Eden West

by Pete Hautman

  “I knew from the moment I met him that I wanted to spend my life with him. Your father had great passion and strength, and he was very handsome.” She smiles. “We moved in together a few months later. Our families disapproved. My parents, who were very devout Christians, refused to have Nate in their home. Nate’s mother, who lived in Minneapolis, was polite, but she hated that I was with her son.

  “When your father got his law degree, we moved to Omaha, where we knew no one, and your father opened a small law practice. We talked about getting married, but for several years we kept putting it off — there seemed no reason to hurry. We had no close friends, and neither of us had any family who cared whether or not we were married. We had only each other. For a time, it was enough. And then I became pregnant with you.”

  “Conceived in sin,” I say.

  “Conceived in love. We were married as soon as I found out I was pregnant. The day you were born was the happiest day of our lives.” She smiles and reaches out and presses her palm to my cheek.

  “We were content, just the three of us. I became pregnant again when you were two, but lost the child in my seventh month. A boy like you. We would have named him Matthew.”

  “How did you . . .? What happened?” I ask.

  “It was an auto accident. Other than losing Matthew, I wasn’t badly injured, not physically. But my world grew dark. I felt the loss of my baby every moment of every day. If I hadn’t had you to care for” — she touches my face again —“I could not have gone on. I moved through the days in a fog. Your father made me see a doctor. The doctor gave me pills, but the fog only grew thicker.

  “Then one day I was walking with you in a stroller, and you were crying, and there was nothing I could do, and I noticed several people coming out of a small church, Grace Ministries. Their faces were glowing as if they had just experienced something wonderful. The next Sunday, what we now call Firstday, I attended a service. Some of the things I heard seemed very strange, but I liked the people, and the fog did not follow me into the church. I went back the next week, and the next. Your father began attending with me. He was not a believer at first. I think he came only to make me happy.

  “And then Father Grace came to the ministry, and he spoke to us. He, too, had lost a child — his son Adam. He listened to me, and he took my pain onto himself, and I knew he could see into my soul. When he learned that your father was a lawyer, he hired him on the spot to deal with some tax problems he was having with the government.

  “At first, your father thought Father Grace was just another religious fanatic, but he was a client with money, so we continued to attend services as your father provided the Grace with legal advice. Father Grace was different back then — more joyful and open and approachable. He and your father became close friends, and as I emerged from my fog, I saw that your father had been suffering in his own land of darkness, and that Father Grace had saved him as well.

  “Father Grace invited us to visit Nodd, and we came, and we breathed the air, and we knelt before the Tree, and we saw the happiness of the Grace, and we knew the Truth. We saw that our life in Omaha was empty and meaningless. A few months later we moved here to Nodd, to await the coming of Zerachiel.”

  I have heard parts of that story before, although I never knew I had lost a brother. I wonder why she is telling it to me now. As if she can read my thoughts, my mother answers.

  “Jacob, I am telling you this so that you will understand that your father and I turned our backs on our lives not once, but twice. We left our families and built a new life in Omaha, and then we left Omaha to begin anew here in Nodd. Do you understand?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then consider this.” She puts her warm hands on my cheeks and looks into my eyes. “Father Grace is a great prophet, but he is a man. You say he has forgiven you, but the person you need first to forgive is yourself — for what you have done, and for what you must do; for who you believe yourself to be, and for who you really are.

  “There is more than one path to salvation, Jacob, my son. G’bless.”

  With that, she returns to the kitchen and closes the door.

  I am not sure, but I think my mother has just given me her blessing to leave Nodd.

  In those days when He hath brought a grievous fire upon you, whither will ye flee, and where will ye find deliverance?

  — Enoch 102:1

  I cannot leave Nodd.

  I have no place to go. Lynna is far away in some distant state, and I know almost nothing of what lies beyond the fence. I have no money, and I am still seventeen, a minor in the eyes of the World. In a way, this is a relief, as I have no choice but to continue to live the life I know. I throw myself into my work, I pray before the Tree, I go on as if this is the way it has always been and will always be. Enos must note my change in attitude, for I am watched less closely as the days and weeks pass.

