Agnes at the End of the World

by Kelly McWilliams

  She shook off the unexpected emotion. “I’m sorry if there are problems in your world. But none of this has anything to do with me.”

  She was already turning to go when she heard it.

  The humming.

  At first, it was the ghost of a sound—the vibration of a bell right after it ceased ringing, like a metallic keening, gently thrilling along her skin. But then the sound grew stronger, tunneling into her bones, mournful and terrible like nothing she’d ever heard—yet somehow, oddly familiar. She didn’t just hear it, she actually felt it, like whispers across her skin. She glanced up at the cloud-swathed moon to make sure she was still here, in a world still real.

  She was. It was. And her spirit soared, because her first thought was of God.

  The sound was unearthly, hymnal, but nonetheless real. Peaceful, like she wasn’t standing with the Outsider boy at all, but back in her trailer, deep in prayer.

  The hum emanated from the forest.

  She glanced towards its massive darkness, and just knew.

  Danny watched her. He didn’t hear anything. To him, the night remained silent.

  How could he not hear?

  “Are you okay?”

  Without thinking, she held a finger to her lips, listening harder, leaning into the dark.

  Strangely, Agnes felt like the humming sound had been there all along, the way the stars were still there, though obscured. She just hadn’t been listening until now.

  She studied the Outsider boy. For the first time she let herself wonder: What if he were telling the truth?

  She spoke slowly, cautiously. “What did you say was out there?”

  He blew out a breath. “Danger.”

  The sound was filling her up. Prying her open. She couldn’t guess why he didn’t hear, but something was out there. She was sure. And it bothered her, the thought of something lurking in the woods—something the Prophet surely must know about, as God’s emissary on earth.

  “If it was really dangerous,” she said, “our Prophet would’ve warned us.”

  Danny frowned. “Are you sure?”

  Agnes felt suddenly nauseated. As the sound hummed around her, blurring the lines that once were so clear, Agnes saw herself for the first time through an Outsider’s eyes.

  To Danny and Matilda, the Laws of Red Creek weren’t her shelter.

  They were her prison.

  It’s a test, she thought wildly. God sent this boy as a test.

  “Take the phone. Please. My mother says she’ll pay through the summer. If you’re ever in trouble, all you have to do is tap her name. See?”

  He tilted the mobile phone’s lighted screen, showing her.

  Agnes almost walked away then, leaving him holding that sinister device.

  But the humming sound remained, plucking at her ribs.

  Agnes, are you in rebellion?

  Impulsively, she snatched the phone, pocketed it. Then, with the cooler in hand, she started back uphill, too shaken to say goodbye.

  Danny said, faintly, almost sadly: “Goodbye, Agnes.”

  She kept walking.

  The sound—she’d heard something like it before, but when?—stayed with her until she reached her trailer.

  When she touched the cold metal doorknob, the humming ceased quick as light.

  She pressed her back against the wall, breathing hard. The sound couldn’t be the same haunting she remembered from childhood, when all the world seemed to sing. It wasn’t possible.

  She flexed her hand, gazing down at the broken knuckle.

  She thought, It can’t be.

  9

  AGNES

  Who is worthy to receive the Lord’s holy messages? The head of house and prophets only…

  —PROPHET JACOB ROLLINS

  Sunday, again.

  At dawn, Agnes buried the phone in her garden beside Ezekiel’s insulin cooler.

  All was silence. In the cold gray light, she could almost believe she’d imagined the otherworldly humming. But the phone, so slippery and black, was a concrete reminder.

  She never should have accepted it, but it was only a momentary stumble. If she buried her sins deep enough, she wouldn’t have to think of the Outsider boy or his wild tale ever again.

  At church, despite her best efforts, her mind wasn’t easy. She struggled to shut out little things, like how the patriarchs huddled together before the service, whispering urgently.

  Or how the Prophet’s sermon specifically condemned—for the thousandth time but with uncommon force—the reading of newspapers and the keeping of radios.

