by Rysa Walker
“Only when they ride bikes,” I say. “It makes it a lot easier.”
She glances at the bike again and nods. “Guess so. Ain’ ever seen a bike with a motor, either. I bet they ain’t cheap.”
“Cheaper than an automobile,” Kiernan says. “And nearly as useful. At least until it rains. Or the motor comes loose.”
He flashes his best smile, the one that lights up his eyes and makes him damn near irresistible. Martha’s face and neck instantly flush a deep pink. In a town with fewer than fifty people, two-thirds of them female, I’m guessing she doesn’t encounter many young men. I bump the wheel of my bike against his to signal that he should rein it in a bit, but that just makes him turn the smile on me, even broader now, because he clearly thinks I’m jealous.
I roll my eyes and look back at the girl. “You have a pretty village here, Martha. What’s it called?”
She shrugs, tugging her skirt again. “Some here call it Six Bridges, like the folks in town do. But Sister Elba says we oughta use the proper name, God’s Hollow.”
Of course that immediately inspires a Harry Potter flashback for me, and I eye the meadow nervously, half expecting to see a large serpentine shadow winding through the tall grass.
“Well, God’s Hollow is a much more poetic name,” I say.
Martha’s expression suggests that she doesn’t really agree, but she smiles politely. Then her head snaps up like something’s caught her attention. After a second, I hear music—a hymn that seems vaguely familiar. The sound is faint, and the notes waver in an eerie vibrato that’s strangely beautiful.
“What is that?” I ask.
She huffs, clearly annoyed, and glances toward the village. “Sister Elba remindin’ me about my music lesson.”
“But what is the instrument?”
“It’s called an armonica. Kinda like a glass harp. Sister Elba’s granddaddy passed it down to her and taught her to play. She taught Brother Ellis years ago. But he’s even older’n she is, so someone younger’s gotta learn it, ’cause he ain’t gonna be around forever and she cain’t preach and play at the same time. So I got picked.”
Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t consider that to have been a great favor. “Well, it sounds very pretty,” I tell her.
Kiernan adds, “I’ll bet you play beautifully.”
Martha’s blush is back, but she also smiles. “And you’d lose that bet. Jack says it sounds like I’m killin’ baby pigs. And he’s kinda right. Sister says I just need to practice more.”
The music ends just before we enter the village, which consists of maybe a dozen buildings, mostly small, neat houses. It looks deserted.
“Where is everyone?”
Martha nods to the left. Two clusters of people and a few horses are off in the distance, near the trees surrounding the village. “Out in the fields. I’ll be out there, too, later on, but I’m helpin’ Sister Elba with the little ’uns this mornin’.”
The first building on the right seems to be the church—no steeple, but there’s a large wooden cross above the double doors in the front.
“Do you think Sister Elba would let me see the glass . . . what did you call it?” I ask as I push my bike over to the side and prop it against a large tree next to the chapel.
“Armonica. You can ask her. I gotta take you to her ’fore we go see Earl, anyways. I ’spect that’s where Jack and Vern run off to, lettin’ her know we got visitors in from town.”
And she’s right. The doors of the chapel open a few seconds later, and the boys reappear, each holding the hand of a tall, thin woman in a navy-blue dress, helping her down the steps. It’s instantly clear that this is the woman whose body was at the front of the congregation in the photographs. Her iron-gray hair is stretched back into a braid and coiled into a tight knot, her skin the warm light brown of coffee with cream. She seems foreboding at first, due to the ramrod straight posture, but as we draw closer, I see that her smile is open and unguarded.
“Welcome to God’s Hollow! Isn’t it a glorious day?” Her voice wavers a bit. Unlike the kids, who have a deep southern twang, she has only a slight accent. “I’m Sister Elba Terry, the leader of this small flock.”
“I’m Matthew Dunne, Sister Terry, and this is Kate Keller. We’re sorry to intrude, but we were out looking for a picnic spot, and I’m afraid we’ve run into a small problem with one of our motorcycles.”
