All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By

by John Farris

  I passed the ranks of the boys' choir and moved toward a vacant spot in the front-row pew at the end of the gallery, which overlooked the altar below.

  There were roses, stephanotis and gardenias everywhere—in hanging baskets, woven into the white latticework that transformed the altar into a pleasing bower. Droplets from an alabaster fountain were ignited by the light focused through an octagonal window in the back wall of the chapel. I saw a mild rainbow, and unexpected halos appeared in the greenery. The air in the chapel was sweet, very nearly oppressive. Handheld paper fans waved everywhere, to little effect. It might have been my imagination, so recently had I come from the burning hills to the east, but I was certain that I smelled woodsmoke even here. Corrie was now approaching the altar with her father.

  There may have been tears behind the veil. From a distance I couldn't tell, but as she moved regally those last few yards to join her betrothed she acknowledged a nonagenarian auntie seated in a position of honor on the aisle. She paused ever so briefly, spoke, and fetched a smile from the frail old lady. Yes, Corrie was totally self-possessed even during these tense moments. Which was more than could be said for Clipper, who stood far more rigidly than military demeanor required, very nearly transfixed, his china-blue eyes wide as he stared at Corrie.

  I sighed for him, recalling my own unreasonable terror just before I was married to Nancy. I had walked out on the altar with my attendants in a mood of quiet anticipation, perhaps just a trifle impatient to have it over with. But my first glimpse of Nancy in her wedding gown did me in; my throat filled, my heart pathetically, I was afraid of fainting. I cannot imagine that even my first experience in combat will so completely separate me from my wits. I married Nancy two years ago, and even now I have only the dimmest memory of our exchange of vows. Nancy has said that when I placed the wedding band on her finger I was so cold to the touch she almost cried out. Boss raised us, trained us, to be afraid of nothing, but somewhere along the line he forgot to mention what an ordeal it could be to stand with someone you love desperately and say a few simple words before a minister. Boss has married three times himself, the last time to a woman a year younger than I, so I suppose the idea of marriage has never fazed him. But my father is an unusual man in every respect.

  Perhaps it was the depressing heat, or it may be that the tension of the unexpectedly long journey, filled with detours and delays, caught up to me just then. Thinking of my own wedding while watching another cast me into a mood of rueful lethargy. Suspended in a vale of fascination between past and present, I felt overwhelmed by shadows, an apprehension of events within events I couldn't hope to articulate.

  While the wedding proceeded as pageantry, at a cadence peculiar to dreams, my inner vision was sharpest for oddities, fragments, notions: the slight indentation of Corrie's slippers in the plush blue carpeting of the altar steps; the sibilance of water in the fountain, drops indelible in light and air like Lachiyma Christi; the vaulted, soaring organ; a nod, a smile, a yawn—all seemed too vivid, unbearable as reality. I looked at my Nancy, but was shut out by the floppy brim of the hat she wore, denied even the fleeting comfort of imagining that she would turn and find me (her long look, her astonished, blissful smile), for she sat next to my father, that powerful, coarse and goaty gentleman with one galled eye and a Viking's bent for ravishment.

  My qualms—childlike, rankly sexual—were of dispossession, though of course he had a young wife of his own, bolder and gayer than Nancy, and he would not be a predator within the limits of his own family. Nancy spoke to him. He dipped his head below the brim of her hat to listen. His hair was longer than ever, inches below his collar, coarse white and peppery gray and yellow-streaked, the precise yellow of nicotined fingers. He squeezed her slim hand with his own. The organ ceased, the silence thundered, I was sexually aroused as I often am in church, I looked elsewhere.

  On the altar Corrie's father had stepped back; the beads of sweat on the back of his balding head caught the light and glistered. The trainbearer with the overburdened bladder did his vanishing act; two photographers tried to be inconspicuous as they snapped pictures. And Clipper had moved stiffly to Corrie's side. I noted the single gold star on the collar of his tunic, an honor for which only a handful of graduates of Blue Ridge have qualified: For four consecutive years Clipper had stood first in his class.

