by Pete Hautman
“We buy our eggs at the Albertsons store in West Fork.”
“Oh.” I was embarrassed not to have thought of that.
Lynna said, “Maybe we could take a couple of the horses out for a ride. Do you ride?”
“I never have,” I confessed. I had never so much as touched a horse.
“I’ll teach you! When can you come back?”
“I will be walking again in two Landays.”
“Tuesday after next, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great! My dad and Cal will both be at the auction in Billings that day.”
I told her I would come.
Now, with the Tree watching over me, I squeeze my eyes closed and pray harder, but all I can think of is that I have promised to sin again.
As suppertime nears, the Grace leave the Sacred Heart by ones and twos. Soon only Will and I remain. I nudge him with my elbow.
“What has happened?” I ask.
He looks at me, startled, as if he had not known I was there.
“Why were so many praying here?” I ask.
Will licks his lips and clears his throat. “Father Grace has asked us to offer extra prayers for his son.”
“For Von?”
“No, for his new son. Sister Ruth is close upon her time.”
“He knows it is to be a son?”
“This is what we pray for.” Painfully he climbs to his feet. “We should wash for supper.” He limps off, leaving me alone with the Tree.
Now that everyone is gone, the Tree seems larger and more alive. I feel it can sense my thoughts, as if every tiny branchlet is reaching into my soul. Does the Tree bring my thoughts to the Lord? Or is it a part of the Lord Himself? This has never been clear to me, but now, in the failing light, with the earth beneath my knees drawing the heat from my body, I feel that I am naked before a discrete entity, almost as if the Tree stands apart from the Almighty, and tells Him only what it chooses.
This is absurd, of course, as the Lord is omniscient and omnipotent and there is nothing hidden from His all-seeing eyes. Still, the Tree stands alone, and it has physical form, and I wonder if, like the Tree of Knowledge in the First Garden, it serves more than one master.
Nodd feels different. At supper, the men’s voices are slightly muted. Is it weariness after the labors of this long and onerous winter or a reaction to the tragedies that have befallen us? I do not know; I am muted too, not only in my voice but in my soul. Nodd once was a gateway to paradise, the mortal embodiment of the Lord’s plan for His children. Now Nodd seems a land sullied by death and lies and rancor. Father Grace has not shown himself in many weeks. No one talks about Von, or of the apostates Mara and Kari, or of Kari’s dead child.
Instead, the men mutter of wolves and weather. Two more sheep have been taken, leaving behind only a message written in bloody entrails. Jerome has become obsessed with the wolf. He talks of setting out poison that will kill not only the wolf, but many other creatures as well. He has tried setting out steel traps baited with sheep offal but has caught only a coyote and two raccoons.
“We need a fresh snowfall,” he says. “It is impossible to track the beast with all this melt.”
I retire early and dream of long blond hairs tickling my face.
The next morning I report to Enos and tell him that all is well along the northern fence line. He listens with little interest. He is looking pale, and I ask after his health.
“I am well, Brother Jacob.” He takes a small pouch from a drawer and packs a large pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his briar pipe, then takes his time lighting it from the candle on his desk. He gets a good cloud of smoke going, then says, “I will be glad of spring. This winter has been a trial. How is your ankle?”
“It is well healed. I hardly notice it anymore.”
“Praise the Lord.” He puffs thoughtfully on his pipe, and I think of Tobias and his cigarettes.
I make bold to ask if he has had any news of the two Sisters who ran off.
“They are back in the World, no doubt, whoring and sinning their black hearts out. Sister Judith is well rid of her wicked offspring, as are all the Grace. As for Sister Mara —” He shrugs. “Father Grace did his best to bring her to the Lord. Even he is capable of failure.”
As he failed his son Von, I think. I would ask him what has happened to Von, but I am afraid of what I might hear.
Enos sees something in my face.
“And what of you, Brother? Does your faith burn brightly?”
“Always,” I say, because to say otherwise would be unthinkable.
