Eden West

by Pete Hautman

  I open my eyes. There are stars, painfully intense, and all around me darkness, and I know I have been sleeping. The night sounds are crisp and bright: wind scraping the tops of the cedars, my breath rasping past my lips, and the distant hoot of an owl, sharp as a blade. I wonder if my body is frozen. I will my right hand to move. My fingers curl without shattering, but they feel distant, as if my arm is miles long. I am still alive. A part of me is disappointed.

  I detect a glimmer of moonlight through the branches. From its height above the horizon, I guess that most of the Grace will be at supper.

  Do any of them search for me? Am I missed?

  A part of me does not care. I imagine them finding my scavenged corpse come spring, and the thought brings with it a glimmer of satisfaction. As for my soul . . . am I as lost as Lynna? If so, then it matters not when I die.

  I hear a new sound, the whisper of padded feet on the snow. I turn my head to my right. At first I see nothing but the dark shapes of the trees, then a glint of moonlight reflected from an eye. Not ten cubits from where I lie half naked on my frozen bed of cedar boughs stands the wolf, watching me. Our eyes meet.

  I once thought the wolf to be an invader, an evil presence come to plague us, but now I wonder if he is one of Zerachiel’s messengers, come to cleanse the Grace of a sinner.

  I am not afraid. If the beast chooses to take me now, then so be it. The wolf knows I see him, but he does not move. We both wait; for what, I do not know.

  After a time, my eyes lose the shape of the beast in the shadows, and I wonder if he is really there. Then I see some slight movement, a sway of his shoulders, or the flick of a tongue, and his form once again materializes. It is during one of these periods of clarity that I see his ears prick up. His head turns. I can see his long snout in profile. He takes one last look at me and melts away. His absence leaves a vacuum within the grove, and I am cold again, and the shivering resumes. Moments later, I hear the voices of men. The beam of a lamp scatters through the branches. I hear boots crunching through the crust, and the light strikes my eyes, and behind it I see my father’s face.

  How long did the wolf and I remain together in that cedar grove? In my memory, it was hours, but it could not have been so long, because Evensong has only just ended when my father carries me into Elderlodge, where I am wrapped in layers of heated blankets and forced to drink quantities of hot honeyed tea. My mind is working sluggishly, and I am able only to nod and shake my head to their questions. Brother Samuel is there. My mother brought the tea. Others are nearby, talking. I understand only fragments of what I hear.

  “. . . hypothermia and frostbite . . .”

  “. . . a miracle he is alive . . .”

  “. . . thank the Lord we came across his tracks . . .”

  Brother Samuel is bending over me, examining my forehead. Someone is massaging my feet. I think it is my father. I cannot remember the last time my father touched my flesh.

  “. . . the Lord’s will . . .”

  “. . . delirious. He had taken off his garments and made himself a bed . . .”

  I feel something stab into my forehead and I think of Von. I struggle, but the blankets are too heavy, too tightly wrapped. I see a needle in Samuel’s hand. I do not care if I die, but to have my soul taken while my body yet lives is terrifying. I curse and snap at him, and he strikes me, a slap to my cheek, and someone grasps my head from behind to hold it steady.

  “Jacob!” My mother’s voice cuts through the fog of fear. “Hold still and let Brother Samuel stitch your wound.”

  Is that what she thinks he is doing? I manage to gasp out a few words: “He lies. He lies. He —”

  A moist cloth smelling harshly of chemicals is clapped over my mouth, and the abyss opens, and I am swallowed.

  And he walked in all the sins of his father, which he had done before him.

  — 1 Kings 15:3

  I am dead inside.

  It was not Brother Samuel who killed my soul. He only stitched the cut on my forehead. I am dead inside because I have killed myself. I move from task to task, working, praying, eating, and trying to sleep. When sleep comes, hours after I lay my body to rest, it is a sleep of nightmares and terrors. When I eat, the food is tasteless. I may as well be eating leather and dirt. When I pray, my mouth moves, but my heart is lost in a quagmire of mortification and unspeakable longing.

  Brother Enos questioned me at length. Why did the searchers find your footprints leading from the gate to the cedar grove? What were you doing outside the fence? I told him I remembered nothing, neither how I injured my head nor where I was when it happened. He looked at me long and hard, but I told him no more.

  I do remember, of course. Would that I could forget! But there is no question of confessing my sins. I am beyond that, my shame too deep, my sins too vast.

  Father Grace has taught us that no sin is unforgivable if we are truly repentant, and therein lies the rub. I regret my sins, but I would not undo them. How can I repent being who I am?

  I think about Lynna constantly.

  My fingers and toes are flaking with the aftereffects of frostbite. They function, but even the slightest chill sets them to aching. I am given indoor work. Women’s work. I perform such chores as are assigned to me without complaint. I speak when I am spoken to. Often, I catch my mother staring at me, her crease of caring deep. One day, as I am scouring a crusted soup kettle in the kitchen, she tells me she is worried about me.

  “I am fine,” I tell her. “I am healing.”

  “I am not concerned about your body, Jacob. You are young and strong. I am worried about you. You seem so unhappy.”

