by Sophie Jaff
Katherine is too grateful to protest, though surely she doesn’t look pregnant yet? She sits, mouths, Thank you.
He shrugs it off and gestures to her still-flat belly. “Of course, in your condition . . .” He smiles and looks away.
Katherine feels cold. It’s like that old man. How do they know?
A high, harsh monotone jars her out of this unpleasant thought.
“God, our Most Holy Father, is angry with the wicked every day. I am living testimony of the truth of the wicked sinner, because I came to the foot of Christ, and Christ burned me pure with His holy flame. God will judge you according to His perfect, absolute laws. If we want to be saved, we must be born again, we must be born again!”
Oh no, she thinks. One of those Bible-thumpers. Or, worse, the Heaven’s True fanatics. Rising to prominence after the Sickle Man’s summer of slaughter, spreading their terrifying gospel, convinced the End of Days are near. They are everywhere now, putting up posters, handing out pamphlets, and the worst part is that they seem normal. Until they begin to talk to you.
She closes her eyes.
“It’s the Truth and the Word is the Truth and God said you will burn! God is love, but God is also a jealous God, and He sees you all worshipping your false idols and He will smite you down in the fire pits of Hell! He sees you sinning and will smite you down! This is the Word and the Truth, the End Times are here, my friends, and you will all burn.”
The Bible-thumper is getting closer. Katherine can see him now. He wears a thin white shirt, untucked, and a gray jacket and tan pants. His skin is the color of faded leather, pulled tight across his bones. He is gaunt to the point of starvation. The whites of his eyes are wet and shiny, like fried egg whites. Sweat gleams upon his forehead. His nostrils flare and his tongue darts out, lizard-like, to wet his lips as he preaches. There is a fire within him. One skeletal hands waves and jerks as a conductor’s might, and the other grasps a well-thumbed Bible.
“Turn back to Jesus, turn back to Jesus, you filthy sinners! You will burn in Hell! Mock not the Lord and the Word of the Lord, you sodomites!”
“C’mon,” sighs the immense man sitting on Katherine’s right. His shirt strains against his bulk. All around her the stone faces of the passengers are beginning to crack.
“You sinners, you slaves of the devil all around us, the sins of the sodomites! Homosexuality and drinking and drugs . . .”
He’s getting louder, as is the ca-shunk ca-shunk ca-shunk, and the rattling roar of the train as it picks up speed, shooting through the blackness. It’s going express, and there’s no way out of this car other than pushing through the packed riders to the door at the end of it.
We’re trapped like rats. She thinks.
The thumper’s voice rises in pitch, in volume, until it’s almost a shout, grating against her ears. There is no blocking it, no tuning it out. The only thing she can do is wait until she can get off at the next stop.
And then he is there. The footsteps stop, but the harsh voice carries on. What makes a person do this? Katherine just wants to go home and nurse her wounds. Maybe she’ll even have half a glass of wine. She deserves it.
“Sinners! All of you! And you will burn—”
He breaks off abruptly. She glances upward. He’s standing directly in front of her.
“Oh God! Oh Great and Glorious God in Heaven! I see, I see you have blessed us! You are come, She is here! Holy, holy, holy. Oh blessed day! Oh God, you have not forsaken us! You have blessed us and blessed us with the Light and the Truth!”
The Bible-thumper sinks down upon his bony knees in front of her amid the passengers, his arms stretched up, palms splayed, the Bible aloft. His head thrown back in rapture.
“Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee!”
Katherine tries not to panic. Don’t let him touch me. I’ll die if he touches me.
“Back off!” Her massive neighbor, his bald head gleaming, veins popping in his arms, rises up, looking angry. “Back the fuck off from her, man.”
A rumble of assent echoes through the car, but the man now kneeling in front of Katherine pays no attention. He is crying, tears coursing in wet streaks down his face.
“Oh God, You are coming to us through this Most Holy Vessel—”
“That’s enough.” A woman seated just opposite Katherine dressed in black yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder pink-and-blue-tie-dyed shirt, a cross between a gypsy and a middle-aged hippie, reaches out to her. The woman’s already tired face is further worn with concern. She has the largest hoop earrings Katherine has ever seen. “Come over here, honey.”
