Cory looked sharply at Beth.
But Agnes just shook her head. “Are you kidding? It’s high time you left. The Hollow is too small for you.”
Words crowded her tongue. There was so much she wanted to say, yet she couldn’t force a single thought into shape. Mutely, she stretched out her little finger. Her sister’s sharp eyes mellowed as they linked hands.
With a start, Beth realized what she’d forgotten.
Danny.
She’d never properly thanked him for saving her sister’s life.
She’d always meant to, but she hated to think of that day at the bunker. So she’d kept putting it off until it was too late.
After Beth had dragged Agnes out of that disintegrating oven—with the kids screaming, desperate to get out—she couldn’t stay to watch her sister die. She had to go back for the twins and Sam and every other child who’d woken up lost, trapped, afraid. It was the hardest, most harrowing work she’d ever done.
After all the children were accounted for, she’d looked for Agnes.
Danny had hauled her into the shade and surrounded her with dozens of blue plastic bags, wafting cold. Later, Beth would learn they were disposable ice packs. They cooled her temperature, but they weren’t enough to revive her. Beth shrieked when Danny put both palms on her chest, pumping hard.
“Stop hurting her!” she’d yelled. “Just stop it!”
“Beth, no!” Zeke had thrown his arms around her waist, holding her back. “It’s medicine! It’s medicine!”
Gray-faced, Danny struggled to start an IV line. Beth didn’t like to see her dead sister pricked. Needle marks pocked her wrists, hands, arms. Finally, a line took, and Danny’s face cleared.
“This will hydrate her,” he’d explained.
The rest of the story she’d only learned later. Beth had gone to comfort the hysterical children, who were screaming and threatening to run back into the collapsing bunker to find their parents. She could only pray her sister would be all right.
She wasn’t all right—not for a long time. Agnes’s heart stopped after Beth left her. Danny gave her an adrenaline shot in the thigh. When it stopped again, he gave her another one.
He never gave up.
Eventually, Matilda and the Captain arrived in a military vehicle. The nurse took over.
But, in her heart, Beth always knew it was tireless Danny who’d saved Agnes’s life. With medicine, not prayer. With shots, ice, and skills he’d learned in books.
On that day, the Outsider boy who loved her sister had worked his own kind of miracle.
Beth hopped into the passenger seat of Mr. King’s truck.
“Let’s go see it,” she said. “The great Outside.”
Cory shifted the truck into gear. She took one last look at the cloudless sky of her home.
“What do you think it’ll be like?”
She shrugged—an Outsider habit she’d picked up. “I don’t know. I’m embracing the mystery.”
As the familiar landscape rolled by, she thought of Agnes. She wondered what her sister had seen in the bunker, what she’d learned. There was a look in her eye just after, a secret hanging on to her lips like the memory of a kiss. If something had been revealed, Agnes had never mentioned it to Beth or preached it in her sermons. Maybe she didn’t even remember it.
And really, as they drove down the hill towards Holden, Beth thought forgetfulness might be better. Personally, she’d take mysteries over miracles any day. There was beauty in mystery—in faith set free of doctrine’s iron trap.
Excitement fluttered in her belly once more.
They were going Outside.
“Drive faster, Cory, please. There’s so much I want to see.”
“You got it,” he said.
They accelerated into the light.
63
AGNES
To create a just society, we must never lose sight of the vision. Never forget the dream.
—AGNES, COLLECTED WORKS
Shortly after Beth and Cory drove away, Agnes left the church to watch at the gates.
The wind caressed her face, her bare arms. Overhead, a healthy hawk swooped, wings outstretched as if to grip the sky.
In the bunker, she’d lost the prayer space, her direct connection with God. She couldn’t hear the earth humming or the pines whispering anymore. Couldn’t hear anything. And though she’d glimpsed His face, hard as she prayed each night, she couldn’t conjure it now. The loss was a fathomless ache that never ceased, like an arthritis of the soul. Late at night, when tears came, she’d curl into Danny’s side. Half-asleep, he’d hold her, murmuring, reminding her of all the beauty that remained.
New life… new home… freedom, he’d whisper. Agnes, you’re finally free.
But sometimes, she received little intuitions. Like the one burrowing into her now.
Beth had gone, but someone new was on their way. She knew it with crystal certainty.
She looked down the bright road, watching, waiting.
A small figure appeared on the horizon, picking its careful way towards her. A child, nine or ten years old.
Agnes cupped her hand over her eyes. The girl carried a walking stick whittled from a branch. A backpack dwarfed and stooped her. She walked alone.
Agnes hurried down the road to meet her. The child stumbled to a stop, teetering under her pack’s weight. Her cheeks were deeply sunburned, her forehead smudged with dirt. Her ponytail was matted, uncombed. Nevertheless, her intelligent brown eyes glittered, dewdrop clear.
“I know you,” said the little girl.
“Yes.” Agnes reached tentatively for her hand. “I know you, too.”
The girl took her hand. Together, they walked slowly uphill. Agnes wasn’t exactly surprised to meet this child, but she wondered how she’d survived.
“My name is Olivia,” the girl said. “I had a dream you kissed me. Saved me from a fire.”