  “Everyone is unhappy,” I say.

  She nods. “Yes, it has been a difficult winter. Your father says we are being tested.”

  “If so, I have failed.”

  “How have you failed? Twice you have been smote down, and twice you have returned to us. You are twice blessed.”

  “I have been twice punished.”

  “Punished? For what?”

  I shake my head and rub vigorously at a scab of burned food in the bottom of the kettle. I hear my mother sigh.

  “Know that you are loved, Jacob. Time will heal all.”

  I visit the Sacred Heart at odd hours, when I can be alone with the Tree. It is bare of leaves now, with only a handful of shriveled fruits still clinging to its branchlets. As my mouth offers up prayers, I think about things that can never be. I imagine myself leaving Nodd again, following the cattle trail to Lynna’s Worldly domain. She opens the door with a smile.

  The moment of comfort I take from this thought evaporates as she sees who I am. Her smile falls away. The door slams.

  In another version of my fantasy, she sees me and smiles, and as her lips part I see the long, sharp teeth of a wolf, and I know I would bare my throat to her were I able.

  Yet another winter storm comes, this one stealthily, in the night. I venture forth from Menshome to perform my morning ablutions and discover that Nodd has become a confection, frosted with a cubit of fluffy, sparkling snow. It is heartrending in its beauty, and for a short time I forget about the darkness that lies beneath it.

  Soon the Village is abuzz with activity. All who are able pitch in to clear the snow from our walkways. I hear the distant drone of Brother Peter clearing the roads with his tractor, and the laughter of the young children playing in the fresh, pure snow. Ignoring the ache in my fingers, I take it upon myself to clear the walkways between Menshome and the Hall of Enoch. By the end of the day, the Village has become a maze, with walls of white on either side of every walkway and road. As I walk through this labyrinthine wonderland I see and hear the Grace at work, and I feel for the first time in many weeks that I am a part of them. This is the true Heart of Nodd, I think: all of us together, working as one, building and protecting and making ourselves ready for what is to come. And for the first time in months I can see a path to atonement, to forgiveness, to forgetfulness, to purity. Zerachiel may come tomorro
w, or long after I am gone. It matters not. I can do only what I am able to do, and no more.

  That night I fall asleep directly. I am sunk deep in my dreams when I am awakened by the buzzing of a motor. It is late. I cannot imagine why Brother Peter should be operating any of his vehicles at this time of night. I hear the muffled sound of voices from outside. Curious, I rise and pull on my trousers and boots. Will is standing outside his cell in his nightclothes.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A visitor, I think.”

  “From outside?”

  “I don’t know. Brother Jerome is out there.”

  I start down the hallway toward the front door, which is standing ajar. I hear Brother Jerome’s voice. I am almost to the door when I hear Lynna’s voice, high-pitched and frantic. “I don’t care about your stupid rules. I want to see Jacob! I have to see Jacob!”

  I rush to the door. Brother Jerome and Lynna are standing just outside the entrance. Jerome is holding Lynna by the arm. He is dressed, as am I, in his nightshirt, with hastily donned trousers and unlaced boots. Lynna is wearing a puffy down jacket and a wool stocking cap. Lynna’s ATV is parked at the corner of Menshome. She has driven it right into the Village.

  Lynna sees me and, with a violent effort, tears herself loose from Jerome and rushes toward me.

  “Jacob!” She throws her arms around me. “Oh my God, Jacob!”

  I am all things in that moment: happy to see her, startled by her embrace, horrified by her presence, and terribly embarrassed. Jerome, Will, and now Brother Aaron are all gaping at us.

  “Lynna . . .” I extract myself from her arms just as Brother Enos comes running from the direction of Elderlodge, followed closely by my father. Only Enos is fully dressed. I wonder if he sleeps in his clothes.

  “What is this?” Enos asks.

  Lynna faces him, her jaw set. “I’m Lynna Evert, Max Evert’s daughter.”

  Enos looks from her to me.

  “Brother Jacob?”

  I have no words. I am looking at my father, standing behind Enos. I can almost hear his thoughts, his certain knowledge that I am more tainted than ever he realized, that I am beyond redemption.

  The lines framing Enos’s mouth deepen, and his eyes narrow. He turns his fierce gaze on Lynna. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to ask for sanctuary,” she says, raising her chin defiantly.

  “In the darkest hours of the night? You drive your machine into our Village and demand sanctuary?”

  “Yes,” Lynna says in a voice that makes it clear she will not back down.

  Enos steps closer to her and examines her face. “You are a child. Go home.”

  Lynna looks quickly at me, then away, and I can see the uncertainty overtaking her.

  “I can’t,” she says.

  “And why is that?” Enos’s tone becomes honey smooth.

  Lynna shakes her head.

  “We have no secrets in Nodd,” Enos says, still with the smooth voice.

  I think how easily he lies.

  “Why have you come to us?” he asks. “Why now?”

  Lynna bites her lip and looks at me again. “I will tell Jacob,” she says.

  “You will tell me, woman!” Enos’s tone has lost its honey.

  Lynna is visibly crumbling. I step between them and put my hands on her shoulders. Brother Will gasps audibly at such boldness, but I am beyond caring. My connection with this Worldly girl is undeniable. Enos can only do so much.

