Castleman, whether or not he knew the name, did not allow the moment to linger. He drew the attention back to himself, saying, “Fine, thank you for corroborating, miss. And now, we have one more piece of business to resolve, and it’s the most important one!” He gestured at the boy, Timmy, still sitting limply with his eyes closed.
The audience followed him, and Vern exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath.
“Timmy, do you hear me?” Castleman called as he approached the boy.
The boy nodded.
“I’m going to count to three, and when I do, you will awaken from your healing slumber. You’ll be much improved, and able to travel home without illness. You are going to get even better once you arrive there. Do you understand that?”
The boy nodded again.
Castleman crossed to his other subjects. For a moment he whispered to the woman named Ann Sawyer. Vern assumed he was saying something to prepare her for the shock of discovering what she’d revealed. He didn’t whisper to the other three. He stepped back and said loudly, “When I count to three, you will awaken refreshed and alert as from a full night’s sleep. One, two, three!”
The four subjects opened their eyes. Castleman glanced back. Timmy was sitting up, alert, perhaps dismayed. He spotted his mother in the audience and smiled. She rushed forward to embrace him. Amy muttered, “It’s a cure of souls, he cured that child’s soul.”
The audience applauded again, but Castleman waved down the noise. “Let me say this one thing in closing, please. I don’t know what you expected to see here. Magic tricks, perhaps.
“It’s not magic, what happened here. It’s not a program of any sort. I knew no more of what we would encounter than you. Whether there was a bride in the audience or someone with gout, or a child gravely ill—it was all unknown to me. This is the new science of the mind, and we don’t yet know where it’s taking us. All we know for certain is that it brings us ever closer to God.”
He took a bow then, and the clapping resumed, although some people were already getting up and leaving. Some clearly did not like what they’d seen, or thought it either a humbug or sinister. Castleman spoke to his foursome, shook the men’s hands. Ann Sawyer lingered after the others had returned to their seats. Someone carried her coat and hat to her, but it was clear she didn’t know what to do next.
The boy was surrounded by his family. His mother embraced Dr. Castleman. Vern heard him say, “I can’t promise you he will improve. His state is very grave. I may have made his time easier and no more than that, madam.” She didn’t seem to believe him, and indeed the boy looked much improved already and still didn’t seem to be coughing. Castleman caught Vern’s eye and bowed slightly to her, mouthing the words “Good luck.”
Emma Shacabac, their hostess, had returned to the front, too. She spoke to some of the guests. Only Ann Sawyer remained in place, her coat and hat still in her hands, her face dull, as if nothing made much impression. Castleman excused himself and went to her. He said something, and she mechanically drew on her coat and tied her hat on. She acted as if she hadn’t fully awakened from her trance. Vern would have liked to remain and see how she recovered, but their hostess was ushering them out.
The sisters filed along the hall with the rest of the crowd. They thanked Emma for the lecture. She replied that they were welcome, but it was obvious she was reluctant now to speak with them.
“What’s a Mastema?” asked Amy as they went out.
“I don’t know,” replied Vern, and neither did Kate. She handed Vern the veil material she’d kept throughout the lecture.
The three of them walked onto the driveway, where the cold wind shattered the spell of the lecture. The sky had gone from merely gray to threatening. People moving by kept their heads down against the wind. No one spoke to them. No one congratulated Vern now on her nuptials.
The child, Timmy, and his mother and sisters climbed aboard their wagon. As it rolled past, the boy looked back at Vern as though the two of them shared some secret. His handkerchief slipped from his bony hand and floated onto the stones of the driveway in front of her, speckled with blood. Rain began to sprinkle down then.
The sisters walked home through the village again, as ignored in their passing as if they were ghosts.
Twelve
THE PREACHER’S NAME WAS FLAVY, a red-faced and pop-eyed little man with a nasal voice and an unsteady hand for shaving that gave the lower half of his face the look of a pelt inflicted with mange.
