by Diane Guest
Matthew felt his stomach lurch again. He didn't know how he could throw up, since he hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday, but he sure wanted to.
"Tell us, will you?" Fat Teddy said.
"Reverend Snell's arm's been chopped off with the saw." Matt choked it out.
Silence fell over the group of children. Then someone said, "How could that'a happened?"
"Reverend Snell's always telling us how God is terrible when someone does somethin' bad," Fat Teddy said. "Maybe now he's done somethin' so bad himself that God cut his arm off."
Matthew had only been to one of Reverend Snell's services, when Miz Snell had taken the whole class. Once had been enough. Matt didn't need any encouragement to believe that the minister was one of the meanest and most terrifying people he had ever seen. He had been plagued with nightmares for weeks after the sermon, unable to forget the punishments that Reverend Snell had conjured up.
"I wonder if there'll be school today now that the Reverend's hurt. Or dead, even," Bobber Peabody said.
"Bet there won't be."
Any farfetched speculation about God and the minister were put aside in favor of this far more pleasant possibility. Pleasant, that is, for everyone except Matthew. If there was no school, he wouldn't get to see Her. Worse, he'd have to spend the day trying to avoid his father. He made the immediate decision that in spite of his growing uneasiness when he was out in the forest, he would spend his day off with Boy. Maybe if they were together they wouldn't be so frightened.
Smoke was everywhere, hanging in the trees like giant webs left by some huge primordial spider. Matthew hurried toward the familiar clump of tamaracks where he had Boy hidden. He would take him to the swamp to get water today. Usually, he brought some with him in an old logger's canteen he had found, but he hadn't wanted to go home to get it. Besides, he had all day to spend with Boy and the colt needed the exercise.
Matthew had come upon Boy in early summer over by the old west road that led out to Mr. deWeert's place. The colt had been run to ground by a wildcat and had Matt not come along when he did, Boy would most surely have died an agonizing death.
It had taken a long afternoon of patient coaxing for Matthew to gain the confidence of the little horse. He was frantic being away from his mother, but he was old enough to know that the two-legged creatures represented safety and shelter. Therefore, after a time of gentle persuading, he had finally allowed Matthew to put an arm around his neck and lead him through the forest.
Matthew's first thought had been to take Boy back to Penobscot Landing, knowing full well that the colt had an owner somewhere, so he had headed down the road toward town.
But what if the people were cruel to him, he had argued with himself, closing his mind to the fact that the colt looked to be in excellent condition. Maybe his mother had come from a long way off; maybe she had been an Indian horse. And maybe she had been killed.
The closer he got to Penobscot Landing, the more rigorous and convincing his arguments with himself had become. He's lost, that's sure, he had thought. And if I hadn't found him, he'd be dead by now. He had slowed the pace, tightening his grip on the colt's mane. Anyone who'd let a poor little fellow like this get lost surely deserved to lose him forever.
"I can take as good care of you as anyone, Boy," he had told the colt. But it was the thought of what someone like his father would do to Boy that had turned his mind to thoughts of keeping the colt for himself. With that determination, he had changed direction and had struck out into the forest.
The very next day, Matthew had built a pen out of small green saplings, and had made a shelter of pine boughs for Boy.
The summer had worn on, and Boy had filled the void left in Matthew's heart when school closed and he no longer saw Her. And as the long, dry summer afternoons had lengthened into evening, Matthew Shepherd had spent his time pouring out his child's heart, traveling the world he had never seen with the horse he knew was not his.
At the very moment that Matthew arrived at the thicket on this hot September afternoon, Susannah Snell stood crying at the foot of her husband's bed, and Sylvanus Morgan, not two miles away, told his foreman to set the backfires.
The smoke was much heavier here, and it made Matthew's eyes sting. The young horse was trembling uncontrollably, pacing back and forth the short length of the enclosure, expelling air from his nostrils in rapid, violent bursts, his eyes rolling back in his head in mindless fear. Matthew made a decision.
"We can't stay here any longer, Boy. I'm scared. I'm going to take you to Miz Snell. She'll help us, I know she will." He was lying to Boy. He knew in his heart that he would have to give the colt up, but his fear of the fires had gone beyond his dreams and he could no longer deny the danger.