  I expected him to be wearing the sword presented by the company to their First Captain on graduation day, the usual ornate affair, gold-encrusted, perhaps capped by an eagle about to take wing. I have such a sword, and I am always thrilled by the sight of it. But Clipper had chosen to wear another saber, straight instead of curved, a practical fighting man's weapon which I recognized. The blade was thirty-seven inches long, one and one-eighth inches wide at the hilt. It had been given to Boss in 1911 by the famed "Monsieur l'Adjutant," Cléry, master of arms and instructor of fencing at the French Cavalry School in Saumur—a rare appreciation of an outstanding pupil by the professional champion of Europe in the foil, dueling sword and saber. Now the saber belonged to Clipper, and it was no surprise that he had chosen to wear it in preference to the First Captain's saber. Honors do not come easily at Blue Ridge, but Boss bestows his blessings even more sparingly.

  It was a moment of conflicting emotion for me: There is no doubt that I was envious, yet a lump came to my throat that resisted swallowing. I was so proud of Clipper I wanted to shout—perhaps also I wanted to break the languorous, melancholy spell that had enfolded me, to give Clipper respite, bring a smile to his strained face.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God . . ."

  The pastor, wearing the scarlet hood of his Oxford University degree over a black academic gown, had begun the ceremony. In a few minutes then, with a burst of Mendelssohn and the traditional arch of sabers, it would be over. My mind wandered. The reception, I recalled, was to be at the historic Stonewall Jackson residence situated just off campus, a landmark now administered by the state of Virginia. It had been secured for the reception through much arm-twisting, I was sure, plus a heavy outlay of cash, but the usual site of cadet wedding receptions, the Officer's Club, would not have been large enough or grand enough for this affair.

  ". . . an honorable estate, not to be entered into unadvisedly, but reverently, discreetly, and in the fear of God."

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Hackaliah standing at the rear of the gallery near the steeply pitched choir stall, a long way for his dimming to perceive the exchange of vows taking place a hundred feet away. But I'm sure that just being there was enough for Hackaliah, our other "boss," a part of the family from my earliest memory. He was already well into his thirties when he became Boss's "striker" just before the turn of the century, which made him at least seventy-five years old. Even Hackaliah couldn't reckon his true age. He remained broad-shouldered and imposing despite the years, but now as he stood there in his wrinkled linen suit he also looked haggard and ill to me, off-color, and his hands wrung a Charleston planter's straw as if he intended tearing it apart.

  "If there be any present who can show just cause that these parties should not be legally joined together . . ."

  When I returned my attention to Clipper and Corrie I felt it for the first time: a faint shuddering movement, as if the entire chapel had been jolted noiselessly to its foundations. A large tree falling nearby would have produced an identical sensation, and I recalled walking on Park Avenue in New York, feeling the street quake in a similar manner from the vibrations of the many trains in the tunnels of Grand Central Station. I thought nothing of the chapel tremor, and apparently no one else did either.

  "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

  But there was a second tremor, perhaps three seconds after the first. Earthquake? Possibly, yet I doubted there had been a noticeable quake in this part of Virginia for hundreds of years. Again it happened! Truly shaken this time, a few of the more apprehensive wedding guests began to look around and whisper.
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  "What was that, daddy?" a child asked.

  Her voice was not loud but it carried. On the altar the minister hesitated and rubbed his cheek, staring at Clipper as if he'd forgotten his name. This time I noted the interval: exactly three seconds between tremors. So it could not be an earthquake, as I understood the mechanics of earthquakes: They rumbled and roared and shook the earth continuously. Here in the chapel there was a definite pause between episodes, almost as if—

  "Jebediah Wil—uhhumm, excuse me. William Jebediah Bradwin, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife—"

  The venerable chapel shook for the eighth time; it was obvious to all that the shaking had become more pronounced, as if the walls and beams could scarcely withstand these mysterious tremors. There was a fine cloud of dust in the air; it could be seen sifting down near the back of the gallery. The boys in the choir were staring at the ceiling above their heads. The stout organist inadvertently pressed a key and the organ pealed dismally. Nine—ten—Now voices were louder throughout the sanctuary, the wedding seemed all but forgotten. There was no panic, only a restless dismay.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said the pastor, "if you please—"

  His mouth clamped shut as we all were jolted. This time a general outcry resulted which grated on the nerves. Wedding guests were everywhere on their feet. I was astonished to see Clipper step away from Corrie, clasping his head as if in pain.

