The Visionist: A Novel (26 page)

Something warm and slippery was being kneaded into Polly’s gut. Charity’s hands were gentle, and Polly noticed as she stared up at her friend that she was concentrating intensely.

“I don’t feel anything hard,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “That is a good thing. Nor swollen up neither.”

Indeed, Polly’s insides seemed to be melting under the heat of the salve and the movement of her sister’s hands. Had she discovered the truth?

“I am thinking of September,” Charity said. “The Harvest Feast. Have I spoken of it before?” She gazed down.

Polly’s thoughts had begun to unravel. “You have never told me,” she said. “Describe it to me now so that I can close my eyes and picture it.”

“All right,” Charity answered. “Then you must travel to a holy place in your imagination, as do we. And you must feel it to be real.” Her hands massaged Polly’s stomach, and she was silent a moment before beginning her story.

The room spun as Polly floated above the table. Her skin tingled and her mind felt webby and dim. She was somewhere far away—a place she had never been to before—still, she knew her friend was close by, for she could hear her distant voice.

Charity leaned in and Polly felt her warm breath against her ear. “Do you see it, Sister Polly?” she asked. “For were you a visitor from the World, you would not. We would appear to rest in our somber frocks, bending and bowing and exclaiming over a celestial beauty you could never understand. But can you, Sister, see it in your mind?”

“Yes,” Polly said dreamily. “You have made it real. Please don’t stop.”

“How beautiful,” Polly murmured. “How I wish I could be there.” Charity continued her ministrations, talking, talking…

Polly felt she was dancing upon ground that was padded with fallen pine needles. Her arms floated airily at her sides and her feet moved as quickly as the beating of a bird’s wings. Everything was beautiful around her. Every soul was pure and filled with happiness. She drank, and the wine deepened the colors she saw before her. She ate, and the succulent juices flowed down her chin. How she was laughing, laughing…

“Sister?” The voice came from far off in the forest. Polly could barely hear it among the sound of heavenly voices singing. “Sister?” It was louder now, and the golden light, the smell of almonds and honey, the taste of fruit on her tongue—all of it faded as the voice spoke again. “Sister Polly? Are you awake now?”

Polly opened her eyes and the room around her appeared dark and forbidding, Charity’s face closed, inscrutable. “We must leave here. We cannot be found when the morning bell sounds.”

“I saw it,” Polly said, her thoughts difficult to marshal. “All of it. We were together, dancing and laughing. I saw everything.”

“Come,” Charity said. “You must come now…”

Polly tried to pull herself up from the table. “No, wait…”

“We must go now,” Charity insisted, looking about nervously.

The room swayed as Polly tried again to sit up. “Do you understand? I am not the interloper of whom you spoke. I cannot be him, for I did see—”

“Hush now.” There was an edge in Charity’s voice as she helped Polly up. “Say nothing and come silent with me now.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Polly wanted to reach out and brush them away, but she had to keep on.

“I am…”

Charity looked hard at her. Suddenly, Polly understood.

“You…you,” Charity stammered, hardly able to speak. “You are with child. I felt it inside…” She turned from the table to hide her tears.

The world quivered as Polly swung down her legs and slid her feet to the floor. She tried to walk to her friend’s side. She knew this moment would come and now that it was upon her she could think of nothing but the emptiness she would feel if she lost Charity’s love.

“You cannot know…” Polly tried to explain, for she felt her friend slipping away just like the dream of the Harvest Feast. “How sorry…” She paused and looked about her. Nothing in the room could fix what she had broken. “I tried to tell you that I was not good enough. I don’t…”

“Please, stop talking,” Charity whispered, her back to Polly. “I do not want to know anything more.”

She turned and handed Polly her nightdress without looking at her, then spun away as Polly pulled it over her head. Polly’s heart felt as though it had been cut in two. One half was broken over the friend she had lost, the other steely with truth.

“Please, leave me alone,” Charity said. “I have work and you…well, you should not be here.”

“But I have need of your help,” Polly begged. “Only you can tell me…can you give me…” She looked up at the poisons on the shelf.

Charity watched her coldly. “You think that I would…that I would help you cover your lie?” she asked. “You have stolen everything I…everything the believers have given you. How could I have trusted…?” She looked away.

