Arabella couldn't be sure.
She continued to stare. For almost a full minute Zaccheus had his head turned. Then Phoebe turned to glance at him, but Arabella couldn't see her expression: her niece's face was hidden by the sides of her flaring black bonnet.
Arabella smiled faintly to herself. Then she turned quickly around again. The sermon was over.
She poised her Angers above the keyboard and brought them crashing down in a hymn.
That night, in the cool darkness of the second-floor bedroom, Arabella turned her head sideways on the pillow. For a long moment she stared at her husband. He was a large, shadowy mound of blanket. 'Reverend,' she said hesitantly.
He stirred and she could feel him turning to face her. 'Yes, Arabella?'
'The Lord . . .' She bit down on her lip. '. . . Sometimes he moves in mysterious ways, doesn't he?'
'Yesss . . .' Elias Flatts's voice sounded puzzled. 'Is something bothering you?'
'N-noooo,' she said slowly. 'It's just that sometimes I wonder why he makes the things happen that he does.'
'What kind of things?'
'Oh,' she said vaguely, 'just things.'
Reverend Flatts reached over and patted his wife's hand. 'Ours is not to question why,'' he quoted softly.
She nodded her head in the dark. 'No, it isn't,' she replied. She felt suddenly better for not telling him about Zaccheus' eyes for Phoebe. The reverend would find out soon enough for himself.
And besides, it was the Lord's doing, of that she was certain.
She smiled faintly up at the dark ceiling. Even long after her husband's wheezy breathing grew deep and regular, she lay awake, remembering how, long ago, she had met him. How young she had been then— barely two years older than Phoebe was now. And her husband had been a young seminary student, slim and handsome and filled with shining fervor.
He was no longer slim and handsome, of course, but his religious fervor burned deeper than ever. Some things, at least, did not change.
And with those comforting memories, she fell soundly asleep.
The Methodist services themselves may not have particularly appealed to Zaccheus, but the readings from the Bible did, since it was filled with parables, heroic deeds, and age-old history. It was sweet poetry to his ears, something he could both appreciate and respect. But what he liked most of all about the services— besides the opportunity to be with Phoebe—were the hymns. They were writings of another kind. Poetry set to music.
Without telling anyone, he composed the words to a hymn of his own, 'The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven.' He did it while toiling in the fields or walking to and from town, keeping a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil handy in his back pocket. This way, whenever he had an inspiration, he could quickly jot it down.
Slowly the hymn began to take shape:
The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,
Behind which our Lord is throned,
Where angels glide in paradise,
Is our true heav'nly home.
The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,
Inside which we serve our Lord,
Saint Peter, guardian of the gates,
Give us our Christian sword.
The Might Golden Gates of Heaven,
In the bright blue sky above,
A place where Christian brothers
Find undivided love.
The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,
Dazzling, brilliant, and pure,
A mecca for the Lord's servants,
A place where we'll endure.
The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,
Our one true spiritual choice,
Where God in all his glory reigns,
A place where we'll rejoice.
The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,
Our own true spiritual home,
The only place for brothers
That we can call our own.
Finally the hymn was completed. Zaccheus showed it to Arabella Flatts.
She was amazed. She studied first the lyrics and then the handsome, remarkable lad who had written them. 'You wrote this?' she asked incredulously, tapping the sheet of paper with an index finger.
Zaccheus nodded timidly, his long gangly body ill- at-ease.
The reverend was right, Arabella thought, the Lord truly worked in mysterious ways. There was no longer any doubt in her mind but that the Lord had sent Phoebe here in order to attract Zaccheus to the congregation.
Each afternoon of the next week, Arabella sat down behind the church organ and set the words to music. Then she had the Muddy Lake Gazette print up sheets of the hymn. The Sunday when it was first sung, there were tears in the reverend's, Arabella's, and Zaccheus' eyes.