  “One day soon the Outsiders will fall,” the Prophet bellowed from his pulpit. “And we will shelter in the Underground Temple. Until then, we trust in our perfect faith. Amen.”

  Agitated, Agnes tapped her foot against the hardwood floor.

  Surely the Prophet had good reason for keeping them in the dark, if indeed he did. Surely it was better to swallow her curiosity than indulge a sin.

  But Lord, it was hard to keep steady today. The events of last night—and the Outsider boy—had set her mind to rattling like a rainstorm shuddering a windowpane.

  “Let us pray,” intoned the Prophet.

  For the first time in her memory, Agnes’s eyes batted open while the others bowed their heads. She thought: But the sound, oh, God, the sound.

  If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve said it was God’s voice she’d heard.

  She fought not to think: The glory of God thundereth.

  And fought not to think: Mine ears thou hast opened.

  It was the deepest possible sin—wasn’t it?—to entertain the idea that God would deign to speak to her, when everyone knew only patriarchs and prophets were fit to receive divine guidance. Her eyes met Beth’s over the heads of the faithful. A charge leapt between them, and a question appeared in her sister’s gem-green eyes: What’s wrong with you today?

  But this time it was Agnes, consumed by her own inner turmoil, who looked away.

  10

  BETH

  Cherish this holy community, for it is your only bastion against the heat of hell.

  —PROPHET JACOB ROLLINS

  At the Kings’ after-church gathering, Beth leaned against the wall of the dairy barn, struggling to imagine her life after Agnes’s wedding in two weeks’ time.

  No matter how she sliced it, that life looked miserable.

  In the pasture below, her siblings—all except Ezekiel, who’d gone home with Agnes—played the Apocalypse Game with the ten little King children. Beth, caught in the sticky web of her thoughts, twined her braid around her knuckles and silently fumed.

  Did anyone care how much harder her life was about to become? How much responsibility she’d be forced to shoulder, just to keep the kids dressed, fed, alive?

  She wasn’t sure she could manage it, and Lord knew she’d have no help from anyone.

  Then the Jamesons arrived—Cory with his lesser brothers and Magda—and Beth smiled. Smoothing the waist of her prairie dress, she pushed away from the wall, knowing whose eyes would find her.

  Cory winked and nodded towards the barn, and Beth’s belly tightened with anticipatory pleasure.

  They kissed in the stifling gloom while the cows lowed. She’d missed the feel of his body against hers, and she kissed him like she meant to drink him.

  Then she backed into a spiderweb, felt its sticky tendrils against her neck, and shrieked.

  “That’s one of God’s creatures, too, you know.” Cory laughed.

  “Maybe so, but I still hate them. Their crawly legs…”

  With his sleeve, he gallantly brushed the spiderweb away. “There. Better?”

  She thought: Here was a boy who would do anything for her. Anything.

  “Cory,” she said, testing, “next time you go to the gas station to watch television, can’t you take me with you?”

  “Oh, Beth.” His face fell. “Why would you want to take a risk like that?”

  In truth, she was
n’t even sure she wanted to go—it was a grave risk, and Father would belt her if she were caught Outside. Anyway, soon enough she’d be too busy with chores to even dream of meeting Cory.

  I’m going to have to change my whole self, from the inside out. No more quitting chores. No more distracting the kids when it’s time for lessons. No more fun at all.

  She sighed. The future unfurled itself before her, bleak as a yellowed scroll.

  “Cheer up.” Cory touched her chin. “I brought you a present.”

  She brightened. “You didn’t really.”

  “Damned if I’m lying.” He made a show of fishing in his pants pocket for a wad of crinkled pink tissue paper, which he presented with a courtly bow.

  She tore into the paper with abandon. “Lotion! Vanilla scented!”

  “Vanilla is your favorite, right?”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “Is it from Walmart? From”—she gasped at the delicious forbiddenness of it—“the cosmetics aisle?”

  A smile tugged his lips. “The very same.”

  “How did you convince your father to buy it?”

  “Father wouldn’t condone the frivolity, you know that.”

