“Is she too tired for a visit, do you think?”
“Nay, run along to her room. I’ll let you go alone this time. I’m up to my ears in tonic mixing, what with these spring coughs and colds going around.” With a wave at Rose, Josie turned back to her desk, littered with opened tins and apothecary jars containing syrups and ground dried roots.
Agatha was awake but pale and groggy. “Don’t tax yourself, my friend,” Rose said. “Josie tells me you slept poorly, so you rest and I’ll do all the talking. As if that weren’t always the way!” She was glad to see a feeble smile, though it faded quickly. She began to stroke Agatha’s forehead, hoping she might drift into sleep.
Agatha opened her eyes wide and stared at the empty shelves where her old journals had been. She pushed her forehead up against Rose’s hand.
“What is it, Agatha? Are you concerned about your journals? I took them, remember? I thought you wanted me to.”
Agatha fell back against the pillow. With her left hand, she fumbled for Rose’s hand, still hovering above her head. She grabbed it and squeezed. Despite her tiredness, her grip was firm. Rose was elated. She could see a change in Agatha, more clarity.
“Agatha, are you feeling well enough for me to tell you what else has been happening lately?” Agatha squeezed and gave a slight nod.
“Well, I’m in a pickle, I don’t mind telling you. Sarah is in the middle of something. I found her walking through the orchard with a man, who was being much too familiar with her. Not one of the brethren, I’m thankful to say. She seemed genuinely contrite and begged to stay with us, but when I told her she would have to confess everything to me, she balked. Now I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t speak much of her life away from North Homage, but clearly she suffered deeply at some point. I’m not sure when or how, though. When she speaks of her mother, she seems to feel genuine affection, almost worship.”
Agatha’s brow furrowed, but she remained quiet.
“Sarah has seemed so at peace here,” Rose continued, “and a very good Shaker as well. How can I ask her to leave? And yet how can I let her stay if she refuses purification through confession?”
Agatha’s eyes closed briefly.
“But I shouldn’t bother you with these problems,” Rose said. “They are my job now, so I must solve them.” She rocked the cradle gently. “I’ll keep reading your journals, will that help?”
Agatha opened her eyes and gazed at Rose. She seemed to be tiring after her show of strength.
“There may be another way out of this mess,” Rose said, patting Agatha’s hand. “Perhaps I can find the man Sarah was with, talk with him, find out more about what is going on between them. It may be more innocent than it looked, after all. He looked familiar to me, so perhaps he lives in Languor. Yea, that is what I’ll do, I’ll speak with this Caleb Cox, and I needn’t bother you about it anymore.”
Rose bent to kiss Agatha’s forehead but halted halfway when she saw that her old friend’s faded blue eyes had widened in what looked like alarm.
“What is it, Agatha? Do you know this Mr. Cox? Shouldn’t I try to speak to him? Is that what concerns you?”
Agatha nodded her head repeatedly. Her thin chest rose and fell quickly with the effort. She made a strangled sound that conveyed fear.
Rose was puzzled. How would Agatha know this stranger? And why would she be alarmed by him? She longed to ask, but Agatha’s breathing had become labored, and pink spots appeared in her cheeks. She’d had too many strokes, and Rose had no intention of causing yet another. She lifted Agatha’s frail hand and held it lightly in her own.
“Quiet now, be at peace, it’s all right. If you think it isn’t a good idea, I’m sure there are others I could talk to instead of Mr. Cox.” Rose stroked Agatha’s hand and waited until she fell into an exhausted sleep. She tiptoed to the door and pulled it shut behind her. On her way out, she stopped to warn Josie that the visit had agitated Agatha.
Back out in the spring sunshine, Rose shook off Agatha’s fear. She knew what to do. More than ever, she knew that she must find Caleb Cox and have a long talk with him. She hadn’t exactly promised Agatha that she wouldn’t seek him out. She just wouldn’t tell her about it. It would only worry her.
