The Visionist: A Novel (25 page)

They were a miserable lot, headed up by an old woman with a piercing glare. But one stood the slightest bit apart from the rest. She was the thinnest, and though her clothes hung off her body, they seemed warm and well made by comparison to those of her companions. She had once been pretty, though her face had the haunted look of one pursued by misfortune for too long. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, and her hands had the chapped swell of a washwoman’s—still she stood tall and held her head high. Why could I not stop looking at her? Where had I seen such hidden grace? Could it be that I had stumbled upon an older, life-worn version of Polly Kimball? Had I found May?

“Six hundred, gentlemen, is Mister Sadler’s offer. He will take the last of the paupers and give them suitable provision for a year for six hundred! Six hundred for the lady paupers for one year… Going… Does anybody say less than six?”

“Five hundred and seventy-five!” called a man seated in the front.

“Come now!” yelled Sadler. “You can’t mean it!”

“Gentlemen,” said the auctioneer anxiously, eyeing the exodus as the crowd began to pull on hats and cloaks and shuffle home for the midday meal. “Gentlemen! We have another bid from a responsible townsman up front here. Five hundred and seventy-five. Is that you, Mister Bacon?”

The man in front nodded.

“Yessirs, it is!” the auctioneer crowed. “Mister Abraham Bacon knows all about it—five hundred seventy-five, and…going! Now’s your chance, Sadler. Can’t be helped that another man’s come on the scene. The last of the town paupers of Burns’ Hollow for one year—five hundred seventy-five…”

“Seventy!” cried Sadler. The audience stopped bustling and stared.

“Sixty-five!” countered Bacon.

“Sixty!” spat Sadler, a look of determination in the set of his jaw.

“Five hundred and sixty! Ha!” The auctioneer hooted. “Oh, down they go! What’s a loss to you, gentlemen, is gain to us. A gain to all you who are tired of stepping over these wastrels as you make your way about your business.”

At this, the crowd roared in agreement, but the gig was not up yet.

“Five hundred and fifty-five!” bellowed Bacon.

There was a pause in the proceedings. Even those of a low bent could hardly see their way to keeping this number of beggars alive on so little.

“Five hundred and fifty,” came a gravelly voice that had not been heard before. “Five hundred and fifty and I’ll take the whole lot off your hands.”

Everyone turned and stared at the source of this latest offer as I tipped my hat to further conceal my face. I didn’t want to risk knowing the man—or more to the point, having him know me.

“It’s Varnum Tanner,” the audience whispered. “Varnum Tanner!”

“What’s he need with a bunch of women beggars?”

“I’ll tell you what he needs, if you really wants to know… Ha!”

As nobody dared bid below him, Tanner got the contract.

“It’s a right tough squeeze,” said the grinning auctioneer, “to make anything on this lot.”

“And to be humane and merciful about it,” said Tanner with a wink.

“Ain’t that it exactly.” The auctioneer nodded. His face had taken on a look of piety so transparent it was difficult not to imagine Lucifer himself waving from behind it. “Too bad to bet low on the poor devils and be under all that temptation to screw ’em if you don’t come out well once the work’s done, eh?” Tanner joined in with the auctioneer’s lewd chuckling.

From my place in the crowd, I turned and spoke in a low voice to the grinning man standing beside me. “Who’s this Tanner fellow?”

“You from other parts?” he asked. “Tanner’s got the biggest farm in town—well, just outside if you’re being particular about it. He’ll labor this lot to the death if I know him. He’s rich for two reasons: He makes everyone round his farm work hard and he don’t owe nothin’ to James Hurlbut. Fact is, it’s Hurlbut who calls on him for favors. Now
that’s
a turn of things for you!”

I turned in time to hear the last of the transaction, the town treasurer singing out from his desk as he counted the money to be paid to Tanner. “Just tell me,” he roared, “that you’ll be taking the wenches off with you now! They’ve cost me enough already.”

“My man,” Tanner said gruffly, “is on the job as you speak, Mister Fowles.”

And it was true. Prodded and yelled at like cattle, the women were being herded off the stage and out the front doors by a hired man, then loaded into an uncovered wagon as the sky grew dark and a cold wind swirled their ragged shawls.