  He rolled his eyes at the foibles of the forbidding older patriarch, but Beth found herself thinking of Agnes. What frivolities would Matthew forbid her when she was his wife?

  “Beth? Are you okay?”

  She fixed a smile on her face. “It’s beautiful. But how did you afford it?”

  “I saved up. It wasn’t very expensive, really, but you know how hard it is to get paying work around here. Mr. Hearn gave me a dime a day to mow his western field. Took me twenty days to afford that little jar. See how sunburnt I am?”

  Twenty days.

  She bit her lip, overwhelmed by romance. It was just like Jacob slaving seven years for Rachel. But she had to be careful. If she fell in love with Cory, she’d only set herself up for pain. And with Agnes soon to leave, she had enough of that already.

  “Thank you, Cory.” She pocketed the jar of smooth, white cream. Surely the most luxurious thing she’d ever owned.

  “Keep it somewhere secret,” he instructed. “It’s not quite makeup, but almost.”

  “You bought it because you think I’m vain.”

  “No,” he teased. “But if anyone had a right, it would be you. Beth, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “Even on the television? The Prophet always says the really pretty, bad Outsider women are actresses.”

  “Prettier than them.” He grinned. “I’m lucky you ever looked at me twice.”

  She pulled him to her, reveling in his words. So what if she and Cory weren’t forever? She could still be happy in this moment now, savoring the scent of him, the weight of his hands on her waist. To be so admired… it was what she’d always dreamed.

  And then, very quickly, it all went to hell.

  She heard the soft crush of hay beneath a booted foot. She swiveled her head to find Magda Jameson staring avidly at them.

  A furnace burst to life in Beth’s chest. The stupid girl had no reason to be in the Kings’ dairy barn. She’d wanted to catch them—catch her.

  Cory leapt backwards. “Magda, what are you doing here?”

  But Magda didn’t answer. She only covered her smiling mouth with her hand—pretending a deep, shocked disapproval—and slipped out the way she came.

  A moment of stunned silence.

  “Damn it!” Cory paced the hay-strewn floor while the cows blinked dull eyes. “That girl can’t keep her mouth shut.”

  Beth blew out a breath. “Cory, she’s your sister. She wouldn’t want you to get in any real trouble, would she?”

  He stopped pacing and stared at her, eyes icy. “She won’t tell a patriarch, if that’s what you mean, but her tongue is like an adder’s. She’ll spread rumors.”

  “Rumors.” The tension in her shoulders eased. “Well, what do rumors matter? People will believe what they want anyway.”

  His voice dropped low. “Not just people. Our people. The faithful. In this town, nothing’s more important than a man’s reputation. My father, my brothers—they’ll whip me out of the house for this. Beth, I could lose my inheritance.”

  She gaped. “Is that all you care about? Your inheritance?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, subdued. “I know your reputation matters, too. That’s why we’ll have to stop. No more meetings. No more—” He colored. “You know.”

  Beth’s heart froze over, realizing that this golden, beautiful boy was breaking up with her. Cutting her loose like a kite. She could actually feel herself floating up and away.

  “Beth?” he asked anxiously. “You know my feelings—well, my feelings haven’t changed. You know that, right?”

  He was staring at her. Still conflicted. But his conflict wasn’t her problem anymore.

  “Cory Jameson, I think you’re chickenshit,” she hissed. “You taught me that word, and of all people on earth, it fits you best. You’re breaking up with me? Fine. Don’t ever speak to me again. I mean it. Don’t ever.”

  She stayed long enough to register the cramp of pain in his eyes, then went to find her siblings.

  It wasn’t until the fresh air struck her that she began to gasp, hyperventilating.

  Cory didn’t love her as much as she’d thought, and Magda had seen them. She knew.

  Whatever she says, it will only be words. They’ll blow over soon enough.

  She believed that, yet her belly knotted. She’d have to grieve Cory and her sister both. She’d miss them dreadfully.

  In the pasture, teenaged Kings and Jamesons clustered around nosy, insufferable Magda.

