Fitcher's Brides

by Gregory Frost

  He led her across the orchard to the village.

  “Your father put the idea in my mind,” Fitcher told her, “not directly of course, but he made mention of your skills, and I thought to myself then that we need those skills just now.”

  A cluster of children ran across their path, playing, but stopped and stared, wide-eyed, at the two of them. The oldest boy ducked his head and said, “Morning, sir.” The others bowed their heads, too.

  “Good morning to you, young Jeremy,” Fitcher replied. “And what is our game today?”

  “Sir?”

  “What are you playing at?”

  “Nothing, sir. Just running, is all.”

  “Well.” Though addressing the child, he smiled at Vern. “Carry on with it then. But don’t lead your little brothers and sisters into trouble.”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t.” The child shuffled to the side, then sprinted away. The others hung back a moment, and one of them stared with big cow eyes up at Vern, before the whole pack took off in pursuit.

  “Willful little tykes,” Fitcher commented. “The littlest ones of course can’t be expected to work. But Jeremy is old enough, he should be doing something constructive now.”

  “Surely, he’s ten or eleven,” Vern defended.

  “Precisely,” answered her husband, as if they had agreed upon it. He continued across the open ground, past plots of turned soil, where a few people were at work, either planting seeds or pulling weeds and dead plants from the previous year.

  They walked along the lanes of the little town. As before, the adults who saw them stopped whatever they were doing and stood stiffly, respectfully, as Vern and Elias passed by; most bade them “good morning” as well.

  He led her to the chandler’s shop.

  She understood immediately what her duties were to be. Her father must have mentioned how she helped Lavinia make candles for the family, but not how much she hated the task. Even as she comprehended what was in store, she knew she couldn’t protest or complain any more than she could complain now about last night’s abuse of her body.

  The shop was small. On one side stood a rack containing tinned sheet iron molds—there must have been a dozen of them, and each was a twenty-four-candle mold. On the other side there was a broad low table covered in splashes of grayish wax and circular marks where the wood had been scorched by the bottom of kettles, set down between pourings. Two dirty aprons lay on the tabletop, as if tossed down just moments ago by the previous occupants. Above hung a frame like the carved spine of some mythical monster of antiquity. It comprised dozens of small rods protruding from either side of a straight pole. A few of the rods had tightly twisted wicks dangling from them, as though—again—the former chandlers had been interrupted in the midst of their work. The contraption’s pole was attached to two pulleys so that it could be lowered and raised. It was quite a clever device, she thought, and would at least make the task of dipping wicks into hot wax manageable, if easier for two than for one. A large hearth took up the entire back wall, with two great hooks sticking out from which to hang the kettles and cauldrons for melting and straining the wax. Barrels and kegs stood to the side of it, and skimmers and strainers and paddles hung on the wall beside lengths of hemp cord, some of them braided and twisted. Boxes were stacked beneath these.

  “Outside there is a well where you can get water. We’re in sore need of these, you know, because Jekyll’s Glen had not enough and we use far more candles than they can supply us and still have some left over for themselves.”

  “Your previous candle-makers were a couple?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They died in an accident? What happened to them?”

  “Did I say that? I suppose I did, to protect your feelings. The young man took his life, is the truth of it.”

  “Oh.”

  “His wife simply disappeared. I know what you’re thinking, my dear. Three people you’ve heard of are dead. It’s both extraordinary and not surprising. The press of time weighs on all of us differently. I said when first we met that I was reluctant to announce the date of Judgment. This is precisely why. There are those who can make peace with the world and face what is to come, and there are those who refuse to do so, and in refusing, they recognize their sinfulness. They aren’t accepting God’s grace, they’re running from it. But of course that’s impossible to do. And so, in fear for their souls, or believing that arriving sooner upon the far shore will benefit them in some manner which crossing over at the date established by God, ascertained by myself, will not, they act and in doing so destroy themselves. The result is, there are those within our community who’ve come to believe that Death lives in our house and stalks us, one by one.”

  “The Dark Angel.”

  “That’s right. The Dark Angel. Some who believe that fierce story have fled Harbinger. One of them at least, in his haste, plunged over the side of the gorge. Others—particularly women—stole away in the dead of night and were never seen again within our gates, our former chandler being one such. It’s why we now keep our gates locked. From such events, otherwise unrelated, has grown the story of some Dark Angel of Death wandering the halls, hunting victims. It is one reason you will find the Harbinger House deserted more often than not. I tell you, there are no limits to human folly. Gossip is the fuel, driving a fearful engine.” He clasped her hand. “It isn’t worthy of your concern, my dear. And now we must return to the house. It’s near lunch and time for afternoon prayer.”

  He led her outside, closing the door after them. He rambled on then about the topic of his sermon this afternoon—whether it should be from Luke: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, with all thy heart…and thy neighbor as thyself,” or from Colossians: “Let no man beguile you of your reward in a voluntary humility and worshipping of angels.” Both, he said, offered starting places to talk about members of the community who were ending their lives prematurely, and those believing in claptrap about this angel of death—how the one created an atmosphere that provoked the other and so forth.