Katherine would like to get to her, but she doesn’t think she can stand without touching the weeping man, who is now prostrating himself at her feet.
“Blessed art thou among women!”
“I mean it, man. Back off!”
The large guy is furious. He’s lost his chance to be the modern day superhero. His authority unheeded, he is now reduced to red-faced impotence.
“That’s it! I’m calling the cops.”
Another man, possibly a construction worker in his paint-splashed pants and massive tan boots, takes action. He rises and gently takes hold of the Bible-thumper’s shoulders. “Come on, buddy, get back, stop this.”
The murmurs of agreement are growing louder now, banding together.
“Don’t you see? Can’t you see her light? How beautiful it is? Oh God, You have not deserted me, You have not deserted us. Oh Christ, you are returning!” His high voice rises higher, his words speed up, become incomprehensible.
Oh fuck! He’s speaking in tongues!
And finally, finally the train slows.
Stops.
Almost everyone, including Katherine, gets off.
“You okay?” A thin woman wants to know. Her hair is unnaturally black and her breasts seem insanely large and high, but the concern in her eyes is the real thing. “You okay, sweetie? Jeez, that guy was freaky. You wanna sit down?” She gestures to a bench on the platform.
“I’m okay, just a little shaken.” Katherine is more than shaken, she is faint with nausea, but she needs to keep moving.
“Nuts,” offers a sharply suited guy as he passes. “They’re all nuts these days.”
“An ‘only in New York’ moment, am I right? You sure you’re okay, honey?”
“I’m okay,” Katherine repeats.
The black-haired woman purses her pink lips. She doesn’t want to let go of the drama.
Katherine needs to move, fast. “Thank you so much! Sorry, I have to pick my kid up.” She merges with the crowd surging up the stairs.
Then she’s outside and it’s good to be outside in the fresh, sharp, almost-evening air. It shakes off the craziness. Out here, she’s just another person hurrying to pick up her kid, hurrying home. She passes a woman sitting on the corner. Her head is down, matted gray hair covers her face. One thin, mottled hand clutches at the multitude of filthy shawls and blankets forming a cocoon around her. A dirty, dog-eared cardboard sign with the words anything helps is propped up against the curb next to a plastic cup, which at a glance holds two limp dollar bills and some meager change. There’s a person who’s had a worse day than I’ve had, Katherine thinks. She takes out her wallet, hesitates over the one, then gets out a five. On the off chance that someone is up there watching, maybe they’ll put in a good word for her.
“Here.” She bends down to place the bill in the woman’s cup.
The old woman does not raise her head. “Thank you, Katherine.”
Katherine stops, wheels back around. “What did you say?”
There is no response. The old woman’s head is still down. She slumps, a heap of old age huddled in old shawls, a posture of total defeat. The world has beaten her. Or maybe she’s just drunk.
“Miss? Hello? Sorry, did you say something? A name?” Katherine leans in a little closer, bracing herself for the smell of old age and drink and dirt. Surprisingly, there’s only a faint t
ang of lemons, and no answer. “Miss?”
Still nothing.
Katherine sighs and turns to go.
A skinny, wrinkled hand, shoots out from within the layers of stained fabric and grabs Katherine’s wrist. The old woman raises her head. Her hair is wild and her forehead is seamed with lines, but her eyes—Katherine cannot look away from her shining, silver eyes.
Her voice is low, rasping, but her words are clear. “Do not fear the Annunciation.”
Katherine jerks back with a cry. The old woman releases her grasp and her head sinks down once again. Her mottled hand returns to the folds of what is now not a collection of shawls but a velvet starry cloak.
Katherine turns violently away, her heart in her throat. She walks quickly, almost running. Keep going. Just keep going. I’m not going to think about it, she promises herself. The whole of today is best buried and forgotten.
But that night as she lies in bed, the treacherous little voice begins to whisper: Silver. The old woman’s eyes were silver. No human being has silver eyes.
