The Visionist: A Novel (35 page)

Simon Pryor

I HAVE COME
to the end of many stories only to wait for them to begin anew. No tale stands alone, for just as one cannot speak of the future without paying due reverence to the past, one cannot sing the ballad of a single life.

Permit me first to crow from the rooftops the demise of James Hurlbut. A wondrous thing, the comeuppance of a scoundrel. Scales’s legal meddling could not defeat May Kimball’s determination to preserve what was rightfully hers. And Trask? Well, we are a wily lot, even the good among us.

My
former
master had planned to take ownership of the Ashland farm and sell the land at profit enough to cover his debts, for his creditors were many. And he’d had good reason to fear that I might ask Cramby to speak out about what really happened the day Millicent died. Disgusted with James’s profligate ways, Amos Hurlbut had threatened to cut his son out of his will and give everything to James’s brother. Cramby’s story would only have steeled the old man’s resolve.

As it was, having lost the opportunity to acquire the Kimball farm, he continued to gamble and lose—everything, as it turns out, including any chance of inheriting his father’s money. It is sad, in its way, but you’ll forgive my glee in reporting that, destitute beyond recompense, my nemesis is now locked in debtors’ prison. I doubt that his miserable end has occasioned much pity. Indeed, I cannot imagine a soul who’d lift a finger to help him.

As to what transpired in the Shaker meetinghouse that blustery Sabbath Day, I can only, even now, profess utter astonishment. May Kimball, clean and newly dressed, accompanied me with great dignity in spite of all that she had endured. We made an odd couple, it’s true, but once we had seated ourselves with a clear view of the proceedings, I wondered at the world of difference between the worshippers’ selfless presentation and the brassiness on exhibit in the audience. The Shakers were a different people, from a land no commoner could ever understand.

When the dirgelike singing commenced, it had a quieting effect on the gallery, the song severe yet hypnotic. Such humility before “Mother”—as the worshippers called her over and over—cleared with a sharp slap the senses of those whose true religion demands that they fall on bended knee before wealth, gossip, and fashion. I heard mocking whispers and stifled giggles, but considering the rudeness that had been in evidence when first the crowds sat upon their benches, we eventually evolved into a respectful, if ridiculous, flock. For one cannot help feeling self-conscious when faced with the discipline demonstrated by such a serious and, I must admit, dreary tribe.

The dances began to quicken and the songs to rise in tone and feeling. Men and women who had just moments before seemed half-dead of virtue became possessed by righteousness. They shouted and stamped, skirts swirling as the women turned, men jumping and falling to the floor, their bodies akimbo. And even as their spiritual fervor distanced them from anything I had known in my own sinful life, I recognized their faith to be a most powerful force.

So distracted was I by this performance, I almost forgot to seek out Polly Kimball in the fray. Though thinner and paler since last I glimpsed her, she was easy to spot. She had been in a panicked state the first time I laid eyes on her—certain that I sought to expose her, whatever her role may or may not have been in the Ashland fire. I did not really
see
her that day; I was too upset by my failed attempt to reassure her. Now, with her eyes halfway closed, she swayed in a world of her own making. The effect was mesmerizing, and when finally she looked up at me, I felt caught in her spell.

It was then that I noticed that the performers had quieted, their attention directed towards the otherworldly voice of a girl chanting something I could not understand. Movement around her slowed, and I had the sense that her utterances held great weight. The Shakers clenched their fists and looked angrily from one to another as her speech intensified and her voice grew louder. Then the dancers parted so that a path became visible, one that appeared to lead straight from the speaker to Polly Kimball. In tones accusatory and cruel, the girl seemed bent on inciting rage in the other worshippers, and it wasn’t long before they were all glaring at Polly and crying out for what they termed the “warring songs.”

I knew that May and I needed to leave before the situation became more frenzied. Busily pushing my way through the crowd, I never witnessed Polly’s escape. I remember only that once I had made it out the visitors’ door and set off at a run towards my carriage, I saw her stumbling across the icy yard, a bloodstain spreading over the folds of her skirt. It was then that I noticed a second figure—a man dressed in a dark streaming cloak.

Trask, bless him. I had my own difficulties to contend with, for May had glimpsed young Ben in the crowd of outraged worshippers, and though she gasped and hurled herself towards him, I would not let go of her hand. I was not about to lose her a second time, no matter how ferociously the Shakers jostled us. From afar, the sight of Trask catching Polly up in his arms as she fell filled me with relief and gratitude. He was spry and strong, carrying her as though she were no heavier than a feather bed as he closed the distance between us.