  Vern hardly heard him. The words “worshipping of angels” had sent her into a reflection on the shadow that had pursued her in her dreams. Had the women who fled from Harbinger dreamed of that dark gliding figure? And if it visited her again, how would she escape? When the gates were now locked, what angel could protect her here?

  Fifteen

  VERNELIA SPENT THE AFTERNOON alone in the chandler’s shop. She didn’t begin to make candles yet. Instead, she took inventory of what she had and what she needed. One keg contained bayberry that had been boiled and strained. She poked a finger at it, but the greenish wax was hard. She sniffed its fragrance. At least the addition of it would make for pleasantly scented work, as well as producing candles that burned better.

  A larger keg contained mutton tallow, which must be used now while the weather was still cool. Once summer arrived, the stuff would be unsuitable. Even the candles themselves weren’t going to be much better—she’d seen beef tallow candles puddle on a hot summer day. Boston, at least, now had gaslights. Eventually they would replace all the candles, she thought. That is, they would have done if the world weren’t ending. She knew she could produce better than common tallow light. She had alum and beeswax on hand. Some camphor would be useful, too. She would ask Elias to have Mr. Notaro get her some when he next went to town.

  Lengths of hemp and tow she cut and braided. Some of the material had been coated with saltpeter, which she braided first. For the molds, she inserted long nails through the looped ends of the wicks, so that all she would have to do was pour in the wax. The problem was, there weren’t enough nails to fill even two of the large molds at a time. She would have to find more, or spikes or small sticks. Still, it was a beginning. She hung the remaining wicks off the overhead rods. Those would give her another two dozen candles, although dipping would be more time consuming, since it took at least a dozen repeated dippings before the candles would be thick enough.

  By the en
d of the afternoon, she had everything arranged to begin making candles the following morning.

  She found the portraits when she dropped one of the wicks as she was braiding it. It fell down behind the table, and reaching for it Vern touched the wood frame of a small picture. She pulled it up onto the tabletop.

  The frame contained two simple black silhouettes, two profiles facing one another upon a bed of lace. It must, she decided, be the couple Elias had described, the former chandlers. The profiles looked familiar, but she’d seen so many faces the past few days, probably any cutouts would have looked familiar. She tried to imagine what they were like, imagined the woman taking flight. “Did you like the work at all?” she wondered aloud. Maybe, because they’d worked together, it had been less hateful. If so, then why did he kill himself? Why did he leave his wife alone?

  We are the same, you and I, she told the woman’s portrait. The community needs us in our capacity here. It’s our duty as wives. As women. After a while, she laid the picture facedown and went back to work.

  She didn’t stop until she heard the bell ringing. The sun had vanished behind the shops opposite. The air was chilly, and there was no one else on the street. She set out for the house. Others were moving through the orchards ahead, going to dinner. At the top of the long rise, the lights of the house glittered in the dusk. The idea of finally sitting down among people after her day’s work suddenly had great appeal. She wanted companionship, friendship. She wanted them to look at her and see that she worked the same as they did, and invite her in not because of who she’d wed but because she was one of them.

  When she reached the house and entered the foyer, someone called to her. It was a woman she remembered seeing that morning in the crowd. Thick-bodied and with a blotchy complexion, the woman was shaking her head sternly as she approached.

  “That was first bell,” she said. “You doing the candle makin’ in Harbinger village, you don’t come before second or third bell. People who work in the house and fields, in the kitchens—they get first bell. They grow the food, make the meals, so they get to eat first. Those are the rules.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Ignorance is no excuse. You bein’ Missus High and Mighty, think you can come in and eat when you like, but it’s not the way.”

  “No,” Vern protested, now on the edge of tears. “I wasn’t told. I’ll wait my turn.”

  “That you will.” And so saying, the woman sashayed through the doors into the dining hall from which Vern was barred.

  She sat on one of the cushioned benches, hidden for the most part behind an urn and under the stairwell. Candles burned in sconces by the doors and in the chandelier, but not near her. She ached now with hunger, real and abstract; the energy that had buoyed her only moments before had evaporated. Through the wall came the murmur of a voice delivering a sermon—not her husband’s voice, but someone else, haranguing, cajoling. She could have joined that congregation if only she’d had the will to rise.

  She must have sat there a full half hour, because the bell rang again, heralding the second shift. People emerged from the dining hall. Others poured out from the Hall of Worship. Some of them noticed her but glanced away if she returned their look. In moments they had all vanished and she was alone again. After a few minutes more people entered the foyer. The first of these were out of breath, having run from the village. Vern didn’t even glance at them now. She remained invisible as she was expected to, staring down at her image in the polished floor, a faceless ghost.

  Then there was another ghost beside her, and she looked up to find a child looking at her, a girl of maybe seven or eight, with light hair and dark eyes. She looked like someone Vern knew. The girl asked, “Aren’t you coming to eat?”

  Vern drew a breath and it shook in her chest. She got to her feet. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

  The girl turned, saying, “That’s good, because you know you only have a little while here.”

