Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  So far.

  And so what if that’s what they think? A cursory examination of Maplecroft would give their theories a fat measure of support, wouldn’t it?

  Two hundred years ago someone would’ve found a stake and burned me by now, for the cats alone.

  • • •

  Speaking of witchcraft, the awful boys, and the cats . . . there’s a new kitten in the mix: a scruffy little gray fellow with eyes the color of sunflower petals. I acquired him down by the grocery. Two lads whose faces I know, but whose names I don’t . . . they’d put him in a bucket and were rolling it down the street, kicking it into a spin every time he tried to climb out.

  I stopped the bucket with my foot.

  The boys ran toward me as if to reclaim it; then one of them grabbed the other’s arm; he drew up his friend in a sudden stop, a halt of panic. He’d recognized me, and in doing so, he nearly scrambled backward to get away. You’d think I carried the axe around still, waving it willy-nilly to show my displeasure.

  I retrieved the dizzy, dazed kitten and held him up against my bosom, where he silently quivered, ducking his head beneath my shawl.

  The boys whispered fiercely back and forth, until the bolder of the two said loudly to the other, “I know who she is—who cares? What’s she going to do, cut our heads off?”

  “No.” I held perfectly still, because I’ve learned that it unsettles people, and makes me seem more solid, more strong than I really am. I’ve become keenly fond of illusion, in my old age.

  The street was quiet now. There were a few onlookers, their interest piqued by the commotion the boys had made, and their interest held by realizing who it was the children had trifled with. The ordinary background patter of voices and cars, bells on shop doors, cartwheels squeaking . . . it had evaporated.

  I couldn’t do much, but I could hold their attention. I could hold that small cat, trembling against me. And I could hold still while the boys worked each other up, to either threaten me or flee from me.

  “What do you care about that cat? Is it yours? Witches have cats, don’t they—are you a witch?”

  “You’d better hope not.” I let my voice sink low, and kept it steady. Not raising it at all. I might’ve been teaching them their multiplication tables when I said, “You’d better hope I’m not a witch, and here’s another thing for you to hope: You’d better hope this animal is unscathed entirely, because whatever you’ve done to him, will be done to you doubly in return. And not just this one kitten, I promise you,” I continued, eyeing them hard, trying to keep down the anger that rose in my chest as the tiny heartbeat fluttered in my hands. “But any cat or dog, squirrel or bird . . . any living thing you have ever tormented for the sake of torment. It will come back to you double, you little monsters. Any tooth you’ve broken, two of yours will be smashed from your mouths. Any head you’ve cracked, yours will be cracked twice as hard. Any damage you’ve ever done, pain you’ve ever caused—any fear, any sorrow, any misery . . . rest assured, it will be yours again. Twofold.”

  Behind me, and rather nearby, someone gasped. I didn’t look around to see who it was. I didn’t care. “And that, my boys, is why you’d better hope and pray that I’m not counted among the witches. Their words have power, you know.”

  I left without my groceries; I’ll send the neighbor boy, Thomas, after a few tomorrow. I took the kitten home, bathed it, fed it, and left it in the sunroom to nap its fear away. There’s a great ginger queen who comes around every night, a lean, powerful cat who I think must be too old to have her own kittens anymore—but she’s been known to take others under her wing.

  I’ll see what she makes of this one.

  • • •

  I really do like curses.

  They can’t fail, that’s the beauty of them. Any bad thing that happens to either boy, from now until Kingdom Come, they’ll attribute it to my curse. Should the devils survive to adulthood, they’ll tell their children and grandchildren about it. They’ll blame me for everything from their ingrown nails to a fall in stock prices. They’ll swear my name at every paper cut, every death of a child.

  It’s more power than I have, and more power than anyone deserves. But they’re the ones who give it away, so to hell with them.

  • • •

  But Birmingham, Alabama.

  My attention wanders so much these days. I must be getting old, or maybe I’ve only lived alone too long. You’ve been gone for twenty years, Emma, dear—and you must remember how strange we old folks can become, when we have no one left to answer to, no one left to talk to. Who knows how strange I’ve become without even noticing—since there’s no one here to offer me an outside opinion on the matter.

  Well, the postman probably thinks I’m batty, but he’s too much a professional to say anything about it.

  Over these last few weeks he’s brought me two dozen newspapers and magazines from Alabama, and I’m fascinated by every tidbit I encounter about the axe murders there. The local politics are likewise fascinating, but in another way—or maybe not another way at all, because it’s the same dread I feel on behalf of the population.

  An axe murderer runs amok in their midst. The Ku Klux Klan buys their elections. Is there anywhere on earth more bereft of hope than that small city?

  I feel for them, I really do.

  Here are some of the more pertinent clippings I trimmed out from the paper:

  HAS HARRY THE HACKER STRUCK AGAIN?

  Birmingham Daily News September 6, 1921

  Another vicious attack occurred last night sometime after 9:00 p.m. and prior to midnight, when at least one assailant—possibly two or more—leaped from an alley. Struck down were railway worker Will Conway and laundress Betsey Frye as they were walking home from seeing The Hound of the Baskervilles at the Cherry Street Playhouse. Both victims were murdered by a heavy blade, presumably that of an axe. Although Conway was a white man, he was walking the town with Frye, a darkie from the Scratch Ankle neighborhood, and there was much talk of disappointment and disgust. Whether or not a man should face violent death for his preferences, the events have frightened the city afresh.

