A Deadly Shaker Spring

by Deborah Woodworth

  The hay bales were taller than she was. With one shaking hand, she steadied herself against the coarse wall of hay and edged around toward the sound. She peeked behind the bales. The Society’s guard dog, Freddie, lay on the dirt floor, his legs splayed unnaturally. His eyes remained closed as he whimpered again.

  Whimpering herself now, Rose sank to her knees and cradled Freddie’s mottled face and floppy ears in her lap.

  “Freddie, come on, boy,” she urged. “Wake up. Let me know you’re all right. What has happened to you?”

  Freddie’s limp body twitched. He showed no other sign of having heard the pleading of one of his favorite mistresses.

  Rose knew she could carry thirty-five pounds, even of awkward, gangly weight. Getting Freddie off the ground and herself upright presented more of a challenge. She eased her arms under his body and pulled him onto her knees. She stumbled to her feet, clutching the dog about his middle while his legs flopped helplessly.

  Whispering words of comfort to the unconscious animal, Rose cut across the grass to the Infirmary. She reached the doors just as Sister Josie Trent, North Homage’s only nurse, returned from breakfast.

  “He’s been drugged,” Josie concluded after a gentle examination. The Infirmary Sister had just turned eighty, but her fingers were as quick and sure as ever.

  “That’s my guess, anyway. I’m not a veterinarian. What sort of cruel nature would do such a thing?” Josie’s normally cheerful many-chinned face flushed with anger. “I’m hopeful he’ll come out of it, but nothing is certain. He is in God’s hands.”

  Freddie’s breathing had quieted somewhat. He lay on a long wooden examining table surrounded by shelves filled with bottles and boxes. Freshly packed round tins of Shaker herbs were stacked in precarious columns on a small oak desk.

  “Could the drug have been an herb, do you think?” Rose asked.

  “What you mean is, could one of us have done such a thing? I certainly hope not, but I can’t really say. Poor Freddie is only a small creature compared to us. And his physiology is different. Who’s to say how a large dose of valerian might affect him, for instance.” Josie stroked the dog’s long, silky ears. He didn’t respond.

  “I can’t believe a Believer would want to do this, or feel it necessary to use such a large dose. I’ll keep him here and watch over him. Good heavens, what can that be?” Banging and clattering in the outer waiting room sent Josie bouncing for the door, Rose close behind.

  The waiting room seemed crammed with Believers, all chattering at once and swirling like leaves in the spring wind. Samuel and another of the brethren whipped through the anxious crowd into one of the sickrooms. Between them, they carried Sarah. Sister Charlotte scampered behind them, supporting Sarah’s lolling head. Once pure white, Sarah’s cotton indoor cap was streaked with blood, as was the triangular kerchief which covered Charlotte’s shoulders and crisscrossed over the front of her bodice.

  Her rescuers eased Sarah onto a narrow bed. With deft, plump fingers, Josie removed the cap. The bleeding began again as she pulled the fabric away from the scalp.

  “First off,” Josie said, “she’ll need stitching up. Charlotte, fetch my bag from the corner, would you? Thanks.” She doused a sewing needle in alcohol and began to stitch quickly. Most of the Believers who had crowded in the room averted their eyes. They were hard but careful workers, and all had taken a vow of nonviolence. They rarely hurt themselves, and they viewed violent injury with horror. Rose was tempted to look away as well, but she sat on the edge of the bed and held Sarah’s hand, searching her face for signs of pain.

  “What happened?” Rose asked, without shifting her gaze from Sarah.

  Samuel stepped forward and squatted next to Rose by the bed. “We don’t know for sure. When Sarah didn’t show for breakfast, Charlotte went to check on her. Found her in the Sisters’ Shop, out cold at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “She was alone in the shop?”

  “Yea, as far as we could tell. We figured she’d tripped and tumbled down the stairs. Took a mighty bad crack on the head from hitting a step, that’s all we could figure.”