  Babel Hour is a trial. I try not to look at Beryl, but my eyes betray me and seek her out. She is so small and thin I could lift her with one hand. I catch her looking at me. Does she know we are to be wed? I try to imagine life with her, but all I can think about is Lynna. When the call-and-response is over, and the women lay out their sweets and savories, I head for the door. I cannot bear to exchange pleasantries with her. It would make it all too real. As I am leaving, our eyes meet across the room. I see that I have hurt her, but I cannot allow myself to care.

  Winter moves toward spring, and we are tested again. It is a small storm by Montana standards, no more than four inches on the ground, but the snow is wet and as heavy as sand. Brother Andrew is clearing snow from the prayer wall when he is struck down. Brother Peter finds him slumped over the wall, unable to speak or move. Brother Samuel says he has had a stroke. Andrew is made comfortable in his bed, and Samuel asks us all to pray for him. We all fear that he will not live to see the Garden bloom again.

  Days later, Sister Judith, Tobias’s mother, is found wandering up the Spine dressed only in her nightclothes. Brother Jerome brings her back to Womenshome. For three days, she will not eat or speak, not even to Father Grace. The next day, I am changing one of the Jeep tires in the garage when a car pulls into the Village. Two people climb out. I recognize them both. The man driving is Tobias’s uncle, who visited us last fall. The other is Tobias himself.

  I drop the tire iron and run outside.

  “Tobias!”

  He jerks around, sees me, and squares his shoulders. He looks different. Taller, and more confident. I am unaccountably happy to see him.

  “Hey,” he says. He is wearing a puffy, bright-blue jacket and a cap with BRONCOS written across the front, just like the sweatshirt he left for me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here to pick up my mom.” He looks past me, and I turn to see Enos approaching. Tobias’s uncle walks over to meet him, and they speak in low voices.

  “I’m glad to see you’re okay,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, whatever.” He is watching Enos and his uncle walk off in the direction of Womenshome. “It sounds like she’s pretty messed up.”

  “Sister Judith has not been happy,” I say.

  “Imagine that.” His voice is scornful. “Unhappy in paradise.”

  “It has been a hard winter,” I say.

  “Not for me,” he says with a dash of his old cockiness. “I’m doing great.”

  “I heard you were in Denver.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Lynna.”

  He grins. “You talk to her?”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “I know. She called me from Phoenix. She said she tried to join your cult and you told her to piss off. I told her she was lucky.”

  I am offended by his tone, but he is right. Lynna would not be happy living here.

  “How is your sister?” I ask, to change the subject.

  “She’s okay. Kind of bitchy, but she was always that way. She’s got a new boyfriend, so I guess she’ll
get herself knocked up all over again.” He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “I suppose my mom will haul her off to join another cult. But not me.”

  His smug, judgmental demeanor irritates me. I want to shock him out of it, so I say, “I am getting married.”

  His eyes widen. “Really?”

  “I will wed Sister Beryl in the spring.”

  “Which one’s she?”

  “One of Father Grace’s daughters.”

  “Huh! Well, congratulations, I guess.” He puffs on his cigarette.

  “We will be married when the Tree is in full bloom.”

  Tobias laughs abruptly, then starts coughing smoke. When he has finished coughing, he looks away and says, “Good luck with that!”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” He flicks his cigarette into the snow and starts walking toward Womenshome. “I got to go get my mom.”

  I return to the garage and finish removing the tire from its rim. Ten minutes later, Tobias, his uncle, and Sister Judith return to the car. Judith is walking like an old woman, hunched over, looking at the ground, hanging on to her brother’s arm. Tobias is carrying her bag. As they get into the car, Tobias looks over at me through the open garage door and smirks. It is the exact same expression he wore when I first met him.

  Only hours later, Brother Samuel announces that Brother Andrew has died.

  Brother Andrew and Sister Judith are not the only Grace to leave us this winter. An even greater tragedy descends upon us when Sister Ruth gives birth to Father Grace’s promised son. The news travels through Nodd in sobs and whispers: the boy is premature and is born with a portion of his spine jutting out through his back. He is not expected to live.