Before the ceremony, he spoke to the family in the foyer, explaining unnecessarily that it was imperative someone other than Reverend Fitcher conduct things. “One can’t be groom and shepherd both,” he joked, and laughed at this as if there were something clever in it.
Finally it was time, and everyone withdrew to the Hall of Worship. Vern and her father remained in the entryway to await their musical cue from the organist. Mr. Charter asked if she was nervous.
“Very nervous, Papa,” she replied. She fought back tears, insisting to herself that she should not be seen crying prior to the union, only afterward.
“You look so resplendent in your mother’s gown, my dear. So lovely. She would be so very proud to know you’re wearing it this day. And in such a ceremony. I confess, just two weeks ago I felt such terrible pain for you three girls, for surely there was no chance of happiness, of matrimony for you, on this side of the Advent. What hope I held out was dashed when the reverend told us the date. How, I thought, would my girls ever know joy when there were only months remaining to them? It’s too cruel. And then, why, out of the blue—”
“Yes, out of the blue.” Her voice shook.
“Oh, but, Vernelia, you can’t be anything but flowing with happiness at the prospect today. Not merely a union, but with so important a man as Reverend Fitcher. Why, I never dared dream.”
She almost said, “I did,” but stopped herself. She had dreamed, the past two nights. Dreams of the spirit lifting her from her bed, waltzing her through the air, through space, and always setting down inside a distorted version of this house. Always alone. She wandered through twisted halls, every door locked. Nothing stirred. Before long, the invisible hand of the spirit clutched her hand and began leading her along, and a dark shape began its pursuit. The halls seemed to go nowhere, miles of them folding back upon themselves, walls lined with doors, every one the same, until finally one confining corridor led straight to a solid wall, a dead end. The invisible force sped up, dragging her after so fast that she must be crushed when she hit, and she cried out, flung up her other hand, and averted her face, but instead of being smashed she passed through it, across her bedroom, and into her bed where she woke with a start.
It was all a dream. Of course it was all a dream, but what could it mean? Was the shadow Fitcher? Was she so terrified of marriage? Not of marriage, no, but of her readiness for it. How would she ever explain to Elias about Henri? She’d been in love. She’d thought it was the sort of love that lasted forever, but it hadn’t been, not in the end. Henri—the truth was she didn’t know if he would ever have married her. She’d convinced herself, convinced Kate, but Henri had never known how close they had come. She’d never told him, just as she hadn’t given him any reason when she broke off with him, her lover, her—oh, but the ripples that one indiscretion caused. Here she was marrying, and she mistrusted her worth and purity. Never risk your purity, that mesmerized woman had warned her. But the advice had come too late.
The organ sounded three sharp chords then—her cue to enter.
“My child,” said her father. He drew her beneath the archway and onto the red runner of carpet.
She gathered up the full train of her skirt and stepped through. Mr. Charter took her arm as the music swelled.
Through the gauze of her veil, the hall and its occupants appeared not quite defined, the faces smudged and distorted, unfinished. She moved inside her own knot of awareness, the veil a shield against them, her fingertips and toes frigid, the pit of her st
omach scooped hollow, depthless, a hole cored straight through her. Down the aisle she stepped, buoyed by her father, toward Elias Fitcher. He stood immobile in a black tailcoat and trousers, a gray waistcoat, white shirt, and bow tie. Beside him, the crystal skull gleamed with spectral light and, courtesy of the veil, sprayed colorful rays across the altar and her husband-to-be. At Fitcher’s side stood the wagon driver, Notaro, but now in a similarly dark coat and pants, and with his hair smoothed back, his chin clean-shaved.
She saw her sisters’ shapes, shades weeping for her, their faces pressed to handkerchiefs. Behind them Lavinia stood like a cutout, stiff with pride—and for a moment she acknowledged a queer sympathy with her stepmother. Over the past few days, the rancor between them had softened. Their earlier rivalry for control of the household had evaporated. Lavinia had attended to Vern as if trying to be a real mother, assisting in every preparation, sharing in the excitement of the impending marriage with almost girlish delight.
She looked again at him, at her suitor, her soon-to-be husband.