Zaccheus' tears were misconstrued for revelation, piety, and pride. The truth was, he was immensely sad. This was the first time anything he had created had moved himself and others, and rather than feeling thrilled, he was plunged into a deep depression: the first time his hymn was sung was the most important day of his life, but his family wasn't there to share in his pride. On that Sunday, like every other Sunday of his life, Nathaniel refused to go to church. There was work to be done. Without Letitia's help, and with Zaccheus around less and less, the time wasn't there to squander. Letitia and Theoderick weren't churchgoers either, so they stayed away. And Sue Ellen, who had planned on going for the first time in her life, awoke that morning with a burning fever. The flu she had caught would last a week.
From that Sunday on, 'The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven' was sung during at least two services a month. The reverend and Arabella sent copies of the hymn to neighboring towns, and it soon became the most popular hymn in the county. In one fell stroke it elevated Zaccheus above everyone in Muddy Lake. He had found his forte. Poetry.
Arabella Flatts was humble enough not to verbalize the credit that was due her for recognizing Zaccheus' potential and nurturing his genius, but every time she looked upon him, her eyes glowed with deep pride. Even Phoebe seemed to glance at him more often.
The Methodist community welcomed him with open arms.
5
Arabella Flatts dabbed her lips delicately with her napkin and pushed her carved lyre-backed chair back from the oval mahogany dining-room table. Phoebe took her cue and rose to her feet. Reverend Flatts, Zaccheus, and Reverend Tilton, who was visiting from Salem and had delivered this Sunday's sermon, also touched their lips with their napkins.
'A feast,' Reverend Tilton, whose wife had died the previous year, proclaimed in his rumbling voice. He placed his rumpled napkin down beside his plate and rose to his feet. He was a tall man, and towered high above Arabella. 'You are a hugely accomplished cook, Mrs. Flatts. I envy the reverend.'
Arabella flushed with pleasure. 'You must visit us more often,' she said.
'That I shall, that I shall.'
Reverend Flatts stretched out his arm in order to clap a hand on Reverend Tilton's shoulder. 'Let us retire to the study,' he suggested, stifling a burp. He turned and nodded. 'Come along, Zaccheus. There's something we'd like to discuss with you.'
Zaccheus looked puzzled. He had never before been invited into the sanctum of the reverend's study, to which the men who dined at the Flattses' traditionally retired after eating. He glanced first at Reverend Flatts, then at Reverend Tilton, and finally at Mrs. Flatts.
She smiled encouragingly, her topaz eyes sparkling, and watched as the men, followed by Zaccheus, went out to the hall and into the reverend's study, which was next door. When the study door snapped shut, she and Phoebe began clearing the table.
'Reverend Tilton delivered an inspiring sermon, don't you think?' Arabella said pleasantly as she made a stack of the plates.
Phoebe looked at her and nodded.
'Well, soon as the dishes are done, we'll go sit out on the porch. You know the saying, 'Men work from sun to sun, but women's work is never done.' Well, on Sundays I don't prescribe to that. We may have to cook, but we'll sit and rest, just like the good Lord intended.'
Phoebe nodded again, her face impassive. She didn't like doing dishes, nor did she like simply sitting around. In Natchez she'd always had plenty of friends about.
Phoebe Flatts was bored to tears.
From behind the closed door of the study the two women could hear the men talking. Phoebe ignored the voices, but Arabella nodded to herself. She knew what it was the men were discussing. Last month, she herself had broached the subject with her husband, and he had gone to see Reverend Tilton about it.
Which was why Reverend Tilton was here.
'It's time you gave your future some thought,' said Reverend Flatts. He was pacing the book-lined study, where twin oval portraits of Reverend Flatts's grandparents gazed down in oil-painted solemnity. 'Do you have any idea what you would like to do with yourself?'
'Sir?' said Zaccheus, who was seated on the edge of a settee upholstered with worn fabric. Reverend Tilton was seated opposite him, teacup in hand.