He took the rope that hung over one of the sapwood rails and tied it around Boy's neck. The smell of smoke was fierce and for the first time Matthew could hear a low rumble, unfamiliar but clearly threatening. It was coming from up near Mr. Morgan's house. He tugged on the rope. The colt hesitated, torn between fear of the present danger, and terror of what might lie beyond the comparative safety of his pen.
Matt spoke gently and stroked Boy's neck. "C'mon, Boy. You'll love it where we're going, I promise." The sound of his voice calmed the animal enough to allow Matthew to lead him off in the direction of the byroad.
Now, a thousand deafening noises seemed to be rushing at them from behind, the tops of the trees swaying mysteriously as if a monstrous dragon was passing high above, driving them with the thrashing of his tail.
Matthew could barely see through the thick suffocating smoke and although he could see flashes of fire on both sides of him, he kept moving, praying that God would let him find the road before whatever it was, coming from behind, caught up with them.
Hot ash began to sift down through the trees, scorching his face. "C'mon, Boy," he said, terror shredding his voice. "We got to keep going or we're going to be burn to ashes sure as anything." Gasping now for breath, his heart straining against his rib cage, he dragged the paralyzed colt forward. And then, by some miracle, they were on the road, running together, flying away from the pursuing fire, down toward Penobscot Landing.
Susannah was in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea when the knock came on the door. "You go, Jenny. If it's someone offering a kindness, say I'm resting. I just cannot face anyone else today."
Jenny was back a minute later, a tragic-looking Matthew Shepherd by her side. "I thought it would be all right if I brought him in," she said to Susannah.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Miz Snell," Matthew said miserably. "I didn't know where else to go." He looked down at his feet, his shoulders shaking.
Susannah stood and crossed quickly to the stricken child. "Matt. What on earth has happened?" She knelt in front of him and looked at his soot-covered face, tracing one scorched eyebrow with a gentle finger. She pulled him to her. "Sshhh… it's all right, Matthew, I'll help you. Whatever it is. Don't worry."
The gentleness in her voice was too much for his battered soul, and in a flood of tears he emptied his heart, telling her about the fire and his terror and Boy.
She turned to Jenny and said, "Fix him something to eat, Jen, while I see about his little friend."
They went out back. Matthew had left Boy tied to the back stoop. "Come along, Matt," Susannah said, crossing the yard. She didn't bother to question him. Later would be soon enough. "Bring him to the stable. He'll be safe for the night, and tomorrow… well, tomorrow we'll figure out what to do."
Matthew led the exhausted animal to the small outbuilding while Susannah got some grain and water.
"Miz Snell?"
"Yes, Matt."
"Could I stay out here with Boy tonight? He's so scared."
Susannah knew better than to ask if his mother or father cared. She knew they didn't. "Of course. I'll get you some bedding. But first, my little friend, we've got to get you some food in that skinny stomach." She smiled down at him, and Matthew knew for sure that he had es
caped from the pits of Hell into the Kingdom of Heaven.
After she sent Hester in to relieve Abby at Edwin's bedside, and Matthew had been settled down in the stable, Susannah joined her silent family at the dinner table. There was little interest in eating; even the favorite bread pudding that Jenny had made had gone almost untouched.
Susannah took a deep breath. Her two sons, Ethan and Aaron, were looking across the table at her with wide, stricken eyes, not daring to speak, not daring to mention their father, but aching to have her answer all their unasked questions. Ah, my babies, she thought, what I would give to spare you this.
Jenny broke the silence. "Isn't anyone going to eat the pudding that I worked so hard over on this scorching afternoon?" Her tone was light, trying hard to be adult, but the child in her made her voice sound unsteady.
Abigail came into the room and sat next to Ethan. With a mechanical gesture she picked up the napkin from his lap and handed it to him. "Here, Ethan. You have a mustache of milk." She turned to Susannah and spoke in a low tone. "He seems to be resting more quietly now."