“Just call me Sister Elba, or Sister, like everyone else.” She moves a few steps closer, and that’s when I realize she’s blind or very close to it.
Sister Elba lets the twins guide her until she’s right in front of us and then reaches out to run her hands over Kiernan’s bike. I’m about to caution her that the motor is hot, but she must feel the heat rising off the engine, because she pauses with her hand about an inch away.
“What a marvelous contraption. How fast can it go?”
“About thirty-five miles per hour, ma’am.”
I shoot Kiernan a sideways glance. The only way this bike would go anywhere near that fast is if it were carrying a half-starved kid down the side of a mountain. But apparently Kiernan really wants to believe the pitch the salesman gave him, because he seems totally unaware that he’s stretching the truth well beyond the breaking point.
“That’s incredible,” Sister Elba says, laughing. “Isn’t it amazing the things they come up with these days? Twenty years ago, when these eyes were stronger, I’d have asked to take it for a ride.”
She turns her head back toward me and says in a crisp voice, “Jackson tells me that you’ve adopted rational dress.”
I’m confused for a minute, until I realize she’s talking about the split skirt. “Oh, only when I’m riding the bicycle,” I say, but then it occurs to me that she wouldn’t be likely to call it rational dress if she found it offensive.
She squints down at the skirt, so maybe she can see a tiny bit after all. “Well, I’m glad it’s had a revival, and I hope it sticks this time. I wore bloomers for a while myself, back before the War, when I traveled around, speakin’ against slavery. But everyone was so busy staring at me that they ignored most of what I was preaching. So I gave it up. As I’ve told Martha and the younger women in our congregation, the bloomer dress was much more practical for everyday wear. But they think it looks silly. Isn’t that right, Martha?”
Martha looks a little uncomfortable, like she doesn’t want to lie but also doesn’t want to insult my choice of clothing. She finally settles for middle ground. “That pair you showed me did look silly, Sister Elba. But what she’s wearin’ looks kinda like a real dress most of the time, ’cept when she takes a big step. I might could get used to that.”
“Then I’ll see if I can find a pattern to give to your aunt for the next time you need a new dress.”
Martha’s nose wrinkles up a tiny bit. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Martha. Boys, is Brother Earl in his shop or out in the field?” Sister Elba looks over her shoulder to where she’d left Jackson and Vernon. They’re now playing some sort of game on the chapel steps with two younger children who’ve wandered over. A fifth child, who looks like he’s barely out of diapers, is sitting on the grass, holding out his pudgy hands for Bull to lick.
One of the boys yells, “We don’ know. We been out in the field with Martha and Bull.”
“I’ll walk him over, Sister,” Martha offers. “The boys won’t be able to explain the part they’re needin’. And Miss Keller was wonderin’ if she could take a look at your armonica.”
I fight back a smile, because Kiernan would be perfectly capable of explaining the part we’re looking for if the boys walked him to the shop. Martha seems to realize a few seconds too late that she’s offered a paper-thin excuse for tagging along with Kiernan. Her face flushes even deeper, and she stares down at her feet.
Sister Elba chuckles softly. “That’s fine, Martha, but take the boys with you. If Earl is out in the field, they can run fetch him. Once you find Earl, you
come on back here for your lesson.” She puts a slight stress on the last word.
“Martha’s doin’ that sassy thing with her eyes again, Sister Elba.”
Martha pulls the ball out of her pocket and hurls it at the boy. This time she doesn’t miss, and he lets out a yowl when it connects with his shoulder.
“Martha, was that really necessary? And, Jackson, I don’t need eyes to know your cousin would rather be outside on a nice day like this, but we all have responsibilities, don’t we? When you and Vernon get back, take the younger kids over to the chicken coop, because I’m pretty sure there’s a chore that you haven’t finished. And don’t let Isaac sit down inside the pen this time.”
Vernon groans and does a pretty good imitation of Martha’s eye roll before he and his brother take off down the street.
Kiernan reaches over to squeeze my hand. “See you shortly, Kate.”