  Hackaliah's callused hand pressed my right shoulder. I looked up into his eyes. He stank of fear.

  "It's the bell, God help us, the bell!"

  Yes, the bell! It had been in the back of my mind but I had dismissed the notion as incredible because no sound accompanied its destructive, forbidden tolling. Nonetheless only the 9000-pound bell in the tower above the choir stall and organ loft could cause such stress as it swung back and forth. Because of the deteriorating condition of the chapel, the bell had not been used for twenty years, and I wondered angrily whose idea of a joke this was. Undoubtedly the clapper had been muffled so that its stroke would go unheard while losing none of its force.

  "I'll put a stop to this," I said, rising, but Hackaliah held me in place . . .

  "No way you can stop it," he said. "Nobody there! You just get Clipper out of this. place. Quick, 'fore he—"

  Hackallah's eyes left my face; startled, he reared back, still clutching my shoulder so hard that pains shot up my neck. Then he released me, turned me in the direction of the altar.

  Clipper had drawn his saber. He stood looking into the air, disoriented, demoralized, the narrow blade half-raised, flashing like a mirror as he turned and the chapel shook and the sound of the cracking roof threw the wedding guests into an uproar.

  From seats all around me a scramble ensued. I was jostled but could not look away from Clipper, although there remained a moment during which I might have acted, taken command to quell the frenzy. On the altar no one moved. The pastor, clutching Scripture, was staring at the ceiling, tongue between his teeth. Opposite me the gallery wall cracked and a window shattered in a dislocated frame. This provoked fresh screams, renewed clawing and shoving as the few doorways became clogged with people trying to get out before what now seemed the inevitable collapse of the chapel.

  On the altar Clipper whirled full circle, reckless with the saber, which he held in both hands; his best man was forced to dive to the carpet to escape injury. I could not believe what I was seeing. I was brave enough—my courage cultivated, enforced by will and an ingrained sense of obligation not to fail, not to let anyone down—but Clipper had been born fearless, he would take any risk, accept any dare, and emerge laughing from a self-imposed ordeal.

  What had happened to my brother?

  The floor of the gallery was moving. I felt as if I were trying to maintain my balance on a barrel rolling lumpily downhill. I grabbed the railing to keep from falling. Hackaliah was yelling at me, but I couldn't distinguish words. A bridesmaid had run for her life; two more of the girls clung to each other, stood sobbing in a litter of flowers and fallen trellis. Clipper's attendants were rooted, their own eyes reflecting his manic distress.

  Only Corrie Billings seemed not to have surrendered to pandemonium. Reaching out, she attempted to calm Clipper, bring him to his senses, by holding the blade of the saber immobile in a gloved hand. I caught my breath, pulse knocking like death at my temples, because I was aware of the extraordinary keenness of that blade.

  No one will ever know what she said to him, or if she spoke at all. But I'm sure there must have been love in Corrie's eyes even as Clipper's eyes congealed with loathing and he drew the blade from her fist. It was an easy, unforced, practiced withdrawal, as if they'd done it many times before in a ceremonial way. Corrie opened her hand and the palm was already red with her blood. And I think it must have been the sight of blood as the silent bell continued to pound the chapel to pieces and the screams of the trapped guests assaulted the senses, the inescapable fact of first blood, that sent Clipper into his paroxysm of destruction.

  Oh, and he was good with the saber, as Boss had patiently taught.

  A flick of his wrist and slight thrust and the level blade went right through Corrie's veil and the column of her throat inches beneath her raised chin. Then the veil behind her head filled as if inflated by a gust of air, a backward breath, and I saw the elegant tip of the wetted blade holding the veil away from her nape for an instant before Clipper retracted it, stood stiffly presenting his saber level and red at the razor edge for her inspection. Corrie nodded, weakly, hands going to her throat; then she turned and, head high, eyes deeply dreaming behind the veil, both hands clasping the wound so that nothing showed, started down the altar steps as if to return to her father, who was already packed and panting in the middle aisle, unaware like almost everyone else of what had been done to Corrie.