Enos snorts smoke. “It would not be unusual for one of your age to experience doubts, as did your friend Tobias.”
“He was not my friend,” I say.
“You know that you can always share your thoughts with me.”
“I thank you,” I say, even as I am thinking that Enos is the last person in Nodd to whom I would confess.
“You wonder as to Brother Von,” he says, and I feel as if he has ripped the thought directly from my head. Enos smiles through a cloud of smoke. “Why should you not? I will tell you, but I will ask you not to speak of him to others.”
I manage to nod, keeping my face carefully still.
“Zerachiel has taken Brother Von’s soul.”
He looks intently at me, searching for my reaction. I am like a stone.
“Von hanged himself in the Praying Pit with a noose made from strips of his own clothing. Father Grace buried him next to Sister Salah in the courtyard behind Gracehome.” Enos leans back in his chair. “As this has been such a difficult time, Father Grace felt that the news of Von’s suicide would cause the Grace unnecessary anguish.”
“Not knowing is worse,” I say.
“That may be,” he says, “but the decision is made.” He draws on his pipe, then frowns at the bowl. “And so we go on, as if Von were never born. When Father Grace’s new son arrives, we begin anew. Do you understand?”
“I . . . I think so,” I say. “Von’s soul was lost, but now it will be reborn?”
“Father Grace has long foretold that he will have a son who will join him on the Ark. The time of Zerachiel’s coming is nigh. These past few months have been the Lord’s final test of the Grace. We must stand strong; we must stand together.” He takes a final puff from his pipe, scowls, and taps the ashes out onto his desk.
“This year’s tobacco crop is acrid. I must speak to Brother Peter.”
“There may not be a next year,” I point out.
Enos smiles sourly. “One can only pray.”
The next twelve days pass by ponderously, each one almost indistinguishable from the next. The snow cover continues its slow recession; the Meadows become a maze of melting drifts snaking through brown grasses. Because of the wolf attacks, the sheep must be guarded night and day. Every morning, Jerome and I and other Cherubim herd the sheep a mile or more to where they can forage, then guide them back to their corrals before dark. We do our work, we are strong, we labor together. An invasion of field mice decimates our stores of wheat, and the women spend long hours sorting mouse droppings from what will become tomorrow’s bread. We eat the last of our apples and squashes. Although there is no danger of running out of food, our meals become less varied as our stores are depleted. We have a surfeit of beans and mutton.
Father Grace remains cloistered with his family, awaiting the blessed event. We are all waiting, as welcoming a new child into our midst will be the first joyful event in many months.
Landay arrives in a haze of ice. It was warm last night, the temperatures rising higher than they had been since October, but a chill descended in the early hours of the morning, and the air dances with ice crystals. It is eerily beautiful as I head out of the Village. The bushes, the trees, and the walls of the buildings all look as if they have been sprayed with sugar frosting. My boots are loud on the ground, every step crackles, and the half-frozen droplets suspended in the air soon leave a wet sheen on my face and dam
pen the surface of my garments. I head straight up the North Road.
The moment I step through the gate I feel a space form within my breast, as if a door has opened and my heart has room to beat freely. I follow the fence, feet crunching on the icy, cattle-trodden earth, shedding the concerns of Nodd with each step. Father Grace falls away, as do Ruth, and the wolf, and the sheep, and Enos, and Von, and the sadness. Out here, life is simple and clean. There is only the land, the walking, and Lynna. By the time I reach the place where the cattle trail veers from the fence, the icy fog has dissipated. The sun cuts through the haze, and I hear the hopeful whistle of a marmot seeking signs of spring.
I follow the cattle trail up the long, low rise. The valley comes into view. Trees and the tops of buildings jut up through a lake of mist, as the fog has yet to leave the lowlands. I stand at the high point for a time, imagining Lynna in her house. What is she doing? What is she wearing? What is she thinking? It is a great mystery; I know so little of the life she leads.