* * *
Agatha’s eyes snapped open as Rose closed the door to her room. She’d fallen asleep. Shouldn’t have. But why? Why? She squirmed and her cradle began rocking. She cried out in confusion and fear. She froze, the rocking stopped. Cradle bed. She was ill, in bed in the Infirmary. Another stroke. She remembered now; Josie had told her.
Rose. Agatha relaxed as she thought of her young friend. Rose came to talk to her every day. Had she been here yet today? Agatha glanced at the wall, saw the empty shelf that had held her journals, and felt her mind disentangle and clear.
Rose, Caleb, Sarah, the Society. All in danger. Warn them, warn them. She tried to sit up, but her useless right side wouldn’t budge. She forced herself to be still and concentrate. The journals. Rose has the journals, she’ll see. She’ll understand.
A wave of panic shot through her. Nay, nay, she thought, and heard the meaningless sounds that escaped her lips. I kept the secret. Even from my journal. They all left. It was over, no proof. Nay, Evil will always come again. Should have known. Too late.
She picked at her blanket and rolled her aching head from side to side on the feather pillow. The fog was moving into her mind again. She was losing something. What had she been thinking about? She screwed her eyes tightly shut and tried to concentrate.
She had to warn them. Warn Rose.
The words floated by and were gone, and Agatha fell into an exhausted sleep.
TEN
THE CRISP AIR OF SUNDAY MORNING AND PREPARATIONS for the Sabbath celebration distracted Rose from her plans to talk with Caleb Cox and with Samuel. For now, her questions could wait. Worship came first.
In quieter times, the worship service had been open to the public. Many Believers had begun their journey to faith with a visit to the Sabbathday service, where they intended to jeer and mock but instead found themselves entranced by the joy of the singing and dancing. Today, however, recent events had convinced Rose and Wilhelm to close the service. Small groups from neighboring Languor arrived by car or wagon, hoping to slip through the Meetinghouse doors, but brethren and sisters, stationed at the separate entrances for men and women, turned them away.
Rose settled onto her bench on the west side of the large meeting room. She sat with the other sisters, dressed in their blue-and-white striped Sabbathday gowns, facing the dwindling group of brethren across a large expanse of shiny pine floor. Rose felt the relentless decline of their membership most acutely on these mornings when the community of twenty-nine adults and nine children gathered in a room that used to hold two hundred Believers, in addition to dozens of children and countless guests from the world.
At the sound of knocking on glass, she glanced toward one of the tall windows lining the two-story room. Bright eyes in a small round face stared at her with the rude curiosity of a child. The child wore a little boy’s sailor hat perched on a wealth of dark curls. A well-dressed, well-fed, well-tended little boy of perhaps six or seven. Rose realized that she, too, had been staring when the boy covered his mouth with a small fist and his shoulders shook with laughter. Rose felt her own lips curve. Her smile froze as Richard Worthington’s stern, patrician face appeared beside the boy. He must have been holding his son in the air to look in the window. The child disappeared, and Worthington continued to stare directly at Rose.
Rose averted her gaze, then scanned all the windows lining three sides of the meeting room. All were filled with staring faces. Now the bright, spacious room felt small and cramped, as if the world had wrapped it round in a tightening noose.
Rose exchanged a concerned glance with Josie, who sat next to her. Across the room, Wilhelm seemed impervious to the tense atmosphere. He stood to begin the service. His powerful voice began the lyrics to an old Shaker song w
ell-known to all in the room. Three sisters and three brethren rose from their seats and joined their voices in a song welcoming everyone to worship.
Come to Zion, come to Zion, sin-sick souls in sorrow bound.
Lay your care before the altar where true healing may be found.
Shout Halleluia! Halleluia! Praise resounds o’er land and sea.
All who will may come and share the glories of this Jubilee.
After singing the verse through twice, the six singers joined together, keeping to one side of the room to provide plenty of space for dancing. Following Wilhelm’s lead, the brethren removed their blue surcoats and filed into the center of the room. Rose stood and led the sisters to stand across from the men, still separated from them by several yards of smooth floor.
The singers began again, stepping up the pace with a dance song.
Living souls, let’s be marching on our journey to heaven
With our lamps trimmed and burning with the oil of truth.