Agnes stopped walking. “Did you?”
She nodded earnestly, her eyes deep set from malnutrition. “Your blessing protected me when the others burned. The stars told me so.” She paused, hesitant. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come. A family took me in. They didn’t understand when I said I had to find you. I don’t think they believed you were real.”
Agnes dropped to her knees, the better to see Sarah Shiner’s great-granddaughter.
“Olivia.” Her pulse raced. “You said the stars told you about me. What—what did they sound like?”
She tilted her head, considering. “Silver, like bells. They sing all night. Everything sings, you know.”
Agnes was not aware of the moment when she began to cry. Tears streamed in rivulets down her face, and it was like they’d always been streaming. “Yes, I know. I used to hear it, too. I called it the prayer space.”
Olivia touched Agnes’s cheek. “Don’t be sad, Agnes.”
“You know my name?”
She nodded gravely. “I know an awful lot of things.”
Agnes’s mind worked quickly. Everything was about to change. A new prophet had been sent into her care. A prophet not of destruction as she herself had been, but of renovation. Agnes had witnessed the end of the world; this child would play a role in its rebirth.
But first she must grow up. She would need education and protection, nourishment after years of deprivation. She’d need a haven free of judgment—a safe place to laugh, play, and listen to God’s eternal songs.
Agnes hid a smile behind her hand, thinking how startled Danny would be when he learned they were about to become guardians.
Parents.
Olivia watched her closely, exquisitely sensitive to any hint of disbelief or rejection. Agnes wrapped her arms around her small, bony frame, pressing her close. Slowly, the child relaxed in her embrace.
“Welcome to Benny’s Hollow, Olivia,” she whispered, amazed at this new and unexpected grace. “Welcome home.”
Agnes squeezed her eyes shut, swept by searing winds of mingled hope and
grief.
In her arms, she held the promise of the prayer space, and of the faith she preached every Sunday. Worlds might end in fire or in rivers of tears, but there was always a new world waiting, rising—and inhaling a great breath, to sing.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ezekiel is a young child with type 1 diabetes, an autoimmune disease entirely distinct from type 2. A type 1 diagnosis is a life-changing event for children and their families, and most parents are deeply engaged in their child’s care. It is unlikely that Agnes would be able to safely keep Ezekiel’s condition a secret; luckily, in the real world, it should never be necessary. I have done my best to represent type 1 as faithfully as possible without firsthand experience. It was a true privilege to learn about the remarkable kids and teens who manage their type 1, with grace and aplomb, every single day. According to beyondtype1.org, approximately 1.25 million people in the United States have type 1 diabetes.
Agnes’s Red Creek was most directly inspired by Carolyn Jessop’s portrayal of her life under the Fundamentalist Church of Latter-day Saints (not to be confused with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), in her excellent memoir, Escape. Agnes’s cult is a distillation of key elements that fundamentalist cults have in common: a desire to undermine and control the humanity of their followers, and a vicious ability to turn a human being’s natural impulse for faith against them.
We must all be aware of who authors our beliefs, and it is our duty, and our right, to ask as many questions about our received belief systems as we are able. Young people are especially adept at this—Agnes’s story is for them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, thanks to my partner, Bill Mullen, for being the best support a writer could ask for. This book would not exist without his unflagging faith. I also want to thank my mother for her words of wisdom, and Clara, for napping when Mommy needed to work.
To Jodi Meadows, I am forever indebted. This YA author extraordinaire helped guide this project to fruition with expert mentorship and friendship. I have We Need Diverse Books to thank for the opportunity of working with her through their mentorship program. The world is a better place for the existence of such an organization.
Heartfelt thanks to my marvelous early readers: my dear friends Katia Cota and Vanessa Weiss. Also, to Padma Venkatraman, for her priceless vote of confidence. Eternal thanks to the wonderful Sarah Glenn Marsh for her sensitivity read. Her dedication to type 1 diabetes representation is an inspiration.
I’m unutterably grateful to the brilliant Alvina Ling, my editor at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, who saw the potential in an extremely messy draft and guided this project with such care. Thanks also goes to Hannah Milton, for the close edit that pushed me to make this book better; Ruqayyah Daud, for keeping me on schedule; and the whole team at LBYR.
A thousand thanks to my agent, Michael Bourret, for being such a safety net throughout this process.
Lastly, I must acknowledge my textual inspirations for this work: Carolyn Jessop’s memoir, Escape, for insights into life in a fundamentalist cult—Red Creek’s motto, that “perfect obedience produces perfect faith,” and the injunction to “treat the other sex like snakes,” come directly from her reporting of her experience. Also, passages about prophecy in the Old Testament sense, and about the prophetic life, are inspired by the exegesis of Abraham Heschel’s The Prophets. Finally, Leland Ryken’s Words of Delight was an invaluable resource and guide to literary aspects of the Bible.
In the text, quotes from Psalms originate from the King James Bible. For quotations from other books of the Bible, I primarily used the New International Version, the King James Bible, the Contemporary English Version, the English Standard Version, and the New American Standard Bible.
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Agnes at the End of the World Page 32