  On the last step she suddenly and awkwardly lost her motor control and fell to one side into Boss's arms. Her hands came away from her throat and blood began pumping everywhere, as if from a burst hose.

  I screamed—unheard—and vaulted over the railing, not caring who or what was below me. I landed feet first on the seat of a nearly abandoned pew, teetered, almost had my balance, then lost it and twisted my left ankle as I stepped off the bench. The pain brought tears to my eyes but didn't stop me for long.

  While Nancy shouted for help and Corrie lay bleeding to death in Boss's arms, her limbs jerking so ecstatically she was difficult to hold, two of Clipper's attendants seized him. But they were unable to contain him. Clipper ducked, shrugging one boy off, holding his saber in a firm two-handed grip. With an artful swipe he flicked away an offending hand; it fell somewhere among the green plants on a trellis and stuck there, climbing disembodied toward heaven. The second boy received a blow on the head but with the flat of the saber, and so his life was spared.

  I heard more sounds of shattering windows and glimpsed men throwing themselves through the jagged panes to safety outside. Plaster fell in chunks from the ceiling. I clambered over the rows of pews toward Boss, ignoring the hot irons in my ankles. A woman had fainted in her seat. A little boy, perhaps her son, was down between pews, clinging to her hand, shivering. He pleaded for help as I crawled over them. But I instinctively felt that Boss most needed my help.

  On the altar Clipper had whirled again, his saber above his head. Overheated by the act of murder, his face was awry with a crazed passion. Boss was pushed off balance by a woman who stepped over the doomed Corrie without a glance. Boss saw me coming and was momentarily stalled by surprise; then he reacted to my frantic, pantomimed warning.

  He turned, but Clipper was already on him. The long arc of the saber sheared Boss at the neckline and his expression was still puzzled, the blighted eye squinted almost shut, as his head bounded onto a pew seat (a horror so extreme I refused to acknowledge that it could have happened). Nancy, chalk-faced, backed away from Clipper, only to be shoved forward almost to the saber's edge by someone in the aisle behind her. I realized that
Clipper intended to kill her too. And there was no way I could reach them in time.

  But Clipper was distracted as a large piece of the ceiling fell, close to him. He dropped his saber, then groped for it. One of the bridesmaids had completely lost her wits and was sitting with her back to a side pillar of the altar, brow knitted in concentration as she tried to brush the white streaks of plaster from her delicate chiffon dress. The boy whose hand had been cut off was receiving emergency treatment from brother officers. The pastor had led two hysterical girls to a chancel door half-hidden by greenery and was doing his best to persuade them to leave. For some reason they balked at going through the doorway, although from there it was just a short flight of steps to safety.

  I propelled myself over the last pew and seized Nancy's arm.

  She looked at me as if she'd never seen me before. "See what happens? See what happens?" she cried, her eyes curiously without life. "I think—"

  I shook her and screamed in her ear."Nancy! Follow the pastor! He'll get you out of here!"

  "Can't leave. Boss—oh—ahh—and Corrie—don't you see Corrie?" Her eyes widened, her voice squealed. "You're standing on her!"

  I was, but poor Corrie would never know. I pushed Nancy toward the nearby steps. "Run!" I begged her. I knew Clipper had retrieved his saber. I turned, protectionless, one arm raised against the attack I was expecting.

  Clipper was poised to hack me to pieces, but when he saw my face he froze. I don't know why.

  "Clipper," I said, "don't do it anymore! Don't do it." I was babbling, but I didn't care. Anything to keep him motionless, to stay the saber and give Nancy precious seconds to escape. I was conscious of her moving away, stumbling up the altar steps. I knew she was watching Clipper too. But his eyes were on me as the silent tolling bell continued its slow demolition of the chapel. By then the chapel may have been half-emptied; there was no one else around us and I was barely receptive to the morbid wail, the voices of the trapped and threatened. My lack of awareness undoubtedly was due to shock, that plus the strain of continued eye contact with my demented brother as I summoned the will to control him.