Let us join the heav’nly chorus and unite with our parents.
They will lead us on to heaven in the path of righteousness.
The Believers began to dance, slowly at first, every step choreographed and executed so that the men and women formed flowing mirror images of each other. Rose concentrated on her movements, watching her own feet, even the brethren’s feet, but still she felt the faces at the windows staring in on them.
After two more gentle dances the worshipers took their seats, while Wilhelm slipped back into his surcoat and walked to a podium that stood between the men and the women. He drew his spectacles from an inner pocket in his coat and settled them on his nose, then peered over the rims at the silent gathering. He looked down at the empty podium as if reading notes, letting the anticipation build.
“Cast thy minds back, brethren, and remember,” he began quietly. Several of the older Believers leaned forward to hear him better.
“What was thy first thought upon awakening this morning?” He let his eyes slowly scan the room. As always, he spoke most directly to the men, as though only they were capable of understanding a spiritual message.
“Was thy first unbidden thought of God? Of Mother Ann and her joy in the face of suffering?” Wilhelm’s voice was still restrained but gathering power like a rain-swollen river. “Was it a prayer of thanks for the faith that binds us one to the other? Nay,” he said, with an audible sigh and a shake of his head, “nay, I think not.” He leaned over the podium, one thick hand grasping each side as if disappointment weakened him. With a deep breath, he drew himself straight and squared his shoulders.
Rose realized that she was holding her own breath. She forced herself to exhale. No matter how many times she heard Wilhelm’s homilies, she found herself captured by their power. She knew his techniques, resented them, yet fell under their spell. The reason, she knew, was Wilhelm himself. What he believed, he believed with such fervor that his strength, his passion, the whole force of his personality converged to create a compelling performance. Rose always wished she could agree with him.
“Nay, brethren! I say to thee, thy thoughts are the playthings of sin!” Wilhelm’s voice blasted through the tense room. Though she had expected the explosion, Rose jumped in her seat.
“We have been seduced by the world, by its comforts and pleasures, those sins as soft and tempting as a kitten’s fur, yet slippery as a serpent’s skin.” With narrowed eyes, Wilhelm scanned the chilled faces of his people.
“In our thoughts, we are as carnal as the vilest worldly sinner ever to draw breath. We strive to perfect ourselves in our deeds, our work, and our worship, and all the while our thoughts trip freely down the path to Hell.” His voice reached a rumbled shout. As he drew in his breath and raised his arm for his next blast, the crash of broken glass shattered the silence. A second crash followed, then a third.
Rose twisted in her seat to scan the room. The curious faces had disappeared from the windows. Inside the meeting room, no one moved. Even Wilhelm froze and stared, mesmerized, at one west window. A dark red liquid oozed in rivulets down the outside of the glass.
Rose shook her head slightly to break the spell. Keeping her movements slow and calm, she edged past Josie. The other Believers watched with such frightened faces that she felt like a sister in the Children’s Dwelling House, chasing monsters out of dark corners. Cautiously, she peered out the window. She saw no one about on the lawn or path. On the grass under the window lay three piles of smashed glass with dark clumps clinging to their jagged edges.
Rose groaned in relief. Vandalism was always unpleasant, but this didn’t seem too threatening. As she turned to reassure the other worshipers, more smashing sounds startled the group into turning toward the east side of the meeting room. The sixth and final missile shattered a window and landed with a splat at Brother Hugo’s feet.
Hugo stared for a moment, then lowered his bulky form on to one knee and stuck an index finger into the red mess on the floor. He raised the finger to his nose and sniffed. Then he lightly touched his tongue to his finger.
“Ha!” He grunted as he pulled his body upright. “Raspberry preserves,” he announced. The silence in the room exploded into gasps and mumbling. While Wilhelm slapped his hand on the podium to bring order, Rose rushed across the room to Hugo. She knelt and tasted the red pulp herself, avoiding the chunks of broken glass mixed in.
“Our very own raspberry preserves, if my tongue does not deceive me,” Hugo murmured, so only Rose could hear.
“I’d say someone has returned our stolen preserves in an unneighborly way,” she said.