He devoured her with his eyes. He fixed upon her bodice as if counting the freckles on her skin. His gaze returned to her face slowly, and his eyes burned. It came to her that she could make him out perfectly while everyone else was a blur. As if he sensed this, he turned and faced the altar to mask his clarity. His hand slithered along the sleeve of her lace glove. His fingers intertwined with hers. They were as cold as her own. Their hands froze together.
Flavy’s sermon began. “‘Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world,’” he proclaimed, and Fitcher’s grip tightened: The Reverend Flavy must have been unaware that he had used the very same quotation in his sermon the day he’d proposed to her. Flavy continued, “If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.” Then Fitcher made a gesture with his free hand as if swiping at a fly in front of his face, and Flavy deviated from the quotation. “The things that are in the world,” he repeated, as though he’d lost his way. But he was a preacher by nature, and he quickly found his direction again. “We have here today this man and this woman. Are they not in the world? If I asked you that, you would say, ‘Of course, of course they are in the world. We are all of us here in the world.’ What, then, can we do to clarify this passage and make sense of marriage?”
As if in reply, a baby somewhere in the back of the room burbled loudly. Vern smiled at the sound.
“First of all,” Flavy continued, “we are privileged in that we—all of us here—know the end of the world approaches and soon will dissolve all that John referred to in this passage—the things that are in the world. Yet we also know that all of us here, owing to the wisdom of our prophet and our voice, will not dissolve, but will transcend the passing. We will endure. Thus are we not in the world, but separate from it. Ringed by iron, on a holy plot of ground that will be passed over come Judgment. Saved, therefore divine. Here before us have we an example of how we’ll overcome—by unifying, joining together. Love, my friends, is not of the world. It is transcendent. Love is the provenance of God Almighty. This union is of the highest order, not the lowest. And nothing done in His name can ever be wrong or ill-considered.
“We ask then, in His name, do you, Vernelia Anne Charter, take this man, Elias Fitcher, to be your lawfully wedded husband now and forever, acknowledging no other? To love, cherish, and obey?”
Vern’s heart was hammering at her breast as she answered, “Yes, I do.”
Reverend Flavy beamed at her. “Do you, Elias Fitcher, take this woman, Vernelia Charter, to be your wife? To honor and cherish, protect and provide for, for as long as ye both shall live?”
Fitcher glanced sidelong at her. Peripherally, she caught the gleam of his teeth. “Oh, yes,” he said.
Flavy asked Notaro, “You have it, sir?”
Notaro nodded and held up a small gold band. Fitcher took it from him and fitted it on her finger.
“By powers vested in me by no less than the authority of God Himself, I pronounce you man and wife.” He paused, expectantly. Fitcher lifted Vern’s veil and craned his head beneath it. His lips scorched hers. She closed her eyes, tasting plum wine, feeling for an instant that her legs would not hold her. Distantly, she heard Flavy say, “Please welcome into our community the Reverend and Mrs. Elias Fitcher.”
He began the applause and it spread like fire around the room.
Fitcher took Vern by the elbow and turned her, and they faced the guests together. Now she saw them all sharply. Kate and Amy both wore painful smiles—smiles of joy tempered by loss. Lavinia looked triumphant. Papa’s eyes were bright with tears. The gathering applauded as though they’d been paid for it. Their faces, however, lacked any concomitant joy. Vern sought for warmth in their midst, and was little rewarded.
Fitcher led her back along the aisle while the organ pipes bellowed the opening to “Psalm 100” and the crowd sang, “‘Be thou, O God, exalted high…’”
Beneath the curtains covering the front windows, the shadows of feet moved, suggestive of a gathering outside the front of the house; on the side wall silhouettes moved to and fro across the stained-glass portals. It was as if all of Harbinger had collected, inside and out.
Some people singing in the pews nodded to her as she passed, but many more regarded her coldly as her new husband escorted her, singing the psalm as if it were a rebuke to her. She supposed they must perceive her as an outsider, never mind that she was two decades younger as well; and it was possible that other women within the community had designs of their own on him, now foiled. Nevertheless, she resolved to win them to her as soon as possible. Surely, Reverend Fitcher—and shouldn’t she be thinking of him as “Elias” now?—surely, Elias would help her gain their trust.