  I look into her face. “Lynna, what happened?”

  She blinks, and tears course from her eyes.

  “Jacob . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I killed Cal, Jacob. I killed him dead.”

  For a moment, I think that I am the only one who has heard her words, but I am wrong.

  “Brother Jerome!” Enos snaps. “Bring the girl to my office. Now!” He turns and walks quickly toward Elderlodge. Jerome grabs Lynna’s arm and pulls her after him. She looks back at me desperately. I start after them, but my father stops me with a word.

  “Jacob,” he says. “You will only make matters worse,” he says.

  “How could they be worse?” My voice cracks. Brothers Will and Aaron are staring at me as if I am the devil himself.

  “Back inside, you two,” my father snaps at them. “Let me talk to my son.”

  Will and Aaron retreat to Menshome, leaving my father and me standing in the cold in our nightshirts. He gives me a long, searching look

  “Tell me what is going on, Jacob.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on!”

  He presses his lips together and nods. “It is time we talked. Let’s go inside where it is warm.”

  I follow him into Menshome. We take off our unlaced boots and sit before the woodstove, facing each other. I wait for him to speak. It has been so long since the two of us have talked that I do not know how to begin.

  “The girl’s name is Lynna?” he says.

  I nod, looking at the floor. Our feet look exactly the

  same.

  “She is a friend of yours?”

  “I know her,” I say.

  “Is it true what she said? That she killed Cal Evert?”

  “I don’t know. If she did, he deserved it.”

  “Jacob,” he says in a soft voice, “no one deserves to die.”

  I look up at him, and instead of seeing his usual dis approving, accusing expression, I see pain and sorrow.

  “Tell me about her,” he says.

  And so I do. I tell him everything. I think he will be angry, but with each word I speak, I see him grow sadder.

  When I have finished speaking he sighs. “Was her uncle molesting her?”

  I think back over the things Lynna told me. “She said he never did. But she must have thought he might.” I tell him about her showing me the knife used to castrate animals, and calling it her Cal-strating knife.

  “And this girl, who might or might not have lain with her own kin, and who may be a murderess . . . you have feelings for this girl?”

  I nod, my jaw set.

  “I have failed you,” he says.

  “I don’t care.”

  He winces as if I have jabbed him with a needle.

  “She came to us for sanctuary,” I say.

  “Jacob, the girl is clearly not of age. Her father will come for her, and maybe the police. They will have to sort out what will happen to her. We cannot shelter her. My greatest concern now is for you, and the price you will pay for what you have done.”

  “Brother Samuel can cut my brain open and make me stupid. I don’t care.”

  His mouth falls open, and I see that I have truly shocked him.

  “Jacob! That would never happen!”

  “It happened to Von. And then he killed himself.”

  “You are not Von.”

  “You don’t know who I am. You don’t know anything about me.”

  He is silent for several seconds, then he says, “You may be right. I have been neglecting you. This is my transgression.”

  Hearing that gives me a peculiar sense of sick satisfaction, but it is short-lived. He continues.

  “Nevertheless, you must put this girl out of your mind and beg forgiveness from Father Grace. You must —”

  “Brother Jacob.” It is Jerome. “Brother Enos requests your presence.”

  Brother Enos’s office is lit by a single lamp on his desk. Enos is seated rigidly in his chair. Lynna is seated directly opposite him, with the desk between them. Her face is pale and taut. When I enter, she turns to me and almost smiles, pleading with her eyes.

  “Miss Evert has demanded your presence,” Enos says dryly. “Please have a seat.” He waves his hand at the chair to his left. I sit down.

  “Miss Evert has a story to tell us,” Enos says to me, then turns to Lynna and raises his eyebrows.

  Lynna clears her
throat and says, looking at me, “My uncle, Cal, he came home really drunk. My dad’s in Billings.” Her voice is high and tight, as if she is forcing out the words. “He started saying stuff. I mean, he’s said stuff before and I mostly just ignore him.” She looks down.

  “What did he say?” Enos asks.

  She won’t look at Enos; her eyes are on me. “Saying, like, how I was parading my body in front of him, teasing him and all — and it’s not true! I mean, I usually put extra clothes on when he’s around, just ’cause he’s such a jerk. Anyway, I got sick of listening to him so I went to bed and shut my door. I figured in the morning he’d pretend to not remember what he’d said and quit being a jerk for a while, ’cause that’s what he always did before. Anyway, after a while I fell asleep. When I woke up he was sitting on my bed with his hand on me.” She touches her right hand to her breast, draws a ragged breath, and swallows. She is still looking at me, but I think she is seeing Cal.

  “I could smell how drunk he was. I yelled and tried to get away, but he grabbed me and pushed me down on the bed and tried to kiss me.” Her voice becomes a monotone, as if she is reporting something that happened to someone else. “I hit him and he grabbed my wrist and I started screaming, but I knew there wasn’t anybody else home and he was pressing my wrist against my throat, so I grabbed my knife with my other hand and cut him. He fell back and he hit his head on my dresser, and after that he didn’t move.”