He scoffed.
Beth knew how crazy she sounded. But she remembered all the ways her sister was different, how she’d told her stories about mystic, impossible sounds.
“I mean it,” she said. “My sister heard the stars, too.”
He twisted around to face her. “Who? One of the twins?”
She gaped. How had Agnes gone unnoticed for so long in a place that claimed to be a haven of spiritual wisdom?
“No, Agnes.” She spoke the name like a prayer. She could’ve sworn that the church snapped to attention. Listening.
And who knew? Maybe it was.
“Okay, okay,” Cory said. “The Prophets certainly believed in their powers—and what the hell, maybe that’s why their hold on the faithful was always so strong. But, Beth, you left something out.”
She glanced away, because she had dropped one detail from her story. Considering his situation, she’d thought it kinder.
Leave it alone, Cory. Just leave it alone.
“Jacob’s power was different from his grandfather’s.” Cory stared steadily at her, making her feel guilty and a little afraid. “Unique.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, panicky. “He lost it, remember? It’s gone.”
It was coming like a train wreck. The twist in Cory’s face and the helpless suffering in his eyes. He’d been strong as long as he was playing his game, trying to wring the truth from her like water from a cloth. But now the truth was out. The game over.
“If what you’re saying about Agnes is true…” he mused. “Then Jeremiah could hear the stars, and the Prophet—our Prophet—could heal with a touch. He wrote all about it in his book.” His voice broke. “He could heal me. Couldn’t he?”
The Prophet’s words came back to Beth: The power to heal belongs to me and to God. I thereby forbid my people to receive a cure from any other source.
What a cruel Law the Prophet had written, forbidding medical help. And all because he wanted to make himself feel more powerful—more godlike.
Beth had never seen him heal through faith. But when people were ill, they still went to the Prophet for his prayers. She’d thought it was only wishfulness. She’d never imagined that he’d once been able to really, truly take their sickness away. Like Jesus in the gospels.
The woman was dying, he’d written in his diary. But I laid my hands upon her head and they glowed crimson, a blessed, holy color. I watched the pain drain from her eyes. Her sickness, like a demon, cast out.
“No,” Beth corrected Cory gently. “The Prophet can’t heal you. Maybe he could have once. But Agnes was the last power in Red Creek, and she’s gone.”
She didn’t mention that Agnes had stopped talking about the sounds she’d heard. Her sister might have lost her power, too.
But she couldn’t believe it. If anyone could keep God’s favor, it was Agnes.
“What if she came back, Beth?” Cory’s eyes darted, desperately searching for the smallest sliver of hope. “What then?”
She didn’t think Agnes could heal, or else she’d have cured Ezekiel. But maybe she just hadn’t yet learned how. Maybe she was capable of a thousand kinds of miracles, if she tried.
Beth sighed. She didn’t want to think of her sister. It was just as she’d always suspected—Agnes was special—but knowing for certain made her twitchy and irritable.
After all, no one ever handed her a destiny on a silver platter. No powers made her life any easier. She’d had no choice but to escape from the bunker the hard way, no choice now but to watch Cory die, so slowly and painfully.
And then what? What would she do after?
Why didn’t God care what happened to her?
Not fair, Beth thought, watching Cory drift into a feverish sleep. It’s just not fair.
33
AGNES
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.
—JEREMIAH 1:5
Agnes woke gasping in the middle of the night from a vision of the bunker turning red—a vision of all her people, with hard, gem-like skins, wrapped in an infected embrace while they shivered like the tower of crows. The image singed her, charred her soul. She’d never been so badly frightened by a nightmare.
She pulled away from Ezekiel, her skin covered in goose bumps. She moved for her pack and Beth’s diary, flipping quickly past her lost sister’s secrets to the first blank page.
Words gathered in her mind like storm clouds.
But a pen. She needed a pen.
She lit a candle and crept into the lobby. All was silent except for the ticking of a clock. The library smelled, as always, of paper and dust.
In the kitchen, their emergency supplies: dry goods, tents, sleeping bags, extra blankets, backpacks, water. Matilda had prepared for everything. Prepared, even, for some god-awful day when they’d have to lose their library shelter.
Agnes grabbed a pen from a jar and sat down at the table, rubbing her arms against the cold. The impulse to write was so urgent her hand had cramped into a claw. She shook it, willing the muscles to relax.
She scribbled:
I dream of human Nests.
So relentlessly do I dream, that I know there is a message in them. But, God, what?
Her heart beat hard, thinking of all she’d seen, all she knew.
The church that Jeremiah Rollins had built was supposed to unite people in the solace of togetherness. Instead, it cordoned them off with walls of fear and hate. But the prayer space was the opposite. The prayer space, rich with the power of interconnection, was the light. Slowly, it was painting her a portrait of God. Only in place of brushstrokes and color, its medium was sound.
Holding the pen, her hand began to spasm and shake.
In the Bible, only a handful of people knew God so personally.
All of them were prophets.
Is that why I was the one who escaped? Did You save me, so I could be Your prophet?