The click of the east door, near Hugo’s chair, distracted both of them. They looked up in time to see Brother Samuel’s strong, straight back disappear. Rose ran to the nearest window. She saw Samuel sprint toward a brown car parked in the central path in front of the Meetinghouse. Two people sat in the front seat, but Rose couldn’t see who they were. Without stopping to think, she rushed toward the east door.
“Eldress Rose!” Wilhelm’s booming voice stopped her with her hand on the doorknob. “Leave the world to wallow in its own filth. Our worship is not yet finished.” She clenched her teeth in frustration. Wilhelm had taken her to task in front of the Society. And yet he was right. If she ran through the door, she’d be allowing the world to control them, to stop their worship whenever it wished. She wouldn’t do that. With a show of calm dignity, she returned to her place and nodded to the sisters to take their seats. Samuel will find out who they are, she thought, as Wilhelm resumed the service. She would talk to him as soon as worship ended.
Along with the other sisters, Rose exited the west door of the Meetinghouse, steeling herself for what might be waiting. The grounds were quiet and empty. The world had withdrawn, but it had left a mess behind. The Believers spread out along the front wall of the Meetinghouse to inspect the damage. One window was shattered, and five shiny red-purple splotches dotted the white paint, chipped by the impact. The sticky substance dribbled to the ground. Rose counted five piles of broken glass, the remains of quart canning jars.
Like the others, Rose bowed her head for a few moments in silent prayer. One by one, the Believers scattered to attend to the practical problems of repair. The Meetinghouse was the spiritual core of their village and must always be clean and well maintained. The brethren, under Wilhelm’s charge, went in search of white paint and brushes, while the sisters gathered cleaning equipment and scooped up the sticky broken glass.
Rose’s immediate concern was of a different sort. She was puzzled by the incident. It seemed tame compared to rats in the schoolhouse and the attack on Sarah, but maybe the point was to keep up the pressure on the Shakers. If Hugo was right—and everyone agreed that Hugo’s sense of taste was phenomenal—then their own raspberry preserves had been stolen with vandalism in mind. Apparently a fair amount of advance planning had gone into these ongoing incidents.
Rose wanted to know who had done this and why. She remembered reading an excerpt f
rom Agatha’s journal. Hadn’t there been an incident much like this mentioned in passing? She made straight for the Trustees’ Office, leaving the sisters to guide themselves in the clean-up effort.
As she passed her office, she noticed Sister Charlotte, along with all nine of the children being raised by the Shakers, camped out in a circle on the floor. Of course, the children had been at worship. They’d be terrified. She hated to delay her mission, but she poked her head in the open door. They seemed to be playing a game, led by Charlotte. Far from terrified, they were giggling and clapping their hands. Bless Charlotte, what a godsend.
Rose began to withdraw, but Charlotte saw her and signaled her to wait. Turning the children over to Hannah, one of the older girls, Charlotte hurried to the door.
“I took the children out the back door after worship, and we all ran over here. Is it safe to take them out? Is all well?”
“Under control, at least,” Rose said. “Tell me, Charlotte, when you all ran here, did you see anyone?”
“Yea, indeed. We saw a car speeding out of the village toward Languor, going so fast it was stirring up a dust storm. I remember because it was the only car on the path. Everyone else must have left as soon as the trouble began.”
“Do you remember anything about the car? The color, who was in it?”
Charlotte frowned. “Brown, I’m sure, but that’s all I can tell you about the car itself. I’m just dreadful about cars. They still scare me. Oh, I do remember it was quite dirty, and it looked old, not like ours. There were two people in it, but I couldn’t see them well, what with all the dust they were kicking up. The passenger did look like a woman, though.”
“A woman!”
“Yea, at least that was my impression. I thought I saw piles of hair, like one of those old-fashioned hairstyles.” Charlotte was still young enough to show a curiosity about the changing fashions of the world.
“Do you need my help with the children at the moment?” Rose asked. “You seem to have them calm and happy. I doubt there’s any danger to them now.”
A Deadly Shaker Spring Page 8