“If I can find no cure in this room, then I shall have to go elsewhere,” Polly said, knotting her hands in shame. “Please. If you will not help me here, then come away with me.” Her voice quivered. “Come away. You know now that the World is a place filled as much with wonder as it is malice. And I could protect you. We could live…”

Charity wheeled round. Polly had never seen her so angry. “How dare you suggest first, that I help you hide your sin, then that I
elope
with you? Become a backslider and forsake everything I have held to be good and true? How dare you.” She spat her words.

Ashamed that she had, on top of all of her other failings, asked such impossibilities of her friend, Polly collected herself, walked across the room, and slid into the dark corridor. Eyes closed, she rested her head against the frame as she pulled the latch shut. All was quiet save for the sound of muffled crying.

“Go!” Charity whispered fiercely from the other side of the door. Her voice was frightened, hate-filled, and miserable all at once. “I know you are there. Go!”

Polly startled and pulled back. As she walked the long, empty corridor, she thought,
We are both alone now.

Simon Pryor

FROM BEHIND THE
corner of a derelict storehouse, I watched Tanner’s wagonload weave down the road and out of town. He’d got a horse thrown in for good measure, it seemed, for the poor beast was tethered close enough that I could see one of the women—May, I think—stroking his head as the cart trundled along.

I rode the side streets until I reached the track that led to Tanner’s farm. I did not need to hide myself, for I looked like any weary traveler. The main house was situated near town, but its barns lay a sight farther along the road. Though I do not mind the ripeness of country life, it is the privilege of the rich farmer never to be discomfited by the stench of piss and manure on a hot day. For me, the scent brings back the innocence of my youth. Indeed, I have always found the sweet breath of a cow in high summer more delicious by far than any maiden’s. Perhaps that is why I am not married.

I approached the horse barn, urging my mount along quickly. The place seemed empty, save for the man who drove the cart, and he left as soon as he had seen to it that the women had been herded into a couple of empty box stalls. I pulled up, swung from the saddle, and led my horse into the hay barn next door. To tie him up was to deny myself the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, and I knew he would stay. He’d been through this before.

At the mouth of the barn, I stopped to listen for voices. Whispers carried through the air loud enough to guide me to the women. A stable boy had been ordered to keep watch, but I found him slumped on an overturned bucket, wrapped against the cold in a horse blanket, sound asleep. Evidence that Tanner farmed hard? Yes, but then there was also a bottle of cider leaning on the boy’s foot. Lucky for me.

Behind him I peered through the slats of a single large stall where most of the women had been housed for the night. I could see them pressed against one another for warmth. Only one sat apart, the aged crone with a witch’s nose. In the low light from a nearby lantern—for the afternoon gloom had fallen fast—her darting eyes gleamed. Peering into every corner, stopping only to cover herself with more hay, she was a picture of suspicion.

“Please don’t be frightened,” I whispered, chancing to make my presence known. “I mean you no harm.”

“Who’s there?” she barked, her posture suddenly alert and tense. “Show yourself!”

“Quiet now,” I whispered back. “I ask only to have a word or two. I’ll pay for your trouble.”

For a moment no one moved. Then, as she slid along the wood floor of the stall, the sharp smell of horse urine hit my nostrils. With her face close to mine, I could see the fear in her eyes. I held out three coins.

“You see, I mean to do well by you, Madam,” I said. “Here, take them.” She reached her filthy fingers through the gate and snatched the money from my hand.

“What’s it you’ve come for, boy?” she asked, fingering the coins.

I had not been called a boy in many a year, and the term made me smile.

“You may feel like a wise old man,” she said, “but you’re just a boy to me. Now out with it. What do you want?”

I looked her in the eye and asked if she knew the names of the women with whom she shared the stall. She shrugged. “Well, there are one or two I could point out. What’s it to you?”

“Can you show me May Kimball?”

She closed her mouth and regarded me with a furrowed brow. “What’s it about this May that’s so special? The man who brought us here set her aside so she could be with her horse and now here’s you, wondering about her, too. Oh, it’s no matter to me to point out where she’s been locked up. Not for a little something else in return.”