Susannah nodded. "John said it's going to be a while before we know anything." She turned to her sons. How young they were. Only eight and ten. She could only guess at how much of what she was going to tell them they would be able to understand. You can't shield them no matter how much you want to, she told herself. You've got to be honest with them.
"Ethan. Aaron." She leaned across the table and took each one by the hand. Their fingers were like bones of ice. "You already know that your father had been badly hurt."
Nods.
"I'm not going to try to explain to you why he did what he did." She stopped. "I'm not sure I know myself." God, she thought, they're so young to have to face this. She paused, trying to find the right words. The only thing that mattered to her now was her children. She had to keep them safe, immunize them against this lunacy. "I don't want you to be frightened by all of this." Stupid thing to say, Susannah, she thought. Of course they're frightened. Who isn't?
"Mother?" Ethan said, unsure, hesitating, wanting some assurance from his mother before he said what he was thinking. She tightened her grip on his hand.
"Go ahead, Ethan," she said. "It's all right."
"Did he really cut his own arm off?"
"Yes, he did."
He swallowed. "Why?"
"I don't know."
"Some of the kids said that God did it to him."
"Ethan, God didn't do anything to your father. He did it all by himself."
Aaron wrinkled his nose. "It must have hurt really bad."
"Yes, I'm sure it did," she said.
"Worse than when I cut my hand on the water pump even."
"Oh, Aaron," Ethan cut in, "that was just a scratch. There wasn't hardly even any blood. You're such a sissy."
"Aaron isn't a sissy," Susannah said.
Ethan looked down and picked at an invisible spot on the table cover. "Is Father going to die?"
"We don't know. He's very sick. That's why we'll all have to help as much as we can."
"How?"
"By being extra quiet. By keeping out of mischief so Con sin Abby and I can use our energy taking care of your father and not chasing after you."
"What's Matthew Shepherd doing here?" Aaron asked. The change of subject was so abrupt that Susannah almost laughed out loud.
Ethan looked over at his brother. "Mart's here? How do you know?"
"Because I saw him out back by the stable."
"Is he telling the truth, Mother? Is Matthew really here?" Ethan liked Matthew. Although they were both the same age, Matthew knew so many things that Ethan only dreamed of. Like where the head-race was the deepest, and where the catfish were most likely to be hiding, and all the places in Raccoon Creek where the very best polished pebbles lay.
"Well, he was a little while ago. Why don't you boys go out to the stable and tell him to come in for some bread pudding. Someone has to eat something."
They needed no encouragement to escape from the table. They excused themselves and disappeared through the kitchen.
"Children are amazing creatures, aren't they, Abby?" Susannah sighed. "What is it about them that allows their minds to accept only that which they are able to bear?"
"I don't know," said Abby, "but thank heaven they have their own defenses." She picked at the food on her plate and then put her fork down. "While the children are out," she glanced toward the door, "I ought to tell you that Edwin woke while I was with him."
"He did?" Susannah looked sideways at her cousin, not daring to ask what he had been like.
"Susannah, I don't like it. Not one bit. He opened his eyes and said. "This ought to bring them to their knees, the unholy lot of them. My wife especially.
"What?" Susannah's voice was a whisper.
Abby repeated what Edwin had said. "Susannah, it was the look on his face that frightened me. It may sound like the imaginings of a fool, but I could have sworn that he hated me."
"Oh God, what's happening?" Susannah whispered. She put her thumbnail in her mouth and bit it to the quick. "Abby, what in the name of all that's holy am I to do?"
Abby paused. Then she said, "First of all, you have to stay calm. After all, this kind of reaction may be perfectly normal." She paused again, and then made the decision that what she was about to say had to be said. "But I'll tell you one thing. If I were you, I'd not let the children stay in there with him alone. Not at least until we know more."
Susannah had a dream that night that all but killed her. Edwin was chasing her, but he was a long way off. She was running, but her eyes were closed and she couldn't get them open wide enough to see where she was going.
She was so tired, but she knew that if she stopped he would catch her. She hid behind a huge hedge-row of oleanders. (Oleanders? How did she know they were oleanders? She had never seen one in her life.) She stayed there for a long time, crouching down, trying to see if he was coming, but still she couldn't open her eyes.