“Pryor!” he shouted. “Make room for her in the back and ready the horses. We must leave before they can stop us!”

Leaping onto the driver’s bench, I whipped the horses into motion while Trask hoisted Polly onto the seat beside her mother. The girl was finally safe. From his seat next to me, Trask turned towards the women behind us and reached out a hand to stroke May’s shoulder.

“Hello, May,” he said. “I’m glad to see you again.”

Save for the thundering of hooves, a deep silence fell over the inside of the carriage. “Barnabas?” May asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. She looked at him as though she could hardly believe he was there. “So Mister Pryor found you after all.”

Trask nodded, his eyes filling with such sorrow that, upon gazing into them, May burst into tears and buried her face in the folds of his cloak. “There now,” he said as he wrapped his arms about her. “I’ll take care of you from here on. Hush your crying, poor sweet May.”

Rarely do forks in the road present themselves as literally as did the one that faced me at that very moment, for when I wrenched my attention from the reunion taking place in the lurching seat behind me, I saw two signs on the road before me. One pointed towards the town from which I’d fled, the other towards the one where I’d hid myself ever since. I pulled on the right rein and urged the horses forward. There was only one way for me to go.

In the weeks that followed, May Kimball and I did not leave Polly’s side as she lay feverish, in and out of consciousness, in the very bed I had occupied as a boy. I had chosen wisely the road away from The City of Hope that strange afternoon. My mother and father, gray-haired and diminished by the passing of the years, seemed almost to have been expecting us, and after seeing to it that Polly was taken in and made warm, my father ran to call the town doctor away from his Sunday supper. The man did not attempt to mask his grim view of her condition.

“I’ve seen too many girls,” he sighed, “shamed into inflicting torture on themselves. She was fortunate not to have died within hours of starting to bleed.” He closed up his bag and turned to take his leave, a quartet of pale, worried faces blocking his path. “I’ll do all that I can,” he said, looking into May’s eyes. “But you would do well to prepare for the worst. It’s only right you should know the truth.”

We watched him go in silence. Then, with Polly having been administered to as best we could manage, Trask and I left to find quarters in a nearby inn. May was in good hands with my parents. As for me, I hugged them each good-bye with the promise that I’d be back in the morning, and we parted as though we’d never been torn asunder. There is nothing more to say on the matter.

Burns’ Hollow is where I have stayed and made caring for others my purpose—for now. Despite the doctor’s bleak prediction, Polly Kimball refuses to die. All I can say is that she must have an angel on her side; no other girl could pull through such an ordeal. And though May grows stronger with every sign that her daughter is healing, she does not forget Ben. For he is part of another broken circle, one she gives her all to making complete again.

Over the course of daily visits to the Shaker enclave, she tries to coax him back. Indeed, Elder Sister Agnes surprises me by attempting to persuade the boy herself. Trask drives May out to see him, and every time, she comes back crying; Ben will not leave his new home. Perhaps one day the child will change his mind, that is what I tell her. I know that if anyone has learned not to be surprised by what the future holds, it is May Kimball.

For my part, I can only describe these months as nothing short of miraculous. As the days lengthen and the land begins to trust in the constancy of the sun, life opens in more ways than I could ever detail in these simple pages. It is not just that grass grows tender in the fields, that violets and strawberry flowers carpet the village green, that the scent of lilac and roses fill the air. Those are but a few of the common wonders I allow myself to behold after refusing, for so long, to acknowledge their fleeting beauty. Where once they seemed a sign that nothing lasts, now they fairly glow with a different meaning—that the opportunity to begin anew presents itself over and over, in infinite ways. Complacency, I now realize, only
seems
to be the easier path. In truth, it is much more of a struggle than is the act of moving on.

As I keep watch at Polly’s bedside, I listen to her nightmares and hear of the torment she has suffered. That she had become Silas Kimball’s prey as had her mother before her. That she had seen him tumble from the burning house. That she was haunted still by the fear he had survived and was coming to find her. She does not speak often of her time with the Shakers. But in calmer moments, there is one word she utters over and over.
Charity, charity, charity
—a prayer, perhaps, in praise of the kindness they showed her.