  ANOTHER HATCHET VICTIM

  Independent Press September 12, 1921

  For the second time this month, a young couple has been assaulted—perhaps by the fiend “Harry the Hacker,” or possibly by several assailants, as reports are not yet clear. At some point before midnight last night, Melinda Hayes and Travis Foster were violently attacked as they walked together on Third Street. Melinda, a negress who worked for a Jew’s shop in the Five Points neighborhood, was killed. Travis, a plumber’s apprentice, was alleged by his family to be merely a concerned friend who was no doubt walking her home. Whether or not this is the case, he survived the attack, though he is not yet available to present his side of events. He remains in the hospital.

  There are several others, but they all read more or less the same. The earlier ones imply that the previous victims of “Harry” tended to be immigrant shop owners or workers . . . and for some reason, the later victims were often mixed couples. One must wonder if the original Harry hasn’t left, died, or become imprisoned—and some local fiend has picked up where he left off, targeting an unpopular segment of the population.

  It is difficult to infer from the articles that too much police power has been directed toward finding the murderer. It’s a sensational case, to be sure, and the press is clearly quite delighted to have the bloody fodder for headlines . . . but so long as the hacker sticks to the negroes and Italians, the deaths are more a curiosity than a concern. A curiosity, and a means to line the newspaper coffers.

  I’ve seen it before.

  • • •

  There’s other excitement in the Southern city, too. In particular, there’s been an election that sounds like a terrible deal for almost everyone, and the papers don’t even pretend that it wasn’t produc
ed by the Ku Klux Klan. If anything, they seem downright proud of that organization’s sponsorship, as if the rightful order has finally been restored, and now all can return to normal; but then again, this distasteful glee could be a matter of self-preservation, everyone hailing the new regime before anyone can fall prey to it.

  I can’t help but judge them, anyway.

  • • •

  The most recent news out of Alabama comes smaller in scale, but makes for equally grand headlines—or revolting ones, as the case may be.

  Apart from the axe murders and the local election, some terrible maniac has murdered a priest, shot him dead on the steps of his own church. I’ll be the first to admit I was raised with a bit of bias against the Catholics—though I’ve overcome a measure of that, as I’ve learned more about the faith and its intricacies; but even prior to my awakening in that regard, I surely would’ve frowned upon anyone taking aim at a minister purely for his cassock.

  Sadly, that seems to be the case here, if the papers can be believed. The killer was angry about his daughter’s recent elopement with a member of the priest’s flock. What a horrible reason to shoot someone, as if any decent god gives a damn how he’s worshipped, so long as it’s directed heavenward with love? What foul deity is summoned with bigotry and rage? I wouldn’t want to guess.

  If there are indecent gods, then maybe this “minister” serves one of them instead.

  Did I mention that part? It comes up again and again in the clippings. The killer professes to be a Methodist, so I know he’s a filthy liar and no friend of the faithful. I know too many fine Methodists, and while they might not prefer a Catholic neighbor, they’d fiercely protect any man with a gun unjustly aimed in his direction.

  Minister, my hind leg.

  STEPHENSON TRIAL DELAYED

  Birmingham Sun September 23, 1921

  Edwin Stephenson is eager to demonstrate his innocence before the courts, but due to the recent elections, his trial has been pushed back to next week—when a prosecuting attorney can be assigned by incoming commission president Nathaniel Barrett. Although former president George Ward showed significant interest in prosecuting immediately, his failure to secure the election means that this is no longer his decision. In the interest of justice, this is likely for the best. It’s well known that Ward was an Episcopalian, and if that was not enough to confirm his papist leanings, he installed the (now dismissed) police chief Martin Eagan—a confirmed Catholic.

  Could any true justice be found for Stephenson, a respected Methodist minister, when the whole of the city government was allied against him? It seems unlikely. But now that the new administration has assumed control, this poor man has a fair opportunity to see his case heard and understood by a jury of his peers, rather than a select group of unsympathetic men with more compassion for a member of the Vatican elite who’d betrayed the public trust.

  A member of the Vatican elite? They’re speaking of a small-city priest, for pity’s sake. His only betrayal of public trust was to perform a wedding for a pair of adults who wished to be thusly joined. It’s not as if he mounted a secret campaign to steal and baptize Protestant children. I assume.

  No, I don’t have to assume anything. If he’d done anything more scandalous than perform an unpopular wedding, I’m quite confident that the newspapers would’ve been more than happy to crow it from the rooftops. If the worst they can say of him is that a Protestant girl liked him, and liked a member of his congregation well enough to marry him . . . there’s not much to condemn him at all.

  I fear there’s little chance of any justice. For the priest, or for that poor girl—the killer’s daughter, who is set to testify against him. Bless the poor girl, she’ll have quite the life if she stays there. A traitor to her race, her faith, and her family. That’s how they’re playing it, since she married an island man. Her father wants the world to know that she’s an ungrateful wretch who willfully defied him in the worst fashion possible, again and again.