Reverend Flatts tucked his thick red fingertips into his waistcoat pocket. He took a deep breath, tucked his chin down into his voluminous neck, and looked thoughtful, his gray brush eyebrows knit, his lower lip jutting out. Then he looked up again and met Zaccheus' gaze. 'You're fourteen years old.'
Zaccheus nodded, frowning in puzzlement. 'Yes, sir?'
'I don't need to tell you how bright you are.' Reverend Flatts met the youth's gaze with his small porcine eyes. 'We're all very proud of you.'
Zaccheus looked away in embarrassment, a lump blocking his throat. He had learned some manners and gained some education, but he had yet to acquire the polish it took to accept a compliment gracefully.
'It's never too soon to start planning for your future,' the reverend continued. 'Within two years you'll have to decide what you want to do with your life.'
'What can I do?' Zaccheus blurted out helplessly.
The reverend smiled and glanced at Reverend Tilton. A silent signal seemed to pass between the two men. Reverend Tilton set his cup down, got to his feet, and cleared his throat. 'Have you considered a career in the ministry?' he asked softly.
'The . . . ministry?' Zaccheus' voice was a squeak.
'The ministry.' Reverend Tilton nodded. He gestured to Reverend Flatts. 'We are both in agreement that the Lord has blessed you extraordinarily. For a young man your age, you're filled with talent. We think you should put it to good use to do the Lord's work.'
'But I don't know if-'
'You have a calling?' Reverend Tilton asked gently.
Zaccheus nodded. He was unable to speak. Everything was moving too quickly for him.
'Many who are called to do the Lord's work do not even realize it in the beginning,' Reverend Tilton said flatly. Then he smiled benevolently down at Zaccheus. 'But the Lord knows, Zaccheus. He has singled you out to do his work.'
'Doing the Lord's work is doing fine work,' Reverend Flatts added emphatically. 'It's a highly respected career. A man can go far in the ministry.''
Zaccheus turned to Reverend Flatts.
'In the ministry,' Reverend Flatts continued, 'we do not only hold church services. We're . . . doctors of the soul. We take care of people's spiritual needs. We help heal their pain.'
'But . . . me?' Zaccheus' voice was thick with emotion and confusion. 'I don't know anything about it.'
'On the contrary,' Reverend Tilton said smoothly. 'Your hymn proves how sensitive you are. You have a mighty talent for translating the untranslatable and putting it into words for all to understand.'
Reverend Flatts cleared his throat. 'You don't have to make up your mind just yet,' he said, 'but if you're interested, you should let us know. These things take time. You must be interviewed and approved, take tests, go to college—'
'College!'
'Yes, college,' Reverend Flatts frowned solemnly. 'Most ministers are thus trained. And once you're trained and ordained, you will get a congregation of your very own. Even the chance to do missionary work overseas.'
'Overseas!' Zaccheus sat up straight. He didn't dare believe what he had heard. It was as if some distant siren were whispering sweet dreams into his ringing ears.
'Of course, should you decide to pursue such a career, we would have to find a suitable wife for you. One who will attend to your needs and the needs of your congregation, just as Mrs. Flatts attends to things here. There are many fine young devoted women. Women like our Phoebe, for instance.'
Zaccheus turned red.
Reverend Flatts coughed delicately, glanced away, and flushed lightly. Arabella might not have been aware of it, but he had not been totally blind to Zaccheus' attentions to Phoebe. And hadn't he, on the deathbed of his niece's parents, vowed to care for Phoebe? To help find her a suitable husband? No simple task.
Of course, there was still time. But slowly, things would have to be arranged, wheels set into motion. The first of these was to make certain that something would become of Zaccheus.
'You think about it,' Reverend Flatts said quickly. 'There's no need to decide just yet. For the time being, we'll keep it between us three, eh?'
Zaccheus tried to swallow the lump blocking his throat. The book-lined study seemed suddenly to reel dizzily around him.
He couldn't believe it. It was too good to be true.
An education.
A career, even if not one of his choosing.
The possibility to travel around the world, to the far- distant places of which he had dreamed so long.