“Tell me what you know of her,” I said. “You’ll find me plenty grateful, I assure you.”

She said she had heard May mumble of mysterious doings when she thought herself to be alone. Of beatings, of fire, of everything she’d lost. And that horse! How often she pulled his old head to her own and whispered into his ear!

“Horse?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“She came in to town like a right farmer’s wife, driving a cart with baskets and blankets and the like. Fine quality. The Shakers had given ’em to her, that’s what she said. That’s how she made out when she first come by. But she couldn’t find work, so she sold the cart. Then the baskets. Then the blankets—though with winter at her back, I’d wager she was sad to see those coverlets go. There was a knacker who pegged her horse for the grinder, saying he’d give her a note or two for him, but she near tore off his head at the suggestion. Yessir, she arrived looking like townsfolk—scrawnier but enough of a likeness so’s no one ever noticed that she was one of us, only that she’d come from someplace else. ’Course, she should have been warned out with the other unworthies, but that woman can shift herself into all sorts. She’s queer that way. That’s how come she ended up on the block with us today.”

“You mean she was one of the lucky ones?” I asked, sarcastically.

“You think it’s better to be out in the cold?” the old woman asked. “This time a year, there’s not much I wouldn’t do just to keep a roof over my head.”

“And the nag?” I said. “You say she still keeps it close?”

“Put up such a fuss this afternoon when we were being moved that Mister Tanner himself come out and told his man to tie the poor thing to the back of the wagon and leave be. She’s in with the animal now. You’ll see for yourself.”

Peering up at me mischievously from the shadows, she granted me a toothless grin. “Now, I done my part,” she said. “You stay true and tickle my palm a little.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You have been very helpful. Can I ask one more question of you? Did May Kimball ever mention her children?”

The crone looked surprised for the first time since we’d spoken. “I never heard her say nothing of kin,” she said. “Only that she’d left her old life for a new one and had not a shred of an idea where the wind might blow her. Children, you say? I should have known she’d lost more than she’d ever tell.” The old witch sat for a moment, then poked me sharply. “Go on, now. She’s just there, but I’d approach slow if I was you. Otherwise that horse’ll call you out. They’ve got a tie, I tell you. Stronger than most humans, I’d say. Now, off and leave me be.”

She tore the hem of her skirt in order to hide her money, but stopped when she saw that I was watching. “Don’t you be thinking you’ll steal this back. I’ve a pair of sharp eyes—that, and I’m scrappy, so consider yourself advised.”

Backing away, I checked first to see that the stable boy was still asleep. The single lantern that had shone so weakly across the way shed more light on the stall where May Kimball was sleeping. As I approached, her horse nickered and there was rustling in the hay. Peering over the top, I watched as she arranged herself quickly, sitting with a regal bearing that was strange for one who had suffered such humiliation. She patted her skirts about her on the straw while her nag lowered his head as if to whisper news of my approach.

I will say that whatever comfort the horse’s presence might have given her, it cannot have supplied her much in the way of physical fortitude, for now that I could see her more closely, she appeared gaunt and empty. Hung over the set of her expression like a loose cloth, the skin on her face was dull and old beyond its years. But it was her eyes that struck me most. As level a gaze as they possessed, they were dead of all hope.

I slid back the bolt on the door, surprised to find it unlocked. How easily she might have freed herself! Then I entered the stall and knelt down, asking if I might speak to her. She turned from her initial wary inspection of me, looked blankly into the dusty air, and stroked her horse’s leg. Again, the nag whinnied—an answer to my request, which apparently disposed May Kimball favorably towards me.

“I know why you’ve come,” she said. “You’re the law and you’ve come about the fire.” Turning slowly, she searched my face to see if she’d guessed right.

“I have come about the fire,” I said. “But I’m not the law.” After we’d spent months looking for her, it was difficult to believe that we were finally speaking. “Your husband…”

She sat up. “What of him? Lying, whatever he might have said to you. Where’s he now?”

Time was running short. I was unsure as to how I should lay out all that I wanted to tell her.

“If he’s as bad as I have heard him to be, Madam,” I answered, “then he is in Hell.”