  Beth’s body lurched with shock, seeing how eagerly they gossiped. She hadn’t thought they’d be so avid, hungry as a pack of wolves. Weren’t they meant to be her friends?

  She made herself keep walking with her head held up, though her cheeks burned. She didn’t look back.

  At the edge of the field, an image leapt into her mind of a mouse she’d discovered years ago—a bony little creature trapped behind the kitchen range. Unable to wriggle free, it had baked to death between the heated coils and the wall.

  What a horrible way to die, she’d thought at the time: helpless, alone, and in a hell of one’s own making.

  11

  AGNES

  Woman, obey thy husband and father as if they were the Lord.

  —PROPHET JEREMIAH ROLLINS

  Agnes was clipping laundry off the line that afternoon when she heard the humming again.

  Beth had taken the other children to the Kings’, but Ezekiel had stayed behind. Really, it was for the best. The Apocalypse Game always gave him nightmares.

  “Can I pick dandelions up the hill? Can I, please?”

  Agnes hesitated. But after a hard day’s work the Outsider’s warnings seemed silly, misty.

  Anyway, the Prophet hadn’t said a word about any danger, and surely there couldn’t be any harm in letting a child play. She felt sorry for Danny and Matilda, who faced such troubles in their world—but what else did they expect, living estranged from God?

  The wind blustered, fluttering white sheets. Her first thought was that the humming was only a gust blowing through the pines, but it grew louder, more urgent, until her blood ran cold.

  Keep the kids indoors, Danny had said. Something might get them.

  Ezekiel. Where was Ezekiel?

  She squinted against the sun but couldn’t find him.

  Instead, she saw a lone javelina, a wild desert boar, wandering up the hill. It came from the forest, and it was small—only an infant. What was it doing so far from its mother?

  It sniffed the air, then began galloping in her direction.

  Closer, closer. And with every loping step, more bizarre.

  Javelina fur was bristly and brown, but sunset colors streaked this creature with coral, copper, and red. It looked like it had been dipped in varnish. The red color seeped even into its eyes
.

  Shocked, Agnes couldn’t move. Couldn’t even pray. Javelinas never came running at people, and its gait was unnatural, mechanical, like a windup toy.

  Demon, she thought. It looks like a demon.

  It kept running, freakishly determined. Her throat taut, constricted, she couldn’t scream. The otherworldly humming crescendoed, and Agnes clapped her hands over her ears. She felt the sound like heat, wave after wave rioting through her body. When the javelina was mere inches away, the humming crested into a deafening shriek.

  The creature stumbled back from her as if it’d hit a wall. The world stood still as the javelina stared, stunned by the sound.

  Only an instant before it had been aggressive, determined to strike. Now it gawked. She thought it was the humming—the sound blocking it somehow. It was like spectral armor, a cloak that billowed and let nothing evil near.

  “Holy God in heaven,” she breathed.

  As the javelina backed away on marbled hooves, the sound receded to a baleful moan.

  They would’ve stayed like that for a long time, the red-marbled creature and Agnes, gazing at each other in mutual horror, if it weren’t for Ezekiel.

  “Agnes?” His voice echoed from somewhere uphill.

  No, she thought hard at the thing, while the humming floated ethereally around them. Just look at me. Keep looking at me.

  The javelina’s head rotated, owlish and too far. It took one look at Ezekiel and forgot all about her.

  “Ezekiel!”

  The javelina put on a burst of speed.

  Her brother stared, Sheep dangling helplessly from his hand. Agnes bolted towards her garden spade, stuck handle up in the earth, and prayed she could outrace the animal.

  She couldn’t remember ever moving so fast, but still her heavy prairie dress slowed her, catching at her legs like a net. Finally, she snatched the spade from the ground—God, she’d have killed for a gun—and tore wildly after the creature and Ezekiel. A shaft of sun glinted off the animal’s back, illuminating its petrified sheen. Hard. Red. Unnatural.

  His eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass…

  What was she doing, chasing after this red, unholy thing? She should be screaming for someone. For God, or Father, or Mr. King.