Could Tanner have bought them so that Hurlbut would pay to take May off the man’s hands? After all, Hurlbut might not have wanted to be seen
buying
May himself, a woman whose farm he was then going to steal. If for matters of reputation alone, he needed to secure her in a roundabout manner, this was as good a way as any. I looked about the scattering crowd to see if there was anyone I recognized from his gang, but not a face stood out.

Save one.

Barnabas Trask. I was almost sure of it. His hat was pulled down over his head almost as far as was mine, but he’d risked a quick gaze round the room and I’d seen his face. Plunging in after him, I wondered why he was here. Having hired me, he’d had no reason to dirty his hands himself.

But fast as I wove my way, I couldn’t catch him and he slipped easily into the throng. He was that sort, never a standout, as common as a sheep among sheep. With a few tips from me he’d have made a good investigator. Our invisibility is as important to us as a clown’s maquillage.

The one thing of which I was certain was that Trask’s motives would be easy to ascertain, for he was not a savvy man. So I concentrated on making my next move: I had to get to May before one of Hurlbut’s men did. I had to follow the wagon to Tanner’s farm, slip in and talk to her just as soon as she was alone.

I watched the cart leave. One chance look at a poster had pulled me back to Burns’ Hollow. One chance look had likely led me straight to May Kimball. Deep in thought, I walked to the back of the hall, through the door, and untied my horse. Deep in thought, yes—but not so deep that I failed to notice a man slink round a nearby corner just as I looked his way. He’d been watching me. Clearly, May was an object of great value to many of us.

And what right had I, you might ask, to think my reasons for wanting her were any more holy than the others’? I needed May Kimball to cover my lies. I needed May Kimball so that she could help me gum up James Hurlbut’s plan to buy her farm. But worst of all, I needed May Kimball to save my soul.

Polly

SHE AROSE FROM
her bed and washed away her tears. No more of that, she told herself. Now, with this new horror to keep secret, she would have to redouble her efforts to stay strong. The baby growing inside her tortured her no less completely than had its maker, for it would remind her of him every minute of every day. She should have known he would be devious in finding a way to get her in the end. How long before the believers found out? She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. She was thin as a stick. Certainly, by the look of her, she did not appear to be with child.

After pulling herself together, she left the dwelling house and walked briskly to the Church Family meetinghouse. How low she felt, how weary. If this was to be another wondrous display of the believers’ faith, she wanted none of it. She had begun to find it difficult to join in as they parroted the language of Eskimo kings or spoke in the deep tones of George Washington. This tiny, practical place became a veritable madhouse at Meeting time, and she found herself yearning for release as much from the believers’ ecstasy as from their narrow ways. Ah, to read something other than the blasphemous red book. To speak freely to one of the brethren she passed so closely while walking on paths that had become narrow, high-walled alleys of snow. To hold Ben and see Mama again. To take a single breath without being told that it was Mother who’d allowed her to take it. Her sense of what was and was not miraculous was changing quickly.

But the late-night Meeting had been different, wondrous in a whole new way, with each and every sister and brother receiving inscribed paper hearts. True, she felt the air leave her chest as she watched Ben take his from Elder Sister Agnes. But seeing his face lit up with anticipation, how could Polly not have felt glad? Had he not been given more that day than in all the hours of his sorry life? Still, she would never forget that he had been stolen from her, for somehow the ceremony had cemented his place among these strangers. And she had not mistaken the meaning of Elder Sister Agnes’s blessing upon the boy. It was an indoctrination: Ben was a pure and solid Shaker now. He had left the World and all who had once loved him.

As to what had been written for her, it was a message as cryptic as scratches on the walls of an ancient tomb. The sheer beauty and fullness of the Vision—more than one hundred tiny hearts!—had convinced Polly that Sister Cora Ann had been touched by something truly divine. But then, if she believed in the messenger, must not she also believe in the message? Polly took her blessing and backed away down the aisle, not wanting to turn on her elders and eldresses, her hand trembling so that she had difficulty reading the tiny writing at first. She saw a picture drawn at the center—a candle, beautifully penned—surrounded by letters that looped across the paper, so small she had to bring the heart in close to read what they said.