“Oh, I know Hell, sir,” she said. “And it’s no match for Silas. Where is he really?” She looked at me warily.

“Did you not see the notice in the paper, Madam? He’s dead, Mrs. Kimball. In the fire. He…”

“Dead?” she said quickly. “Dead?” She paused as though contemplating how best to react to this last piece of news. “So you are here about him
and
the fire? Because you don’t need to ask anyone else. I’ll tell you what you want to know. That fire…”

“Was an accident, Mrs. Kimball. That’s what I came to tell you. Please listen.
The fire was an accident.
As I have already explained, I am not the law but the law will follow what I say. I am an inspector. A fire inspector. And I have written my official report.
The fire was an accident.
”

“But how?” she asked, trying to find the catch. “How would you know such a thing?”

“I know because I pored over what’s left of your farm. I’ve been looking for you and your daughter…”

“Polly?” she asked sharply. “What do you need with her? You think I’d say a word about…”

I reached for her shoulder then thought better of it as she drew away. “Your daughter must be told that the fire was an accident, do you understand? As soon as possible. She needs to know that it’s all in the report. An
accident.
”

“But Silas,” she said. “You say he died. That’s…”

“A
tragic
accident, Mrs. Kimball. Nothing more.”

She needed a moment to take in what I had told her. If she had had her suspicions about the circumstances of the fire—and she would not have hidden herself through the winter had she not—she no longer needed to fear. She was free. Free, perhaps, for the first time in her life.

“You say you’ve not yet seen my Polly?” she asked. “Because she needs to know—”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “She needs to know. I’ve seen your Polly, but I wasn’t allowed to speak to her.”

“Not allowed to speak? By those people?”

“The Elder Sister silenced me. She won’t let me see your daughter unless you come with me,” I said. “Now, if she only lets you in, you can warn Polly. You can be the one to tell her about the accident.”

Her face blanched. “What about Ben? Did you see him, too?”

“I did not see your son, Mrs. Kimball,” I said. “But I fear for him as well…”

She pulled on my sleeve and looked into my eyes. “Why? Have they done something…?”

“He’s fine,” I answered. “But I am concerned for the three of you. There are people who are very interested in your whereabouts, Madam. And if they got hold of one of your children, they could threaten…”

“Threaten?” she asked. “Threaten to hurt them? But I…I left them far away so they’d be safe from all that. I left them…” She looked down and started to cry. “Silas tried to kill him,” she sobbed. “My boy’s alive because I grabbed him out of that bucket. Promised Silas I’d hide him, never let his name be written in any records. Now you say there’s others who’d do him harm?” She was agitated, tapping her leg with a piece of straw and then passing it through the lantern flame.

My silence was answer enough.

“All this over that cursed farm?” she asked, incredulous. “That’s all Silas cared about. Once he took it into his head that it might not be his, that he might not be able to rid himself of us and sell it—that’s why my girl…”

“Remember, Mrs. Kimball,” I said quickly. “The fire was an accident. You’ve no need to worry about yourself or your girl now, provided we can get to her.”

As she flicked the straw silently back and forth, I worried she might start another conflagration. But there was so much else to think about, I didn’t try to stop her. Instead, I went to the heart of the matter at hand.

“I must ask you, Madam. Who is the rightful owner of the farm?”

“
Rightful owner,
you say?” She laughed ruefully, then was quiet a long time. Finally, she looked up.

It was then they struck—two men on horseback, galloping into the barn, headed straight for the stall in which we were sitting like they knew exactly where to find May. One jumped the wall and knocked me down while the other grappled with the latch and threw open the door. May turned away and crouched, scuffling in the hay she’d used as a blanket. Then as one of the men threw his arms round her waist, she screamed. The stall suddenly seemed a tiny space for all that was taking place within it. Her horse reared at the intrusion as the men fought me off and dragged May through the door. I turned in time to see her yanked up onto one of the men’s horses as he threw a leg over the back of his saddle and whipped his mount forward. Then the other looked at me—a familiar slab of a face he had. One of Hurlbut’s bullies. He slammed shut the stall door, rattled the latch closed, and jumped onto his horse. May’s screams and the pounding of hooves faded into the darkness.