And, possibly, Phoebe for a wife.
Everything, on a platter.
For a moment, a feeling of choked love rose up within him. He, who had never felt anything for religion, now felt something overwhelming stirring deep within him. Was this an accident? Was this fate? Or . . . was it truly the Lord's doing? Perhaps . . . just perhaps, it was.
Before Reverend Flatts showed Zaccheus out, he took him aside. 'Just remember,' he told him in that special tone of voice which implied both confidentiality and the caring advice of an elder, 'no good decision was ever reached in a rush. Take your time coming to a decision about this. Think it over well and consider all the consequences. Now, go home and try to get a good night's sleep.'
6
The following day Reverend Flatts rode out to the Howe farm to see Nathaniel.
Nathaniel had a pretty good inclination just why the reverend had come. He signaled for the short, fat visitor to follow and led him from the bright sunshine into the dark dankness of the cabin. The single big room, divided in two by the ragged curtain, smelled stale and rancid.
Nathaniel reached up into a cupboard, lifted down a stone jug of moonshine, and banged it down on the rough-hewn kitchen table. He pulled out the cork, which plopped noisily, and poured two mason jars full to the rim before sitting down. The reverend sat down too. From outside, at the other side of the lean-to, came the steady cracking sound of Zaccheus splitting firewood.
Nathaniel took a hearty swig before noticing that the reverend wasn't touching his drink. He gestured with his thumb at the reverend's jar. 'Cain't trust a man who don't drink,' he said tersely.
The reverend felt Nathaniel's dark eyes boring into his. Slowly he picked up the jar and quashing a grimace, sipped delicately. He suppressed a shudder. The corn liquor was strong and burned raw all the way from his throat down to his stomach. He never touched spirits, but he didn't dare turn down Nathaniel's hospitality: the farmer would be offended. More important, he needed Nathaniel to be in as good a mood as possible; otherwise, the mission on which he had come would surely fail.
'Lord, forgive me,' Reverend Flatts prayed soundlessly each time he took a tiny sip.
Both men sat there quietly for a time, Nathaniel draining his jar, the reverend making gingerly attempts at sipping his. Nathaniel scowled when he noticed that the level of moonshine in the reverend's jar was barely dropping. 'You ain't drinkin',' he accused softly. 'Come on, Rev'end, drink up like a man. It ain't gonna kill you.'
Reverend Flatts closed his eyes and drained his jar. He started cou
ghing uncontrollably and his eyes bulged like a carp's.
Nathaniel leaned sideways and slapped Reverend Flatts heartily on the back, which only made the fat little man's eyes bulge even further. Nathaniel filled both jars again. He raised his. 'Bottoms up.'
The reverend watched, fascinated, as Nathaniel drained his jar in one long gulp. Then he realized, with a shock, that Nathaniel was waiting for him to follow suit. 'Lord, forgive me,' he prayed silently again, and drained his jar. He sputtered painfully, his stomach began to churn, and it took all his strength to fight to keep the bile down. Nathaniel filled the jars again.
The reverend was feeling peculiarly light-headed, a feeling he had never been subject to before, and sweat suddenly began to pour from his body. His limbs felt weightless and the room began to reel around him. Amazingly, though, the more Nathaniel Howe drank, the more sober he seemed to become.
Finally Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, his eyelids drooping as if to sleep. But it was a deceptively sleepy look: he was very alert. 'So you come to take my boy away from me,' he drawled slowly at last.
The reverend didn't speak immediately. He had been trained to handle almost any situation gracefully, but here at the Howes' he was a fish out of water. He had never been inside the cabin before, and he found it stifling. Everything spoke of a desperate attempt at making the unlivable livable. It depressed him, revolted him, made him more ill-at-ease than he had ever been in his life and, strangely enough, at the same time gave him strength for what he had come to do. Making a better life for at least one member of this abjectly poor family—eliminating the specter of poverty for Zaccheus—that was, at least, a beginning for the Howes. That was, the reverend believed, the Lord's will.
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