The ink lines were searing, and for a moment, she felt blinded. But then the words of her blessing began to drift into her mind.
You…from a place of great despair…fly between worlds… When you meet me in Zion…alone among many…your burden…your blessing.

Her breath returned slowly and she opened her eyes to a room bathed in the golden glow of what seemed a thousand candles. She had known then what she needed to do—was eager, even, to get it done. Looking down at her clenched hand, she saw that like a poppy in darkness, the fragile heart had crumpled shut.

A week passed. Still she waited for the moment to come. She could barely drag herself through her chores, so tired and sick did she feel. Charity tells Sister Clara in the dairy that Polly is weaving, and Sister Faith at the loom that Polly is in the kitchens, and Sister Lavinia by the ovens that Polly has been called to the sewing room. At the tolling of the last bell on this night, as on so many others, Polly falls onto her pallet, and before tumbling into a troubled sleep, she can feel Charity’s worried eyes upon her.

“You are fretting again, Sister,” Polly says in as light a tone as she can manage. “I shall be fine. You above all people know that these illnesses pass. I just need a full rest tonight. I am sorry to miss our book again. I know—”

“Say nothing more,” Charity interjects. She speaks with uncharacteristic force. “I am ready. We shall go tonight.”

“Where? What journey have you planned for us? Where will Mister Wolcott take us?” She had begun to see that she could hide inside the red book no longer, for though she tried to pretend it held for her the same joy that it did for Charity, she could not. Charity knew her too well, and though the devoted sister had found the stories to be full of wondrous discovery, Polly now listened to them with nothing but desolation. She was too tired and too afraid—especially now—of what the World held for her. Certainly nothing so warm and miraculous as an Indian bazaar. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Hours later, she was shaken awake. “We must go,” the voice said, and though it was kind and sure, it came to her as if from a dream. “We will need time.”

Polly rose slowly. The pain in her gut had subsided, and yet everywhere she felt tender and knew it would come again. She did not question Charity. She had hope that her dear sister could help her. No one else could, of this much she was sure. Slipping on the cloth shoes she wore to dance at Meeting, she thought,
Their soft tread shall be put to a different purpose tonight.

Outside, the floor of the wide hallway that divided sister from brother had been dusted with a fine film of talc. Charity gasped, and Polly realized that in all of the sister’s fifteen years in The City of Hope—save for the night the hearts were given, the night of the Midnight Cry—she had never opened the door of her room after retiring. She squeezed Charity’s arm and moved in front of her. If they were to do this, it was Polly who would have to lead the way. Swept clean by an elder each dawn before the other believers had risen, the fine powder spelled out in footprints the sins of those who might endeavor to leave their rooms under cover of darkness.

Polly turned and whispered. “I can get us through. Just curl up your toes and walk on cats’ paws. Like this.” She lifted her nightdress and showed Charity her pointed foot. The sister blanched, stripped now of all decisiveness. Polly directed her to tiptoe in front, then stepped in the tiny tracks where Charity had gone before, turning to swirl lightly the hem of her nightdress and so blow the powder back over their prints. The marks disappeared, and Polly smiled at the fact that their movements could not be traced. For once, she felt free. For once, no one would follow or spy or listen round corners.

They reached the stairs, which gleamed free of tattling dust. Up they climbed to the floor where the older sisters and brethren slept. Past door after door, the healing room lay at the end of the corridor. But there was no talc spread about the older believers’ hallway, and Polly wondered why they should be trusted when the younger ones were not. After all, she knew a thing or two about the movements of grown men in the dark. They reached the healing room and Charity lifted the latch quietly before sliding into the darkness.

Within moments of the door clicking shut behind them, Charity lit a candle and pulled an apron on over her nightdress. She felt about atop one of the shelves, took down a brick of dried leaves, placed it on her worktable, and shaved it with a sharp knife. Slices curled under the blade, and when she reckoned that she had enough, she swept them into a dish and placed it on a scale. Polly watched without moving as her friend waited for the bouncing balance to be still, then peered at the weight by candlelight. Back at the table, Charity shaved off two more curls, then wrapped the brick in a paper printed with the words
Lady’s Slipper.