It’s the first time that I’ve really looked at this side of his face when he wasn’t wearing the biking helmet. The cut I noticed earlier, just above his eye, seems smaller, and the bruise beneath it, which was bluish purple, has begun to fade. I file this observation away for later, since I can’t really ask him about it now.
Sister Elba takes my arm, and we climb the steps to the church, dodging two small girls who are a study in contrasts. One is blond and pale, like Martha and the twins, her legs long and thin with knobby knees. The other girl, who looks slightly younger, is African American, still bearing the chubby cheeks and build of a toddler. I give them a smile and tug the CHRONOS key out of my blouse so that I’m ready to set a stable point as soon as I have both hands free, saying a silent prayer of thanks that the only people around are either too young to pay attention or too blind to see what I’m doing.
“Are you musical, Kate?” Sister Elba asks when we reach the top of the steps.
“No, unfortunately not. I took piano lessons for a couple of years, and it wasn’t for me. But I am a student of history, and Martha tells me the harmonica is quite old.”
“It’s actually ar-monica, without the h,” she says. “And it’s definitely old. If my uncle is to be believed—and I must admit I’m not entirely convinced on that point—this was one of the instruments made by Benjamin Franklin himself.”
We walk into the small building I remember from the newspaper clipping, and my breath catches in my throat. I can almost see the bodies in the pews and the officials standing in the aisle.
Sister Elba, who is still holding on to my arm, must feel the change in me, because she asks, “What’s the matter, child?”
I scramble for a viable excuse and finally go with something semitruthful. “I was just reminded of my grandfather for a moment.”
“I’m guessing he’s passed on now?” she says, patting my arm. “Well, he’s in a better place. You’re just missing him. And that’s okay. All part of the natural order. You got an angel watchin’ over you every day now.”
A shiver runs through me with those last words. Watching over me—quite possibly. Angel, not so much.
The layout of the sanctuary seems to be second nature to her. She works her way to the front of the church, tracing her fingers over the pews on her right. I take the opportunity to pull up the interface on the CHRONOS key and set a stable point just behind the back row and then follow her down the aisle.
The church looks different when I view it from the front—it’s not the same angle as the photographs, so I’m not as bothered by afterimages of dead bodies. The room is beautiful in its simplicity, the afternoon sun shining softly on polished wooden benches topped with homemade cushions. It’s a far cry from the opulence of the Cyrist temple, but it seems much more likely to me that someone in search of divine guidance might actually find it here.
“You have a beautiful church, Sister Elba.” I set another stable point from this angle, then walk across to the other side.
“Oh, the church isn’t mine, child. I just have the privilege of teachin’ here.”
“What denomination is your community?” I ask, partly because I’m interested but also because it gives me a chance to set a few more stable points if I keep her talking.
“Now, that’s a very good question. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. Some of my family were with the Friends Church. You probably know of them as Quakers. But we got all different kinds of believers. I just preach what I know in my heart, and sometimes they agree with me; sometimes they don’t. And that’s okay. All in the natural order of things that people will worship in their own way. If some of them disagree enough that they can’t be happy here, they eventually get tired of grumbling and move on. Like Martha. She’s nearly grown, and she’ll leave us before long. Nothing here to hold her, so she’ll head into the city, and the good Lord willin’, she’ll find a man of her own and stop making eyes at those who are already taken.” Sister Elba laughs, shaking her head. “But I hope Martha finds her way back to us eventually, and when she does, she’ll know there’s a place here for her.”
She turns her head toward the spot where I was the last time I spoke and squints, then moves her head around until she finds me again. “Lord above, child, you flit like a butterfly. What’s got you on edge?”
“Nothing, really,” I say as I set another point, this one looking toward the smaller door on the right side of the church. “I just tend to be a little hyperactive.” I’m not sure that hyperactive is even a word in 1911, but I guess she’ll piece it together.
Her eyes rest on me for a minute longer, unfocused. I get the strangest feeling, like she’s seeing straight through to my thoughts.
“But that’s not true, is it? Somethin’ is definitely weighing you down. You’re not worried about your young man out there with our Martha?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. That’s . . . not a problem.”