As she grows stronger and we begin to converse, the enchantment she casts over me is all-consuming. It is not merely that her mind is quick and curious. Nor, I must add, that she has bloomed into a girl of dazzling grace and loveliness. It is more profound than that, for the honesty she displays disarms me of all cynicism, heals all bitterness, forges faith where before there was nothing but a void. She is possessed of great strength—how else could she have survived the trials of her young life? But there is an ethereal quality about her, a well of empathy and beneficence. One feels forgiven in her presence, seen, understood.

I imagine that God acts upon his faithful in a similar manner, though I would hardly know. Indeed, I must sound foolish to even suggest that she is, in some manner, divine. The simplest explanation is to say that she acts as a balm on my confused soul, and so soothed, I have allowed her to know me. That my years on this earth have been marked as much by deceit as by decency; that she has been both ground down and idolized; that both of us have learned to vanish from life even as we look it squarely in the eye—these are the paradoxes we share.

And, oh, the glorious bewitching! Time speeds up and stands still; the ground gives way and is made firm; my heart breaks open and is, once more, made whole.

I cannot know whether she will ever entrust herself to me. To expect such a thing would be indecent, for why should she put her faith in any man after all that has happened to her? I can only tell you that I am besotted, a sod like any other, at the mercy of cliché and the threadbare language of exaltation. How can this peculiar devotion have been conceived if not in a fever dream? For it is born not of furtive glances, nor clever remarks, nor the shiver of an unexpected kiss. I have played my part in all manner of delightful flirtation and never felt more than a halfhearted flutter. But this, this love lifted from the ashes, abused, abandoned, afraid, misread, discarded, half-dead—like those who enter into it, it is broken. Yet beautiful, so very beautiful.

This book would not exist without the help of my agent and friend, Dorian Karchmar, whose ability to guide, inspire, counsel, and console is apparently limitless. Cheers to you, Suzanne Gluck, for putting us together.

Reagan Arthur made clear her vision for
The Visionist
from the moment we first spoke; ever since, her enthusiasm and creativity have been miraculous, and I cannot thank her or Michael Pietsch enough for changing my world.

With her keen eye, sharp ear, and unerring sense of how stories should unfold, Laura Tisdel is a writer’s best defense against herself.

Jessica Leeke, adept at bucking me up while toning me down, took a chance on this book, for which I will always be grateful.

Tom Dyja told me the Shakers were worth writing about. He was right.

Alex Sichel, my earliest best friend, inspired everything I know about love between true companions.

Alice Truax midwifed
The Visionist
into being; Greg Villepique, Shannon Langone, and Jayne Yaffe Kemp taught it some manners; and Keith Hayes gave it serious style. Leon Friedman and Simone Blaser took care of me.

Given that a period novel is nothing without accurate period details, deep respect and gratitude are due to Glendyne Wergland, author and Shaker historian; Lesley Herzberg, curator of collections, Hancock Shaker Village; Christian Goodwillie, former curator of collections, Hancock Shaker Village; John Demos, Samuel Knight professor of history emeritus, Yale University; Ted Widmer, former director of the John Carter Brown Library, Brown University; and Jayne Ptolemy, social historian and researcher extraordinaire.

Maura Finn: How strange that you, of all people, taught me everything I know about “The Narrow Path.”

Reading is one thing; seeing, another. The following Shaker sites, as well as the knowledgeable people who work at them, provided crucial visual and factual information: Hancock Shaker Village, Pittsfield, Massachusetts; Canterbury Shaker Village, Canterbury, New Hampshire; The Watervliet Shaker Historic District, Colonie, New York; and the Enfield Shaker Museum, Enfield, New Hampshire.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart to Maggie Howard, scrupulous editor and champion; Wesley Gibson, peerless teacher; George Kalogerakis, Tony Goldwyn, Val Coleman, Katharine Ohno, Amy MacDonald, and Margot Herrera—adroit readers; Lisa Craig, booster of spirits; and Elissa Schappell, lifesaver. No one, E.—not even you—could dream up a more stalwart comrade-in-arms.

My parents, Sidney and Brian Urquhart, have been inexhaustible sources of support, encouragement, advice, astute critical commentary, and, above all, love. It’s obvious, I know, but I couldn’t have done this without you.

Theo and Simon, you are my blessed tethers to what’s really important.

John, how to even say it? You set me loose in the world and I came home with this book. I owe you everything but can offer only my profound—if at times prickly and inscrutable—love. All of it.