  Father Grace does not show himself. A cloud of grief emanates from Gracehome. We cannot see it, but we feel its cold, dark tentacles. Father Grace’s pain is shared by all.

  I am measuring a broken window in the nursery when I overhear two of the women talking. They do not see me. One of them, Sister Joan, says, “She was too young to bear a child.” I can almost taste the bitterness in her voice. “It is not right.”

  “It is the Lord’s will,” Sister Olivia says.

  “The Lord? It was Father Grace’s will. He bears responsibility for this.”

  Olivia sees me at the window and shushes Joan; I go on with my work as if I had not heard.

  Three days later, I am walking past the walled garden behind Gracehome when I hear the sound of a hammer driving a chisel into frozen earth. Another grave is being dug. A grave just large enough to hold an infant.

  It think it is no coincidence when, the next day, Taylor and Joan drive off in a Jeep with their seven-year-old son, Onan. They do not return.

  There is winter yet to come and already the Grace have lost ten souls: seven to the World, and three to the Lord.

  I awaken before dawn to the sound of hushed voices and rumbling engines. I dress quickly and go outside in time to see our largest SUV pulling out of the garage. Peter and John are watching it leave.

  “What has happened?” I ask.

  “Father Grace is going to Albuquerque. He hopes to open a new ministry,” John says. “He may be gone for several weeks.”

  We watch the red taillights disappear as the vehicle rounds the first bend.

  “Who is with him?” I ask.

  “Fara and her three girls, and Ruth,” John says. “Marianne and Juliette remain behind.”

  “Everyone is leaving.” I do not mean to say it out loud, but I do.

  Peter puts his hand on my shoulder. “This is a good thing,” he says. “Father Grace needs time to heal, as do we all.”

  With Father Grace gone, a cloud is lifted. Life in Nodd settles into a comfortable routine. Brother Enos decides that I can once again be trusted, and on the fourth Landay of February, he sends me to patrol the fence. I am happy to comply. Life in the Village has been pressing upon me, and I welcome the opportunity to spend time with myself.

  It is a chilly, crisp morning as I set out. By the time I reach the gate I have opened my collar and tipped my cap back on my head. The air is fresh with the smell of sun on snow. I set an easy pace, and follow the fence south along the vegetable and wheat fields and into the forest bordering the Indian reservation. I see and hear nothing but squirrels and birds, although I see the tracks of many deer, and once the trail of a bobcat. A pair of ravens follows me for a while, making coarse remarks. They soon grow bored with my steady trudging and fly off.

  As I am approaching the gully lands south of the Low Meadows, the woods fall silent. I stop and look around, but see only the scrambled winter gray of the underbrush, ranks of reddish tree trunks, and the blackish-green foliage above. I seat myself on a fallen tree, place my carbine across my lap, and listen. When the birds stop talking it can mean many things. I have learned to pay attention.

  A movement catches my eye. I think it is a deer. At this time of year their coats are gray, and I see only a brush-crossed shadow. I remain still, waiting for the creature to show itself. Our diet has been heavy with beans and mutton of late. Fresh venison would be appreciated by all.

  The shadow shifts. For a moment I lose sight of it, then abruptly it is standing in full view. It is no deer; it is the wolf.

  The beast turns and fixes his yellow eyes upon me. He is close enough that I can see his whiskers and the pink tip of his tongue.

  “Hello again,” I say. He is thinner than I remember: coyote thin, but with a wolf’s long legs and jaw.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He is panting, showing more of his pink tongue. He takes a few steps toward me, unsteadily, favoring one of his hind legs. I raise the gun to my shoulder. The wolf stops, not twenty paces away. I can see his ribs move as he breathes. I feel sorry for him, separated from his pack, and apparently injured. Still, he killed our sheep and will doubtless kill more. I thumb the safety off and sight in on his chest, just below the chin. At this range I cannot miss.