  Rose frowned. Sarah’s injury was on the lower right side of her skull, toward the back. She tried to imagine what type of fall would cause a wound in that spot. Perhaps if Sarah tripped and twisted sideways in an effort to catch herself? Rose made a mental note to check the steps at the Sisters’ Shop as soon as she knew Sarah would be all right. If the pine was nicked or worn smooth in any spot, it should be mended quickly. And it wouldn’t hurt to examine the area carefully, just to understand what had happened. Something bothered her, but she couldn’t piece it together from the tidbits in her brain. Too many incidents, that’s all.

  “Samuel, ask the sisters not to clean the staircase and hallway of the Sisters’ Shop until I’ve had a chance to look them over.”

  Samuel nodded and left immediately.

  Josie pierced Sarah’s skin with another stitch, and the injured sister moaned. As the needle entered her scalp yet again, Sarah cried out.

  “One more, Sarah dear, just one more,” Josie said.

  The final stitch jerked Sarah to full consciousness. Her unfocused brown eyes wandered among the faces before her. As the pain reached her awareness, her face puckered.

  “Cal,” she said, and, “Nay, nay.” Her eyes closed and she lost consciousness again.

  Josie raised her round face and searched Rose’s eyes. “What’s that all about, Rose? Who is Cal?”

  “I don’t know, Josie. But, believe me, I’ll do my best to find out.”

  THREE

  “WHAT CAN BE HAPPENING?” ROSE ASKED THE empty hallway. The hum of spinning wheels and low murmuring voices drifted from the spinning room to the bottom step of the Sisters’ Shop staircase, where Rose sat, chin in hands. With an irritated shake of her head, she began her task again. She walked slowly upstairs and back down again, her skirts held away from the wood, her eyes trained on the steps. Again, she saw nothing, nothing that could explain Sarah’s fall, nor even a hint that she had indeed fallen. Not a drop of blood, except on the floor at the spot where her head had lain.

  At the spinning-room door, Rose caught the eye of a young sister, who glanced up without pausing in her work. Her eyebrows lifted to indicate attention, while her deft fingers continued to guide and pull the clouds of fluffy wool into long, thin strands.

  “Isabel,” Rose said, “are you certain no one has cleaned here today?”

  “Yea, certain,” Isabel said. “We cleaned the rooms, of course, but we left the hallway, as Samuel said you wanted.”

  Rose nodded and turned to leave, ready to give up. And there, on the lower doorframe and nearby on the floor, she saw the blood. Rose knelt and peered closely at the stains. They lightly smudged the area, as if someone had tried to rub them off but hadn’t had time to finish the job. Not the sisters, Rose was sure. They would have left nothing but smooth, shiny wood, even if they’d had to sand it down and buff it. Nay, she was certain now. Someone from the world had been here, a hurried outsider who attacked Sarah and arranged the scene to look like an accident.

  Unlike the large office in the Trustees’ building, which was used for meetings with the world’s people, the Ministry office was meant for spiritual study and private confession. Elder Wilhelm seemed to fill any room, no matter what its size, so in this small, cozy room, Rose felt overwhelmed by his presence. He paced in rapid strides, his broad shoulders drawn back in rigid tension. He ran his hand through his thick white hair and glared at Rose, seeming to dare her to contradict him.

  “The world’s people will kill us if they can,” he said. “They have tried, again and again. From the beginning, they have imprisoned our leaders, burned our buildings, even sent their own so-called clergy to revile us. The world is carnal, violent, spiritually bereft. And these days they are at their most evil. They attack animals, Believers, it makes no difference to them; they are no more than animals themselves.”

  “We woul
d be wise not to leap to conclusions,” Rose said. “We don’t yet understand—”

  “Wisdom. Ha!” Wilhelm snorted in derision. “I leave wisdom to God. I listen to Mother Ann for understanding. And so should thee, if thy calling to be eldress is a true one.”

  Rose closed her eyes briefly and breathed a prayer. Calm returned. When she opened her eyes, Wilhelm was watching her, a disturbing light in his eyes.

  “Is thy position truly a calling, I wonder?” he asked.