  Vern followed her into the dining hall. It was already crowded, with people shambling about, carrying bowls and cups. Vern let the child instruct her—showing her where to get a bowl of her own, and a utensil and cup. They walked down the line to where six people stood ladling a bean soup into the bowls. They sat together, but the child hesitated, her spoon in her fist, and Vern waited, too. Finally, she heard someone at the far end of the room mutter some words—she made out “bless this…Lord” and the final “Amen,” which rolled around the room, and she said it just after the girl, who began immediately to eat. Vern followed her lead.

  No words were spoken. She listened to her own chewing, to others slurping the broth. Nobody said anything, even as they passed bread to each other. They ate their meals, then got up and went through the doors at the far end of the room. Vern finished before the girl and waited for her. The girl gave her a secret smile as if they had just shared something intimate. They got up together. Vern’s stomach growled. She could have consumed three more bowls of that soup easily. It was hardy fare, but there wasn’t enough of it. She knew there could be no asking for seconds. At least one more shift of people had yet to partake of a meal.

  In the kitchen she stood in line waiting her turn to clean her bowl and spoon and cup. These were turned over on trays that, when full, were carried back to where she’d acquired hers. She washed her bowl and, standing there above the hot soapy kettle of water, experienced a moment’s contentment.

  She turned to go, and found that the child had disappeared. She scanned the entire kitchen but the girl wasn’t there.

  She followed the main body of diners out to the yard again, and started to walk back toward the village. A thin elderly man stepped up to the bell and swung the handle back and forth, ringing it. She nodded a greeting as she passed him. He nodded back.

  She walked along in the dark, and was halfway to the orchard before she realized that the child had looked so familiar because she looked just like Kate had at that age.

  She paused and looked around herself, and found that she was all alone. No one else was returning to the village. The day’s work was done. They had retired to the dormitories, where even now she could see the glow of candles in the windows. Candles everywhere, like stars across the horizon. Soon, she thought, it would be her light shining from the windows, bringing the vast utopia to life.

  She trudged back to the house. Her legs were stumps now. Her whole body felt as if it had been dragged behind a wagon along some rutted track. All she wanted was to sleep.

  She wondered what Kate was doing at the moment, and she thought, I must find husbands for her and Amy here, and quickly. If she could do that, they would at least be together as the sands ran out for the world. If no one wanted to talk to them, they would have each other as they always had.

  It might have been a dream. His hand curving along her cheek. The smell of perfumed macassar oil, and his voice beside her ear, asking, “How is my little egg tonight?” She stirred, but could not come fully awake to tell him where she’d left it, in plain view on the card table. But then she felt it against her skin, rolling cold and smooth into the hollow of her back, and from it a current flowed into her, a thousand rivers of desire etching across her surface, so intense that when she did finally open her mouth all she could do was moan. The perfect egg slid down between her legs and opened her like light draping a flower bud. She unfolded. Pleasure broke her apart, battered her upon its rocks, swooped and swirled and spun her into the funnel of the maelstrom, down and down and down into subterranean auricles, red chambers of no expressed form, full of slithering shapes, not fire nor brimstone but hellish all the same, for all the snaking forms clambered upon her in the dark to feast upon her flesh. She grew hollow, saw her belly, and it was empty below her ribs, which stuck out like broken sticks buried in the dirt. And his hand emerged out of the writhing mass around her, reached into that void below her breasts, and pulled out the perfect egg again with a conjuror’s flourish. Like her heart it came free. It glistened in the
firelight, slick and wet with her. As he lofted it away, it resorbed her sensation, all sensation. The back of him, shining like metal inside the silk gown, glided to the door, where he glanced back. She saw herself from there—a skeleton covered in yellowed papyrus, flesh flaking to dust upon her bed. She knew he was gone only the moment the door clicked shut.

  The sound awoke her.

  She was lying facedown on her bed. Her hair made a wet tangle about her face, like a net that had been thrown over her, and as if she were a mermaid, she sprawled on this moist spot, legs become a thick fin too heavy to lift. The bedclothes had been thrown aside, lying in peaks like seafoam beside her that she could just see at the edge of her vision. Her chemise was gone, her body coated with a chilling perspiration. How long could she breathe, cast up here?

  Finally, she moved, and there was a flash of pain between her legs, there and gone, as if for an instant she’d been pierced by a barb. The pain woke her completely. She rolled over and pushed herself up. The room smelled of musky sex and woodsmoke; the sheets were drenched with it. But the room was empty, the fire low, not sporting licking flames at all.

  She slid from the bed, got to her feet, padded naked and unsteady to the table where the marble egg lay. She hesitated to touch it, to pick it up, glanced again at her door, still closed, at the fire and the dark corners of the room, as though he might be hiding there, watching her. She lifted the egg with thumb and forefinger. It left behind a wet circle on the wood. The pit of her stomach clenched and she set the egg down and retreated to the bed again. Where she’d lain had already gone clammy, and she crawled to the far side, under the sheets and the quilt, and wrapped her arms tight around her, because she was shivering.

  The morning left her uncertain of the night’s events. She’d walked in her sleep at home, and Kate had proved to her that she’d done so at the Pulaski house, too. What could she be certain of here?