  The smooth steel of the trigger presses against the pad of my index finger. I have fired this carbine many times, but never has it felt so alien, so deadly. I can see the wolf tense, hunching his shoulders as if bracing himself for the shock of the bullet, but he does not run. Does he want me to shoot?

  As if in answer, the skin curls back from his teeth and wrinkles over the top of his long snout. I imagine those teeth tearing out a lamb’s throat, stripping the flesh from its bones. He flexes his hindquarters to leap.

  The carbine kicks my shoulder and slaps my ears. The wolf jerks back, then sinks as if melting into the snow. His head falls to the side, his yellow eyes turn to mud, and a blossom of blood works its way out from his chest. I work the lever on the carbine; a brass casing pings out, bright yellow. My breathing is loud and harsh, and the trees look as if every limb and twig has been sharply outlined with fine, dark thread. All is sharp and brittle.

  Keeping the gun trained on the wolf, I lean forward and stand. Muscles straighten my legs, boots creak on the snow, lungs expel wisps of condensed breath. Slowly, stiff-legged, I approach the downed beast. I reach out with the barrel of the gun and prod his shoulder. He is dead. I squat, knees cracking, and look into his face, into the half-closed eyes. There is a putrid smell coming off him. His mouth is open. I see broken teeth; one of his canines is snapped off at the root. I use the gun barrel to roll him onto his side. His ribs are visible, his belly concave, and there are several bare patches of crusted skin where his fur has fallen away. The animal was dying. I back away. Maybe he was asking me to kill him, to put an end to his misery. How long had he been ill? I think back to last year. The wolf coming across the frozen river onto our land had not looked sick at all.

  Nodd has killed him.

  I hope that news of the wolf’s death will bring a measure of peace to Nodd, but it is not to be. Brother Peter, upon hearing the news, calls upon Brother Samuel. He fears that the wolf had rabies and that any scavengers that come upon it wil
l become rabid as well. The three of us take the ATV to where the dead beast is resting. Two ravens fly up from the body as we approach.

  “Can ravens get rabies?” I ask.

  “No,” Samuel replies. “Only animals with hair and teeth.” He takes off his mittens, puts on a pair of latex gloves, and bends over the wolf. “I don’t think it’s rabid,” he says after a brief examination, “but it was in bad shape. Its hind leg is mangled and infected — looks like it might have pulled itself out of one of the traps Jerome put out. That would explain the broken teeth, too — trying to bite its way out.”

  “Jerome will be pleased that his work was not in vain,” Peter says.

  Samuel shakes his head. “To be safe, we had best not leave it to be scavenged.”

  Brother Peter puts me to work piling dead branches and fallen limbs into the back of the ATV. We haul four loads of wood out of the trees into the meadow and stack the wood into a crude pyre.

  We then attach a chain to the wolf and use the ATV to drag it out of the woods. Samuel and I lift the wolf onto the pyre as Peter pours a can of gasoline around the base. Samuel and I back off. Peter strikes a match and throws it onto the gasoline-soaked wood. It ignites with a whoosh, sending a column of black smoke and flame fifty cubits into the sky.

  We stand in the snow and watch the wolf burn. I pray for his savage soul, and I pray for myself. It is all one prayer.

  Winter ends with an eerie storm that begins in the heart of the night. I am awakened by a peculiar sound. I think of men with brooms beating on the roof of Menshome. I go outside. Fist-size clumps of snow are dropping like soft white bombs, striking the buildings and the earth with audible force: chuff, chuff, chuff. Jerome and Will are outside, too, watching with wonder as the clumped flakes cover the ground.

  By dawn the snow is shin deep, and what is falling from the sky has become frozen mist, laying an icy glaze over the fallen snow. The sky is rumbling, and the clouds are so low that the top of the Tower is invisible. Everyone who can wield a shovel is working to keep the walkways between the buildings clear. The mist soon turns to a hail of tiny frozen pebbles, and the clouds pulse with flashes and muted booms. I hear Aaron make an uneasy joke about this being the End Days a moment before a tremendous flash of lightning strikes the Tower. I feel the clap of thunder in my chest.