She looked up at Polly and said, “I have been reading through my journals. It has taken me too long to find a curative for what ails you, but I believe that now I know. I shall mix this with catmint and brew a tea for you to drink. It will bring you calm and ease the cramps. Then I shall make a salve and rub it into your stomach. Will that be all right?”

There is evil in me no salve can cure,
Polly thought.
Soon enough, Charity will find that out for herself.

On the stove, a kettle had been put to boil and soon the room filled with the smell of wintergreen and rhubarb, for no remedy is simple; even the tea Charity poured into a handled cup had been made up of many leaves, drops, and powders. It reminded Polly of a witch’s brew, though she knew that the truth was quite the opposite. She looked round the room where she had sat for so many hours calling her angels to Rebecca’s side. She understood then that the girl had come into her life for a reason, and since her death, she had come to know why. For the young sister had passed but a few days after Polly discovered her curse. In that time, when Polly had tried to summon her angels, she found she could not. They had left her forever and not even the plight of another could lure them back. Rebecca’s faith withered, and so did her will to live. She had discovered Polly to be a charlatan and it had killed her.

In spite of the hot tea, Polly shivered. Bricks of dried Saint-John’s-Wort, goldthread, elecampane, and horehound; jars of pine bark and chamomile flowers; tinctures of clove and lavender. There was no dark magic in the liquid made from catmint, lady’s slipper, and licorice root that Charity had given her. With such a horror inside her womb, mightn’t Polly have needed medicine of a blacker sort? Yearning for her heart to stop racing, Polly lowered her head and drained the last drops from the cup. She would trust her friend. What else could she do?

“I have finished,” she said. “What now?” Charity was back at the table, this time using a pestle to mash something sticky and strong-smelling.

She looked up and brushed away a wisp of auburn hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed from her efforts, and though her eyes shone brightly, Polly could see that she was nervous. “You will find a sheet in the cupboard,” she said absently. “Lie on that table by the stove and cover yourself with it. Then slip off your nightdress. That is, if you are willing.”

As Polly lay upon the table, she noticed that she had begun to feel sleepy. The room, no longer cool and sharp in the near dark, was warm, soft, and full of distant noises. A log crackled inside the stove. Charity’s marble mortar and pestle chimed dully as she scraped the paste she had made into a larger bowl. Polly’s mind drifted as she looked about the room, its shelves and cabinets filled with all manner of medicine. The bigger bottles contained leaves and bark and the dried heads of flowers. Then there were the bricks of pressed herbs wrapped carefully in their papers. A blade, some scissors, a pill cutter, strips of clean muslin, several buckets of springwater, the long, cradlelike bed in the corner. Polly took all of it in as the smells of forest and field, tree and flower—now sweet, now earthy, now bitter, now tart—filled her senses. The room had both awakened her and made her feel that she was sinking into a bottomless pile of feathers. Questions passed through her mind, then drifted away before she could catch them. But there was one she had to ask, for she was drawn to the small dark bottles that lined the uppermost shelf.

“Tell me,” she said, in a faraway voice, “what is in the high vials, the ones no one could reach without a step-up?”

Charity glanced to where Polly indicated, then looked quickly back to her bowl. “They are nothing for you to mind about,” she said. “No one but myself and Elder Sister Agnes is allowed to handle what’s in those bottles. They are filled with poisons.”

“But why would you have need of poison in a healing room?” Polly could not make sense of this at all. “Why would you mix such an evil concoction?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Charity said gently. She was by the table now, with her hand on Polly’s brow. “It is true: More than a drop and you can kill a grown man. But the tiniest bit, taken over time, will kill the ill inside him and leave him whole.”

“What kind of poison?” Polly asked. “And what sort of ill? Something in his soul? Something mortification cannot tame?”

“No,” Charity said, smiling now, “I am talking of wolfsbane, angelica, belladonna, bittersweet, water hemlock, thorn apple, foxglove, hellebore, wild mandrake, opium poppy, burning bush, rue. They won’t kill if you know how to give them, and it’s not evil they slay, but actual creatures—worms and the like. It’s strange, what takes shelter inside us. Now hush your questions and lay quiet awhile. My hands are warm and I’ve mixed the salve with hot water, so it shouldn’t be too much of a shock when you feel me touch your stomach. There, do you see?”