“Shut up,” Katherine tells the little voice out loud. “I imagined it. It was a rough day. Go to sleep.”
And, after a surprisingly short while, she does.
4
Margaret
I am outside feeding the pigs when my father finds me. He comes to me there so I cannot protest. Nothing must upset his new bride, his new love. Over the sows’ grunts and squeals, he orders me to teach Cecily how to brew. She must come with me to the market to learn what spices to purchase. His mouth is turned down in a scowl and his eyes are hard. He is readying himself for a fight, but I give him none, for I see that he means it. Still he pauses, as if he wishes to say something more. He stands there, silent, as the chaff from my bucket floats in the sunlight and the pigs root happily in their muck. Then he turns away. I am glad to see his back, for the relief in his eyes is wounding.
Even my own father is afraid of me.
Before setting out I was unsure what would we talk about, but the answer became clear. She does not talk and so neither do I, though I glance over at her pretty sullen face. Her blue eyes gaze at some point in the distance, her cheeks are flushed and her mouth pursed tight. I wonder what she is thinking. There is no way of telling, but it is of little matter as we can hear and smell the market even before it comes into view.
Cecily’s step quickens, as does mine. The squawks and clucks, bleats and brays of the livestock swell in chorus with the trader’s shouts and cries and whistles. I catch the reek of the tannery, the dark tang of leather, then the sharp, thin smell of cheese and a lovely earthen scent of fresh bread. Underneath all of it is the slightly sour odor of sweaty wool. The market is unusually busy. Pilgrims of high and low birth, distinguishable by their clothes and their retinues, or lack thereof, and servants of all ranks rub shoulders with wealthy town merchants and their wives. There are many who have come to buy and sell, but still more who are only here to stretch their legs, to feel the weak sun upon their faces and to be in the company of others. Cecily’s face blossoms into a smile. She’s spotted two of her friends and she runs toward them as if released from a prison. There is no question of whether I would like to join her. I would not, nor would she have me.
Cecily says something to the girls and gestures in my direction. The three of them begin to laugh. I turn away; I have spices to buy. If she was by my side she could see how I recognize each spice by its color and smell. How I am able to measure quality from the snap of cinnamon sticks, to the nutmeg’s heady pull. Nor is she there to learn how to barter with the spice merchant, who does not like me. Perhaps something about my face troubles her, or maybe she has heard the rumors and stories that linger behind me like a shadow. I do good business with her and always try to pay a fair price, and still she fears me. I can only take small comfort knowing she will not try to hold her thumb on the scale.
Spices bought, I wander through the main market street, past the fishmongers and the furriers, the butchers and the bakers, the cheesemongers and the cloth merchants. It is packed with a rough, rowdy, merry throng. Stray dogs and small children have grown bold and weave among the legs of their elders. Men of wealth keep their fat, sweaty hands upon their purses, as pickpockets abound. I see a cluster of women surrounding a colorful green stall, cooing and exclaiming. A new merchant must have arrived in town. I can understand their excitement as I draw closer. The cloth on display is wonderful. Not just the usual fare of scratchy, discolored wools, but fine fabrics. A few bolts look to be silks, even satins, though no one dares to finger them. Women have been flogged for wearing that which is only to be worn by nobility.
The stall is watched over by an old crone with a face like a withered apple. She sits sourly as we marvel over cloth most of us will never be able to afford. I do not want to give her the satisfaction of showing any interest, but even I am tempted by a ream of rich red fabric that sings out to me. Almost against my will, my fingers reach out to caress it. They have barely alighted upon a fold when I hear a shout and my hand jerks back as if from a hot coal. After a moment I hear another shout and another, then a yell and laughter. I turn to see what the commotion is about.
People have formed into a makeshift ring blocking the main street of the market. I join other townsfolk in the ever-widening circle, curious to watch. I cannot see much, but I manage to squeeze my way to the front.