“I’m a good listener, if you’d care to unload.”
I’m silent, and she chuckles quietly. “Sounds like you’re not ready. Well, then come on over here, and let me show you Ben Franklin’s invention. It makes mighty pretty music once you teach it who’s boss.”
She opens the wooden chest, which looked rectangular in the newspaper photo but is actually tapered, with one side nearly twice as wide as the other. The case is over a yard long and maybe half that wide and deep at the larger end. Inside is a glass creation, shaped a bit like an ice-cream cone, broad at one end, then tapering off at the other. As I look more closely, I see that it’s actually dozens of crystal bowls nested inside each other and threaded onto a spindle. The bowl rims are painted seven different colors, in sequence. Tucked at the front of the box is a flat dish filled with water.
Sister Elba runs her forefinger lovingly over the ridges of the instrument. “Franklin was from a Quaker family, you know. Supposedly he made this for my great-great-grandmother. One of the bowls cracked off when I brought it down from Canada. Cost me more money than I could spare to move it, and I worried the entire way it would get busted. Another bowl there’s got a crack—See it? Right here?—so we’ll probably lose that one, too, before long. A shame, but I guess that’s okay. All part of the natural order, I suppose. Want to give it a try?”
“Sure.” Truthfully, I’d rather just go now that the stable points are set, but since this was my excuse for coming into the chapel, I feel obligated.
“Ever use a sewing machine?”
“No.” I’ve seen Grandma Keller use hers, but since hers is an electric model that plugs into the wall, I don’t mention it.
“Well, this pedal down here spins the armonica, like the one on a sewing machine moves the needle. You pump the pedal, then dip your fingers in water and hold them against the edges of the glass while it spins.”
“So, the different colors are different notes?”
“That’s right. The primary colors give you a C-major chord. Go ahead, give it a try.”
I pump the pedal with my right foot and moisten my fingers, then hold them against the red, yellow, and blue bands in the middle. It
screeches, and the notes waver in and out.
She smiles. “Keep your fingers steady. Try to use the same pressure on all of them.”
As I press a bit harder, the notes blend together. I wouldn’t call it music, but it’s a bit less painful to the ear. I try a few more notes and see why Martha’s frustrated. The piano is easier.
After one particularly screechy note, I laugh and step aside. “It would take a lot of work before I could play anything as pretty as what you were playing earlier.”
“It does take time. And that’s why, even after three months, I still have to twist Martha’s arm to get her in here.”
“But . . . Martha said she’s learning to play the armonica so that she can eventually take over. And just now . . .”
There’s a question in my voice, and Sister Elba smiles. “Why train her if she’s leaving? Well, I get to spend time with her in the lessons. I talk to her, try to get her to talk to me, and let her know she’s wanted here, even though she’ll never stay. I think it’s important to know you’re wanted, maybe even needed, don’t you? Gives you somethin’ to hold on to when you’re off in a strange place. Kinda like you are now, right, child?”
“Well, not really,” I say. “We’re both at the university in Athens.”
“But you’re not from these parts. There’s no Georgia in your voice. I traveled around a lot, back before the War, and I’m usually good at accents, but I can’t place yours at all. Your young man’s is a bit odd, too, and there’s definitely some Irish in there. But yours . . . yours is all mixed up.”
“My parents live near Washington, DC. They’re teachers. I’ve traveled a good bit.” And I probably learned half of my speech patterns from television and movies, but I don’t add that.
“Teachers! Well, that must be why I liked you right off. We left Georgia for Canada when I was a little girl. My family stayed up there after the fighting was over, but I came back south to teach with the Freedmen’s Bureau. Earl, the one your young man’s over talkin’ to right now? He’s one of the first men I taught to read and write. Of course, the government cut the money for those schools pretty quick. And there was still work to be done, so some of us set up God’s Hollow not long after. We had seventy-four people here at one time, but we’re growin’ old, and most of the kids don’t stay, although we do take in strays and orphans from time to time. I expect we’ll die off eventually and the trees’ll gobble the land up again. And that’s okay. All part of the natural order.”