A gust of uncertainty strikes me, and there is a moment when I almost turn back. I could walk the fence, as is my duty, and return to the Village, to the fold, to the Grace, whose love for me is as indisputable as the land itself. I think of my mother, and all the people with whom I have spent my life. I think of the Tree, waiting for me to spill my sins onto its branches. I think of the firm mattress upon which I have dreamed, and that delicious weariness that comes after a hard day in the fields.
I think of my father. What would he say, were he to see me now? Would he be surprised, or are my sins no more than what he expects from me? I feel a node of resentment heating my belly, and I crush it. I do not want to sully this day with such broodings. If I am to sin, then I might as well sin avidly, hungrily, ardently.
Lynna opens the door, and she looks wrong. For a moment I think she is a different person, and I step back. She smiles and laughs then, and I know it is her, despite the smooth face, the pink lips, and the dark lines framing her blue eyes.
“Come on in,” she says, stepping aside to make room. I enter the house. It is warm, and the air smells of baking. I take off my pack. I am trying to understand what has happened to her face. Her hair is pulled back and tied with a piece of fabric. She is wearing tight blue jeans and a fawn-colored shirt with many white buttons.
Because I don’t know what else to say, I ask her why her face looks so odd.
“Odd?” she says. “You don’t like it?”
“I did not say that. I am startled, is all.”
“Well, I put on some lipstick and stuff. You know, to impress you with my ravishing beauty.”
“I am always impressed with your beauty,” I say, and from her expression I know that for once I have said exactly the right thing.
“You are very sweet, Jacob,” she says.
“The Grace do not wear paint. I am not used to it.”
“Paint? That’s what you call makeup?”
“It looks very nice,” I say, although I prefer her without it.
“Ha! Liar!”
I understand that she is joking, so I laugh.
“Are you hungry?”
I remember that she promised to cook some eggs, so I nod.
“Guys are always hungry,” she says. “Tobias ate like a horse the day he was here. I made pancakes for him the morning he left. He scarfed down a dozen of them.”
I experience an unpleasant twinge as I picture her cooking for Tobias.
“Have you heard from him?” I ask.
“No. Actually, I’m kind of worried. He used to call once or twice a week, but it’s been, like, three weeks. I tried to call him, but his cell is disconnected. I hope he’s okay.”
I say nothing.
“So . . . scrambled eggs? My famous scramble?”
“That sounds good,” I say, wondering how many eggs I will have to eat to impress her.
I have never seen anything quite like the concoction Lynna assembles. She cracks eggs into a large bowl. Eight eggs as bright and white as snow. Our eggs in Nodd, when the hens are laying, are brown. She adds handfuls of crumbly white cheese, chunks of smoked ham, chopped onion and green pepper, and a cup of diced cooked potato.
“I usually put some jalapeños in, but I promised not to burn you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She melts an enormous cube of bright-yellow butter in a large frying pan. When the butter is sizzling, she pours in the whole bowlful of eggs and other ingredients into the pan, covers it, and turns down the heat.
“It’s got to cook for a bit,” she says.
My mouth is watering.
Lynna opens the top of the bread machine and the smell of baking instantly becomes stronger. She lifts out an oddly shaped loaf of bread and sets it on a cutting board.
“See?” she says. “I put flour, water, and yeast in the machine before I went to bed last night, and here it is. Pretty cool, huh?”
I nod, impressed. She gives the eggs a stir, then cuts the bread into six thick slabs. Inside, the bread is almost blinding in its whiteness. I am eager to taste it, but I think I should wait for the eggs. As I sit there swallowing saliva, Lynna puts out a dish of butter and a glass jar containing what looks like clear reddish jelly.
“Homemade jelly,” she says. “My mom’s recipe, but I made it myself.”
“We make everything ourselves in Nodd,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I kind of got that feeling when I was there. You guys must be really healthy.”
“We have had our share of illness,” I say, thinking of Brother Abraham’s monthlong chest cold.