There, in the center, an old drunk beats a large man with a stick. I recognize the drunk as Old Warren; a fixture of the King’s Head for many years, he was finally banned over a fortnight ago, more for his filthy temper than his inability to settle his debts. My father cannot stand the sight of him. Old Warren must have found something strong elsewhere, as now he’s thoroughly soused, red-faced and frothing. Drink only serves to increase the vigor of his blows, which rain down as he curses the other man. He shows no signs of tiring.
Old Warren’s victim is twice his size. He has a sloping brow and the bewildered eyes of a child. It is clear the man is a fool, and helpless. Now he cowers down, whimpering, his huge hands trying to ward off Old Warren’s fists. The crowd is delighted. They hoot and cheer. Some encourage Old Warren to hit him harder, while others urge the fool to strike back. It is fine entertainment, better even than a dancing bear. I look at the spectators and my eyes fall upon Cecily, standing among her friends. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, she’s breathing heavily, and her eyes are shining. She laughs and laughs. A bitter taste fills my mouth.
As I turn to go, there is a commotion across the ring, a shifting and parting, and a small boy, his ugly freckled skin drawn tight against his bones, pushes his way through. He must be fearless or mad or both, because he charges head down toward Old Warren. The old man stumbles, but manages to give the boy a mighty crack with his stick and he flies backward to land almost at my feet.
The boy lies there, motionless. I wonder if he will rise again, but then incredibly he sits up slowly, dazed and blinking. The spectators clap their hands, their bloodlust red and roaring. The boy looks directly at me, his eyes, bright with unshed tears, begging for help. I see now how young he is. His cheeks are filthy. I can make no move to aid him. What good could I possibly do?
As he stares at me, Old Warren stands and lurches toward him, stick upraised. Before I can cry out, he brings it crashing down upon the boy’s head. The stick only slams the packed earth. The boy is no longer there. Something in my face must have warned him, and he’s rolled away to scramble back on his feet. Old Warren swings again and again, while the boy ducks and weaves, both locked in a brutal dance. Finally Old Warren, lunges wildly and the boy twists sideways and leaps onto the mad drunkard’s back. The crowd hollers its approval. It seems they have a soft spot for the underdog, after all.
Old Warren flails, but now that his air supply is being cut off, he’s turning purple. He teeters and totters, bellowing like a wounded bull. The boy hangs on grimly. Finally, the old man drops to his knees and then sprawls facedown in the dirt. The onlo
okers go wild. The boy is the victor, but he takes no joy in his triumph. His first action is to comfort, to console. He scrambles over to the feeble giant, who sits, enormous shoulders shaking with sobs. A rumble now from the back of the crowd; the sheriff’s men are here, and they will spoil everyone’s fun. There are halfhearted protests and grumbles from the spectators, but eventually they begin to dissipate. It’s been enjoyable, but enough of the day has been squandered. There are still goods to be sold and bought, and deals to be done.
I look back at the boy and the giant, already forgotten. The boy speaks quietly to the fool, who gazes at him with worshipful wet eyes. I can see that boy means everything to this man, that he loves the boy and the boy loves him too. They are each other’s world. My heart aches. I wonder what this boy and his fool would do if they knew that someone envied them.
I glance at Cecily, who is avidly talking with her two companions. As I walk toward her, one of them glances up and extends her index and little finger and curls the rest, a gesture to ward off evil. The other girl looks down at her feet, ashamed and fearful. When I greet them, they barely acknowledge me and soon move away. Cecily sighs, resigned to her fate, and we walk back to the stalls to finish our purchases. On our way, she manages to buy not one but two meat pies with the coins my father has given her. She makes no offer to share as she eats them in quick greedy bites, sucking the pastry crumbs off her fingers. It is not a fetching sight, but she does not care how she appears now. After all, I do not count as company.
Down in the cellar of the King’s Head, Cecily seems a trifle green. Keeping my promise to my father, I begin explaining how to make the ale. How the grains must be mashed, how much yeast to add. Cecily is nodding, but all the while her cheeks gleam, white and dripping as candles. When I prepare the mixture she begins to gag. She tries to get ahold of herself, tries to cover her mouth, but it is no use.