He opened the door to the foyer. People filled it all the way to the front doors, but parted like a living sea between the Hall of Worship and the dining room, opening up a corridor large enough for her and her husband. Some of the men leaned in and congratulated Fitcher as he passed; some also eyed her, and rather too salaciously, she thought.
In the dining hall, a large three-tiered cake sat in the center of the long table. It was white and covered with colored flowers. Vern was amazed by it. Someone had spent hours preparing this. Beyond it stood bottles and glasses and cups. Fitcher stopped outside, turned, and let his flock come to them.
Mr. Charter, Lavinia, and her sisters followed Vern through the throng to take their place beside her. Her father clutched her to him and kissed her. Lavinia, head tilted, said, “I’m sure you’ll be happy.” Next Amy and Kate, who hugged her tearfully. The three of them wept together. Kate in particular seemed crushed, and Vern patted her back, saying, “Don’t worry, I’m not that far from you, am I. Why, soon enough, you’re both going to have a husband, too. I’ll tell you a secret, Kate. I know it, because Samuel told me, the same as he told me about my own suitor. He was right about me. He’ll be right about you, too. So don’t cry, Kate. You have no cause.”
Kate wiped at her eyes in most unladylike fashion. Vern chose not to correct her. She sniffled and stepped back, searching for something in Vern’s eyes, but then shook her head as if to indicate that she couldn’t express what she was feeling in words. People were pressing up close, and they parted the two sisters before Kate could find anything to say.
Vern turned to accept congratulations from the next person in line, and it was the fiendish best man, Notaro. Only now the fire had left his wicked face. He refused to look at her directly, keeping his head down as if trying to show her the part in his oiled hair. He only raised his eyes once, and then to glance at her husband, who was paying him no mind, who was engaged in conversation with many others. Notaro turned aside.
After that, she was overwhelmed by a steady parade of well-wishers, hundreds of them, lining up just to go past, into the refectory. She had about decided that she’d misread their reactions to her at the ceremony, when one woman, leaning close, whispered, “You’re not the first, you’re not the last.
” The way it was said, it sounded like a riddle, and what it suggested eluded her for a moment. By then the woman had pushed into the crowd. Vern didn’t even have a good idea of what she’d looked like. She’d seen so many faces by then. And they were still coming. How many had Elias told her lived here? She couldn’t recall. Hundreds, though, it had to be hundreds.
Eventually, he told her, “That’s enough, now. Let’s go,” and led her into the dining hall.
The bottles had been uncorked, glasses filled with wine. They made their own wine, naturally. She overheard her father say to her husband, “But, sir, drink—how can you condone it?” He had taken to drink after her mother died—only briefly though: He’d pulled himself out of that pit and saw all drinking now as an evil. Elias replied, “Mr. Charter, wine needs no condoning. Our Lord’s blood is wine. And wine will still be with us on the other side. Are you acquainted with the Shakers? Their most famous leader, Mother Ann Lee, has communicated with them from beyond the grave—did you know that? And she grows grapes in Heaven. All sorts of grapes, for there are far more varieties there than here. And from these she makes a most holy wine, which she has in some instances shared with those in the corporeal community who still abide by her teachings. If God allows for wine, how can we do otherwise?”
Completing his lecture to her father, Elias handed her a glass of her own, then stood beside her and raised his cup to toast her: “My bride,” he bellowed, “and may she be as pure as she is beautiful.” She blushed, and lowered her eyes. The crowd recited “as pure as she is beautiful” as though it were part of a litany.
Tenderly, she looked at him, only to find him brandishing a knife at her. Her shock was brief, and too ridiculous—it was the knife to cut the cake, and he was holding out his hand that she might take the knife with him and make the first cut. She closed her fingers over his. “The first cut,” he said, “is always the most difficult.” Together they sliced through every layer, and there was cheering all around.
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