  Rose steeled herself—not to engage in battle, but to avoid one, if she could. It was pointless to argue with Wilhelm. Rose believed that Shakers and the world could live in harmony. Wilhelm did not. He had barely tolerated her as the village’s trustee, in charge of business relations with the world. So to him she could never be worthy of the position of eldress—spiritual co-leader of the North Homage Believers. His equal.

  “The issue we must discuss,” she said firmly, “is whether we should call in the police to investigate what has been going on here.”

  “The police are of the world.”

  “Yea, of course, Wilhelm, but they have helped us before. Why not now? I could talk to that young deputy, Grady O’Neal. Maybe he could check around quietly. You said yourself that someone from the world let our animals go free.”

  “The police will not bother with such a matter. They would be glad to see us lose our livelihood.”

  “What about Sarah?”

  “Sarah fell down the stairs, nothing more, that is what they will say. She was too tired and slipped. Never mind that she is a Believer and used to hard work and early hours.”

  “I found no blood on the Sisters’ Shop stairs, but I clearly saw traces near the spinning-room door. Did Sarah fling herself against the doorjamb, then crumple herself at the base of the stairs to make it look like an accident? Nay, I think it more likely that she was attacked.”

  Now she had Wilhelm’s attention, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it as she watched his calculating glint reappear. When his thin lips curved into a tight smirk, she wished she had kept her thoughts to herself.

  “The police will not help thee,” Wilhelm said, “We are the Ministry, and we should work as a team, but I cannot stop thee from talking to them.”

  Rose knew Wilhelm all too well. Her every nerve flashed a warning. While it was true that he could no longer issue her orders, now that she was eldress, it was most unlike him to admit it.

  The United Society of Believers encouraged the practice of confession to cleanse the heart of impure thoughts and deeds and bind the Believer inextricably to the community. In the late-eighteenth century, the days of the Society’s foundress Mother Ann, the confession might include mortification and exposure of the Believer’s sins to the entire leadership.

  In later Shaker villages, including North Homage, this painful practice had evolved into private confession, sister to eldress and brethren to elder. Now that she was eldress, Rose knew full well that some Believers avoided confession for much longer than their goodness could possibly last. Rose herself had confessed at least monthly to Eldress Agatha, and had always felt purer for it. She hoped that Agatha would soon regain enough strength to hear her confession. Besides, she admitted to herself, she sorely needed Agatha’s wise counsel on these disturbing recent incidents. Wilhelm certainly was no help.

  Rose impatiently straightened a stack of papers on her office desk and drew out a ledger. She’d have to delay her visit with Agatha until later. In just twenty minutes, she had an appointment with Richard Worthington, perhaps the most prominent, and unpleasant, citizen of Languor, the county seat, eight miles of rutted road from North Homage. Worthington was president of the town’s largest bank. Rose had sparred with him many times before, and she found herself anticipating a rematch. The result of an overwrought temper, she supposed, or that’s what Agatha would have called it.

  Until the Society could find a suitable replacement, Rose had to perform double duty as eldress and as trustee, the business director of the community. Having grown up with the Shakers, she had left at eighteen to spend a year in the world. She had even fallen in love and had planned to marry. But she’d felt a powerful call to return. She signed the covenant, pledging all that she owned and all that she was to the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing. Her talents and experiences soon brought her the job of trustee.

  She had always loved being trustee, meeting with the world’s businessmen, overseeing real estate transactions, directing the practical side of Shaker life. To be truthful, she was in no hurry to train a new trustee. The role gave her a break from the difficulties of learning to be eldress, and an excuse not to live in the Ministry House, where elders and eldresses traditionally lived. She knew that eventually, as part of the Ministry, she would have to share the house and most of her meals with Wilhelm, but she hoped to delay the move until she felt more sure of herself.

  Twenty minutes passed quickly, and Rose glanced out her window to see Richard Worthington stride up the walk to the Trustees’ Office, a familiar arrogant tilt to his head. She had a few moments to study him. He was tall and firmly built, with precisely trimmed black hair streaked with gray. His suit and vest hung with tailor-made precision on his lean body. He had driven to North Homage, she knew, in a late-model car of some sort, probably newer than whatever car she had last seen him drive.