She wanted to spit out that thought like a bit of rancid food. It seemed too cruel, by far. And yet, ever more each day, the belief hardened in her bones. Between the prayer space and her dreams, it felt inescapable.
But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
She tipped her chin to the ceiling, cried: “Just answer me one thing: Why didn’t You save the kids?”
Then she dropped her pen and sobbed.
Agnes knew something about prophets, those fearful creatures who left heavy footprints in the Old Testament. They appeared in times of crisis, when relations between human beings and God were strained, and when people grappled with the implications of their existence. Hearing in ways others couldn’t hear, prophets interpreted God’s messages for the world.
Generally speaking, they were also men.
Lord, she prayed, You know me. You know I’m not strong enough.
Then she remembered herself running after the javelina, garden spade in hand. Her belly fluttered with sickly, nervous fear.
“Agnes?”
She looked up, startled to find Danny watching her, a textbook tucked under his arm.
“What’s wrong, Agnes?”
She shook her head, wishing he hadn’t seen her cry.
He pulled up a chair. “Look, I’m sorry. I was completely out of line, yelling at Max on your behalf. In my defense, it wasn’t entirely about you.” His lip twitched. “You know, I can’t stand that guy.”
For a moment, Agnes couldn’t breathe. A man had never apologized to her before, and she knew he meant the words with his whole heart. Impulsively, she rested her hand on top of his large one.
“It’s okay. I’m not crying because of what you said.”
He glanced down at their hands and flushed. But he didn’t move a muscle, and neither did she. Astounding, how a little dark could embolden a lonely spirit.
Danny’s eyes, as always, held her carefully. “Are you frightened? Homesick?”
“Heartsick,” she admitted. “A
nd afraid.”
“What can I do?”
She remembered the distance she’d felt between them when she first arrived. How she’d sensed acutely that he’d always be an Outsider, while she’d always be Red Creek’s girl. In the flickering candlelight, she knew the distance was illusory. Weren’t they both awake and afraid in the middle of the night? Didn’t they both feel lonely and uncertain of the future?
“Danny,” she whispered. “Do you believe in God?”
He glanced guiltily up at the ceiling. “No. I’ve been to church. But I never believed.”
She blinked, trying to conceive of such a thing. “Isn’t that lonesome?”
“Not really.” Shadows danced vividly across his face. “I believe in people, and kindness, and in the importance of easing suffering.”
She brightened. “Me too. I believe in all that, too.”
He nodded, eyes flicking to his textbook. “That’s why I want to be a doctor.”
Now she understood why he was wakeful. “You had the nightmare again. About having to save someone?”
“If there’s some emergency when my mom’s not here…” She sensed his anxiety ratcheting up.
“When the time comes, you’ll be ready,” she told him. “I know you will.”
“You really still believe in God?” he asked wonderingly. “Even after Red Creek?”
She smiled. “It’s very easy for me to believe. I hear Him everywhere.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “How about here?”
With a start, she realized their faces were very close. If she wanted, she could count the freckles on his nose.
God, is this a sin?
She closed her eyes, slipping into the prayer space. Time stopped, and the night expanded. She heard the gentle whisper of books and the singing moon outside. She heard the Outsiders humming with dreams, and Benny, hoping this new boy was his to keep. All the sounds of rest, and of a brief forgetting.
She heard Danny, too. His heart raced.
She opened her eyes. Something shifted in Danny’s face, in the very air.
She was suddenly sure he was going to kiss her.
Treat the other sex like snakes.
The Prophet’s words whipped out like a lash. She moved away, scraping her chair loudly against the floor. Danny startled.
“I didn’t mean…” she started.
“It’s okay,” he said too quickly. “I understand.”
He grabbed his book and, blushing, stood.
“Danny.” She felt panicked, desperate to keep him there. “Can you help me with something?”
Relief smoothed his brow. Helping her, he was on familiar ground. “Anything.”
She plucked at the collar of her prairie dress, loath to reveal the depths of her ignorance. “Can you show me how to use the library? How to look things up?”
“Sure.” If her ignorance surprised him, he hid it well. “But I should warn you, I haven’t used a library to look anything up since elementary school. Everything used to be, well, online.
“What do you want to know?”
God, there was so much. Why had she been given the prayer space? Why had she been allowed to escape her lethal cult only to enter a crumbling, suffering world?
To truly understand, she knew, she’d have to face Gila’s Nest. The human one.
Her intuition, once repressed, was a force she was slowly learning to trust.
But she wasn’t ready to see the Nest, yet.
“Agnes?” Danny prodded gently.
“I want to know the history of Gila,” she said, her mind on the well and the shriek that had erupted inside her—a human shriek. A girl’s. “I want to know what happened here in 1922.”
34
AGNES
The counsel of the Lord standeth for ever, the thoughts of his heart to all generations.
—PSALM 33:11
By the time they’d finally pieced together the whole story, dawn streamed liquid through the library windows. Danny took off his glasses, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
“I’m sorry I kept you up,” Agnes whispered.