She crawled away from where she thought he was, but she knew he was still there. And when she looked up, her eyes finally came open, and it wasn't Edwin at all, but a great, gray, putrid, hulking something looming over her, stretching up to the sky, with hideous open jaws splitting its eyeless face in half. And somewhere from the raw inside of this unspeakable abomination came the words, metallic, thundering out, piercing her brain, "I… AM…THE…LORD…THY… GOD."
Shrinking down, holding her hands tight over her ears to block out the crushing sound, she screamed into its face, "Liarliarliar!"
Abby was shaking her awake. It was Susannah's turn to sit with Edwin. Her chest felt as though a mallet were being smashed against it from the inside out. Her teeth were chattering and her breath was coming in long, rasping gasps. She put her head against her cousin. "Abby." And the tears hurt the dryness of her eyes. "Abby."
The night inched its snail's way toward dawn. Susannah sat like a stone in the chair by Edwin's bed, moving only to give him small sips of water as John had instructed. He dozed on and Off but said nothing, his eyes glazed and unseeing.
We are going to have to get someone to help us, she thought, wearily. Abby and I cannot handle this alone. I can't have Jenny or Hester up all night. She shivered. Even if I did dare to leave them alone with him. Which I don't.
She had closed her eyes and had sagged back in the chair, her head resting on the wing. And then she knew that he was looking at her. She could feel it, but she didn't want to open her eyes. Didn't want to see him.
"Susannah." His voice was low.
Opening her eyes a slit, she could see him clearly in the lamplight. The glaze was gone; his face was all eye, alive with self-satisfaction. "How very kind of you to care for me so diligently."
The voice was not Edwin's. At least not one she had ever heard before. She felt the dryness in her mouth but, determined to ignore it, said, "How are you feeling, Edwin? Is there anything I can get you?" She must be imagining things. It sou
nded to her as though he chuckled.
"No, my dear. I'm quite comfortable, thank you."
Susannah felt an ice-cold prickling at the back of her neck. Fear? Fear of what? Nonsense, she thought, and looked him straight in the eye. She wasn't going to let Edwin frighten her.
"Does everyone know?" he asked.
"Know?"
"Do they all know what has happened?" He enunciated each syllable as if she were a deaf person trying to read his lips. "Are they willing to repent?"
"Edwin, I don't know what you are talking about." She spoke softly, as if the wrong tone could trigger something that she wouldn't know how to handle.
"Of course you don't." He was clearly annoyed. "How could I expect you to know anything beyond what you can see and touch?" He took several short breaths in rapid succession. Then he said, "Have you locked the church to keep them from coming to me?"
She said nothing. She didn't know what to say to this nonsense. He turned his head away with visible effort. "You can try to hide it from me, Susannah, but I'll find out." She could hardly hear him. "Right now, I'm too tired." He closed his eyes.
She sucked in her breath. "Will you sip a little water, Edwin? John says you should drink all you can." Moving to the bed, she lifted his head, holding the cup to his lips. He drank and then fell back against the pillows. Within seconds his breathing took on the quality of a man asleep.
Susannah crossed to the window. Nothing she had ever been taught had prepared her for this, but she was determined to make the best of it. She looked up at the stars, hardly noticing the faint glow just above the tree tops. She felt so old, so conscious of the immensity of her own ignorance about this thing. And then she straightened her shoulders. I want to go home, she thought. I want to go home, but I can't. Only children can run home.
SEPTEMBER 30, 1871
Susannah picked up her wide straw bonnet and jammed it onto her head, pausing only momentarily to tuck in a few strands of hair and to think how ghastly she looked. Thank Heavens it's Saturday and I don't have to worry about school, she thought, and without a second glance in the mirror she left the house and crossed the road. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jane Leyden, the wife of the blacksmith. She quickened her pace. She was in no mood to discuss Peter Leyden's progress in McGuffey's First Reader, nor did she think it was possible to summon up even a remote interest in Mr. Leyden's latest bilious attack. All she wanted to do was to get to John's as quickly as possible and have him give her all the information she would need to deal with Edwin, sane or not.