  She’d run away several times before, according to some stories.

  God Almighty, who could blame her?

  • • •

  Today, I received my monthly copy of the Journal of Arcane Studies in the Americas. Within it, I found an article that gives me true pause, true concern, for the good people of Birmingham . . . assuming there are a few, somewhere in the mix.

  • • •

  (No, that isn’t fair. There are some. I detect them in the background, in the ousted commission members, the stalwart daughter of the murderer, the innocent men and women minding their own business when the hatchet found them. I assume they were innocent. I might be wrong, but at the very least, they were not actively seeking to harm anyone.

  My standards for “innocent” might be slipping.)

  • • •

  I realize that it’s not precisely the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times, but I honestly believe that the contributors . . . they honestly believe in the subjects they research and report upon. Though some of the stories and their details seem salacious, they’re no more so than anything I’ve seen out of Birmingham over the last month; so it’s not that I give equal weight to the journalism, necessarily . . . it would perhaps be more accurate to say that I view it all with a similar balance of suspicion and credulity.

  And that’s why this piece about American cults and communes leaped out at me.

  (Excerpted for relevance.)

  ON THE RISE OF ISOLATED RELIGIOUS COMMUNITIES IN THE GENERATIONS AFTER THE GREAT AWAKENINGS

  Journal of Arcane Studies in the Americas September 1921

  . . . Throughout history and across the globe, groups of people have set themselves apart due to their social, political, or religious beliefs. Generally speaking, such groups are benign or even of a positive nature, planned primarily to form an association of like-minded fellows, or even generate an earthbound Utopia—one could point to the Amish and Mennonite communities as groups of spiritually inclined people whose communities are private, but scarcely scandalous, and likewise the Shakers in New Lebanon, who are thought to be peculiar, but hardly dangerous. In the middling territory reside the Theosophists, Christian Scientists, Perfectionists, Seventh-Day Adventists, and so forth—with Mormons presenting a somewhat trickier edge case, given their propensity toward plural marriages and a purportedly Christian faith that feels improbable to more traditional Christians.

  One step farther into troublesome territory (so far as mainstream worshippers are concerned) are the Spiritualist communities, which despite the resistance from outside forces, have nonetheless succeeded in creating a number of long-lasting and well-established gatherings. These groups may begin and remain small, as in the case of Reverend Highs and his “circle of faith” in the 1890s (incorporated into the Red Pines community in 1901); or they may eventually establish fully fledged townships, springing forth from grand annual camp meetings (leading to the incorporated communities of Lily Dale, et al.).

  But most troubling of all, from an outsider’s perspective, are the quiet, insular groups that speak not to Christ, not to the Hebrew god Jehovah, to the dead, or even to any of the somewhat unfamiliar (but well-established) Eastern gods or spirits. There may be elements of all these things present, but more often the group is founded around a singular prophet who professes ancient knowledge on behalf of some other culture: Egyptians are popular at the moment, as are Etruscans, Assyrians, and Celts. Through force of personal magnetism, these prophets collect disciples, money, and sometimes a small measure of power outside their circles; but the power they wield within these circles is absolute. They control everything: worship times and places, sexual relations, access to the words of the gods or goddesses, and even matters of life and death. And then the dangers to the outside world reveal themselves . . .

  . . . And most recently, rumor swirls around a new sect that may be on the rise on the outskirts of Birmingham, Alabam
a. Reverend A. J. Davis began his career of spiritual authority as pastor of that city’s First Baptist Church, but he shortly went on to found a new group with social views aligning with the Ku Klux Klan and the “True Americans.” (See also “Guardians of Liberty.”)

  Something like a Masonic tribe, the True Americans focus largely on asserting political and ethnic dominance over those perceived as weaker or lesser, including all nonwhite persons, Jews, Catholics, and a veritable laundry list of other undesirables—prejudices which they insist can be backed with biblical principles. In the last few years this claim has been further supported by an influx of new members, including Methodist and Presbyterian ministers who have found their way into this hateful flock. Despite its origins as an ostensibly Christian or at the very least peaceful community, this organization openly calls for the subjugation or death of any who would oppose it.

  While such groups as these are not wholly uncommon in the South, this one has taken on a freshly sinister element. According to our sources, underpinning much of the rhetoric is a new theology espoused by the Reverend Davis, one that promises the end of the world and the rise of a new age on Earth—one wherein the True Believers, True Americans, or anyone else appropriately affiliated, will find themselves exalted among the new gods.

  On the one hand, this is not wildly different from the Adventists, who believe in a Second Coming that will destroy all the infidels in a lake of fire—but elevate the faithful into Heaven, beyond the clouds. On the other hand, the Adventists don’t believe there’s anything they, personally, can or should do to bring about this result—except to spread their gospel and trust that when it reaches enough ears, then the end shall come (in accordance with Matthew’s recollection in the New Testament, chapter 24).

  However, through some means yet unclear, Davis’s disciples believe in some mechanism that can bring the promised apocalypse to a head, luring their cosmic overlords from somewhere out beyond the stars . . . and they intend to make use of it.