  Rose often saw Worthington in Languor when she was in town to perform some errand for the Society. From the giddy fluttering of the townswomen, she knew they thought him handsome and charming. To Rose, though, his thin lips, with their odd sneering curve, mirrored the coldness of his personality. Self-satisfied in his wife’s inherited wealth and his own success, he lacked compassion for his less fortunate neighbors who struggled in a grinding Depression. Several of the children recently sent to live with the Shakers were there because Richard Worthington had foreclosed on their parents’ farms. It was hard to believe that he himself had been brought up to the age of seventeen by the North Homage Shakers.

  “I hear you’ve had more trouble out here,” Worthington said, speculation in his ice-blue eyes.

  They were settled in Rose’s office on ladder-back chairs with firm, comfortable woven seats. Worthington carefully crossed one leg over the other so that the crease in his pants lay perfectly straight. Rose took in his highly polished black shoes and wondered if he even remembered how to muck out a barn or till the earth. I’m thinking uncharitable thoughts again, she scolded herself with a slight shake of her head. This is becoming a reprehensible habit.

  “Just a broken fence,” Rose responded with a forced smile. “Nothing serious. The sheep took advantage of the situation to nibble on a few tasty seedlings, but we rounded them up in no time. How did you hear about it?”

  Worthington shrugged an elegant shoulder. “You are in rural Kentucky, remember? All of Languor knows. Probably all of Languor County will know by tomorrow morning.” He narrowed his eyes. “I heard it was more than just a few sheep. I heard there was an injury, as well.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. Rose merely tilted her head in a gesture of polite attention. When Richard Worthington dug for information, he had a purpose in mind—a purpose that would benefit only Richard Worthington.

  “Rumor is it was deliberate,” he continued. “All this could be a problem, you know. If you’ve been making your neighbors angry again, I’d need to think hard about whether to approve any more loan applications from you. In fact, if there’s danger of property damage here, I might even need to call in a loan or two. To protect the bank’s investment, you understand.” He watched her face.

  Rose took a deep breath. She’d known Richard Worthington since she was four years old and he was nine, though she’d come to know him better as an adult. She had grown used to his ways. He was just toying with her, trying to get the upper hand.

  “There’s nothing serious going on, I assure you,” she said. Talking to the police might be unwise after all, she thought. Worthington would h
ear about it somehow. “Your investment is quite safe. In fact, Elder Wilhelm is eager to pay off our debts to your bank as quickly as possible.”

  This was true, Wilhelm yearned for the Society to be completely self-sufficient and debt-free. Unfortunately, Rose knew there was no money to finance his dream. She shifted subjects.

  “Why did you wish to see me today, Richard? I know our loan payments have arrived on time; I’ve counted and delivered them myself. I can’t imagine that—”

  “I’m not here as a banker,” Worthington interrupted, an edge to his normally smooth voice. “I’ve been asked to represent the Languor business community.” He cleared his throat. “We—the Languor businessmen, that is—we believe that you Shakers are trying to drive us out of business.”

  “Good heavens, how? Why?”

  Worthington’s thin lips curved into a stern frown. “We think that’s clear. You’re undercutting our prices. When Floyd Foster sells carrots for six cents a bunch, his customers tell him they can come out here and get the same amount for four cents.”

  “We sell carrots to Floyd Foster for three cents! If he is so foolish as to double the price he paid, naturally he takes the risk that someone will sell for a lower price. It seems to me that this problem stops at Mr. Foster’s door, not ours.” Rose clenched her teeth to control her rising temper. It didn’t work.

  “Furthermore, we Believers are not driven by unbridled greed, as some are. We strive for perfection in our work for the glory of God, and you know that, Richard Worthington.”

  Worthington’s thin, aristocratic face showed only the faintest pink, but Rose knew she had hit a nerve. “Unbridled greed?” he said, too quietly. “You accuse us of unbridled greed? Everyone knows how you are able to undercut our prices. Slave labor, that’s how. You use your people like workhorses. You get them up in the middle of the night, you keep them working till they drop, and you don’t pay them wages.”