They crouched in the stacks, surrounded by piles of census data, municipal maps, and yellowed crime reports. Her legs had cramped from being so long tucked under her and her eyes burned with fatigue.
Now she knew whose scream she’d heard at the well, and she couldn’t have felt sorrier for that girl. Or more ashamed of the land where she’d been born.
“That’s okay. This was—well, fun’s the wrong word.” Danny smiled wanly.
They both looked down at the arrest warrant for Jeremiah Rollins, who’d kidnapped a fourteen-year-old girl named Sarah Shiner.
“After he left here with his wife and Sarah, he founded my town. Not to form a new religious community, but to hide from the law. They were going to hang him.”
“Yes.” Danny trod carefully around her grief. “That’s the story the facts support.”
Agnes drew her knees up beneath her skirt. “What are the chances that Zeke and I would end up here, of all the towns in the world?”
“One in a hundred?” He shrugged. “We’re not so far from Red Creek, after all.”
“Danny. Sarah Shiner was my great-grandmother. My father told me about her, just before I was engaged to Matthew Jameson. He said she ran away from Red Creek but left a son behind. That son and all his descendants suffered her disfavor. All that hate—it lasted generations. And she was from here.”
Danny looked stricken.
Their candles had long since melted, guttered. Dawn painted long, finger-like shadows over the floor of the LOCAL HISTORY section.
“You were engaged?” Danny’s voice was strained. “Like, to a grown man? Who?”
She winced. “His name was Matthew. He was a liar who believed himself to be faithful. In the end, he married my sister instead.” She saw that he was going to speak—to express how sorry he was—and she hurried on, fearing the weight of his pity. “You would’ve liked Beth, I think. She was—is—very clever, very beautiful.”
“Of course,” he said earnestly. “You are those things, too.”
He surprised her into laughing. “We couldn’t look more different, Beth and me. It was almost like we weren’t sisters at all.”
Then her mind caught up with what he’d implied. That she—plain-faced, square-jawed Agnes—was beautiful.
Looking into his careful, seeking eyes, she wondered what he saw that she didn’t.
Then sorrow flooded her, thinking of Beth and home. She wiped her nose with her mouse-brown sleeve. “Oh, Danny, what if this was why God allowed me and Zeke to escape? What if I’m a kind of witness to the horror of my home? A crypt keeper?”
His face softened. If she reached for him, she knew, he’d hold her against his side.
“Agnes. God didn’t allow anything. You escaped because you’re tough as nails. You escaped because you’re you.”
His words rang with truth. God allowing this or forbidding that—that was Red Creek thinking. The God she experienced in the prayer space was more complicated. A thousand-fold more nuanced and complex.
“I can’t think straight.” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “I’ve never been so tired.”
“You’re here now. Red Creek is behind you.”
She swallowed. “It’ll never be behind me.”
“No, of course not,” he hurried to say. “I just meant, don’t beat yourself up. You’ve done a lot.”
Yes, but there’s more.
And though she couldn’t explain it even to herself, she felt increasingly certain that God would soon reveal exactly what that more was.
Looking at knowledgeable, rational Danny, she asked herself if she had lost her mind. If just maybe she was hearing sounds when there were none.
She didn’t wonder long. Whatever its reasons for being with her, the prayer space was the realest thing she’d ever experienced. To find it, she had only to close her eyes and sink deep.
I
nevitably, she knew, God would ask something of her in return. Wasn’t that how it always worked in the Bible? Joseph didn’t wear his coat of dreams for free, and Noah wasn’t warned of rain just to predict the weather.
Danny contemplated the window in a way that made her pay close attention to what he said next.
“Agnes, I need you to know that helping you escape was the best thing I ever did in my whole damned life. I’ve gotten a lot of As on a lot of stupid exams. But I’ve never been prouder of anything than of being there for you.”
His gaze slammed into her, stealing her breath.
“You mean that?” Agnes whispered.
“I do. There’s nothing like an apocalypse to show you what really matters.”
She stared at the same spot on the window that had so fascinated him a moment ago.
“It meant everything to me, too, when you came to Red Creek,” she admitted. “Changed everything. But I never could figure out why you tried so hard to help me. I must have seemed like a lost cause.”
“Agnes, please look at me.”
She did, faintly trembling. Or vibrating. It was difficult to say.
“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” he murmured. “But seeing you so fierce and determined in that graveyard, with a braid of the longest hair I’d ever seen—I’ll tell you something. It gave me one hell of a crush.” He laughed deeply. “Honestly, it was like getting hit by a train.”
Her mouth dropped open, years of repressed and stifled feelings stirring.
To hell with the Prophet, she thought. I’m dying to kiss him.
Then she remembered Sarah’s tragic story, and her suspicions about her own destiny.
She couldn’t kiss him. Not until she understood who—or what—she really was.
Danny broke eye contact first, began collecting the old papers, books, documents.
“You should get some rest. I’ll clean up.”
She was too exhausted to argue.
After a few steps, though, she glanced back.
She quickly counted the freckles over his nose.
Fourteen.
35
AGNES
You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.
Agnes at the End of the World Page 19
