their local hike-and-bike trail, and once again I saw the slow brown water glittering in the sunlight, the turtles on rocks and snakes disappearing into the undergrowth beside the bayou, and realized that this patch of wilderness still existed inside the modern city—and wondered what other impossible things might be out there that an adult might dismiss as a childish fantasy. That’s when I had the idea for this story.”
SOME THINGS DON’T CHANGE, but feelings do.
I was tense and unhappy, my mind on death, as I crossed the Atlantic, but back on the ground again I suddenly relaxed. Around me people spoke English or Spanish instead of French, and the familiar cadences of Texas carried me back to infancy. Even in the impersonal setting of the airport I felt oddly comfortable, and when I stepped outside the air-conditioned interior and the moist, hot, living air of Houston licked my skin, I could have been a baby in my mother’s arms. For the first time since I’d heard that my mother was dying, I relaxed and just accepted it. Maybe, after ninety-six years on the face of the earth, she was ready to go home.
When I reached the hospital downtown, I found her unconscious, but alive. Maybe she slept, I don’t know, but behind their shut lids her eyes did not move, and there was no response from her when I spoke. Her breath sounded scarily loud and rasping but scarcely stirred the white sheet stretched above her thin chest. I didn’t need the nurse to tell me how little time was left.
I sank into the molded plastic chair at her bedside, and gathered her cool little hand into both of mine where it lay, relaxed and empty.
Tears pricked my eyes and I felt a swirl of panic behind my ribs. Fifty-eight years old—nearly an old woman myself—I was scared and helpless as a child about to be orphaned. What could I do?
I leaned over and kissed her soft, withered cheek. Pulling back, I blurted, “I love you.” It wasn’t the way we’d been used to talk to each other, but maybe I shouldn’t have taken so much for granted. So I stumbled on, trying to cram into a few minutes the appreciation I should have expressed hundreds of times over the years, saying sorry for all my sins and omissions. Such talk would have embarrassed her, I knew, if she’d heard me, and made her worry that I was unhappy, so she would have struggled to reassure me, and we’d have ended up in a welter of awkward misunderstanding—I could only make things worse at this late stage by apologizing for things I could not, and did not deeply even want to change—so I shut up as abruptly as I’d begun.
Still not a flicker from her; only her breathing continued, painful-sounding and slow.
After awhile, unable to bear the silence, I whispered, “I wish I could do something.” She had done so much for me. She had always been the one to give, and I had simply taken. My mother was one of those old-fashioned women—I believe a few still exist, somewhere—who defined herself by her relationship to others. She lived through her family and the people who needed her help, and for her the reward was in the doing. She never re
sented the demands of others, yet found it difficult to ask for anything for herself. She would have liked half-a-dozen children but had to make do with me, the only baby she managed to carry to term, and at an age when she’d nearly given up hope. She’d cared for my father’s brain-damaged younger sister for many years, and had nursed her own mother through her final illness—she’d actually moved into my grandmother’s house when she could no longer cope on her own. The move itself was no sacrifice—my father was still alive then and went along with her quite happily to live in the bigger house—and my grandmother was of a generation and social standing who’d hired servants as a matter of course, so it wasn’t like my mother became a drudge tied down to household chores—but, to me, such a life, such an obligation was unthinkable. I had always been free in my life and my loves, free to come and go as I chose and follow my own personal star. As long as I made enough to support myself—and, somehow, I’d always managed—there were no restraints on my freedom.
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