“So what do you do if you get sick?”
“We have a healer, Brother Samuel, who mends wounds and offers palliatives to the ailing.”
“What if something really serious happens, like a heart attack? Or cancer?”
“I do not know,” I say. “We have had no deaths from disease since Father Grace’s son Adam died, and that was before my time. Sister Salah took her own life. We have lost two infants in childbirth. No one dies until the Lord chooses to take them into His arms.”
Lynna stares at me wordlessly for a moment, then gets up to stir the eggs again.
“Must be nice,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“To just figure that whatever happens is what God wants. I know when my mom got cancer, she really didn’t want to die. She did everything she could to stay alive — radiation, chemo, praying, the whole deal. It didn’t work, and she felt really bad, like she’d failed. So it must be nice to think there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”
“I have never thought of it that way,” I say.
“But my aunt, she got appendicitis and got really sick before she went to the doctor. They told her if she’d waited another day, she would have been dead, but they operated on her and now she’s fine.”
“The Lord must have intended for her to go to the doctor.”
“I suppose. But if you got appendicitis in Nodd, what then?”
“Brother Samuel would care for me.”
“What, give you a cup of tea and pray?” She snorts. “I don’t think that would help.”
“The Grace are different,” I say. “Maybe we don’t get appendicitis.”
“Lucky you.” Neither of us speaks for a few seconds. Lynna takes the eggs off the stove. She scoops half of them onto a plate and sets it before me, then makes a plate for herself, with only half of the remaining eggs. “There’s more if you want,” she says as she sits down across from me.
Something has gone out of the room, and I am not sure what it is, but I still have my appetite. The eggs are delicious. I try to eat slowly, because I do not want her to think I eat like Tobias. The bread is warm, and softer than any bread I have eaten before.
“Try the jelly,” she says.
I spread a spoonful of jelly on my bread. It is as sweet as honey, yet tart at the same time, with a fruity scent that reminds me of apples.
“This is very good,” I sa
y.
She shakes some red liquid from a small bottle onto her eggs.
“What is that?”
“Hot sauce. You wouldn’t like it.”
I try a few drops anyway. She is right. I gulp my water.
We eat without talking for a minute or two. I feel bad that I might have said something to offend her, but then I look up and she is smiling at me again. I smile back.
“You are a very good cook,” I say. “These are the best eggs I have ever eaten.”
That makes her smile even more. The pink lipstick has mostly worn off of her lips, and she looks more like the Lynna I know. She sees that my plate is almost empty and scoops the rest of the eggs onto it. I eat them, and another slice of bread with jelly as well.
As she piles the dishes in the sink, she asks, “Still up for a ride?”
For a moment, I think she is referring to the ATV, then I remember we talked about riding horses. We have no horses in Nodd. Brother Peter says they eat more than they are worth.
“You would have to teach me.” I am nervous. I do not want to look clumsy or foolish in front of Lynna.
“You can ride Chico’s nag. She’s gentle as a lamb. Here.” She grabs an apple from a bowl on the counter and tosses it to me. I am astonished by how red and shiny and perfect it is. Our apple trees in Nodd produce only oddly shaped, mottled fruits, more yellow and green than red, and by mid winter they are always wrinkled and going bad. “Put it in your pocket. It’ll help you get to know Lily.” Seeing my confusion, she adds, “Lily’s the horse.”
“She’s really gentle,” Lynna says. “Give her some apple. She’ll love you.”
I twist the apple to snap it in half as Lynna lifts the saddle onto the horse. Lily is enormous. Not as massive as our brace of oxen, but taller. Her coat is mostly white, with pale brown blotches scattered over her hindquarters, and gray hairs around her snout. Lynna makes adjustments to the strap holding the saddle to the horse’s back. She is wearing dark-brown leather gloves that fit her hands so precisely, it is as if they are a second skin. My homemade deerskin gloves look crude by comparison.
