The Visionist: A Novel (9 page)

Polly put her hand to her head. How strange these Shakers were! Did they not have more to concern them than the attraction between a boy and a girl? She had never before given a single thought to her hair or the nape of her neck. Where she came from, no would-be suitor ever so much as glanced her way.

Sister Charity had turned her focus to airing out the sheets on her narrow bed before making neat its cover. Polly thought it best to do likewise, so she let billow her own coverings before pulling them tight and tucking them smoothly under her mattress. Nothing looked askance in the room where she had spent her first night. Brooms, hanging from pegs on the wall, bore mute witness to the girls’ efforts. The white basin on the washstand gleamed. The warp and weft of the woven cotton rug lined up precisely with the floorboards. All was as it should be as Polly joined her new sister in silence and crossed the hall to air out and sweep clean the brethren’s quarters, waiting for the second bell to summon them into the company of believers.

Sister Charity

A MIRACLE HAS
taken place and the telling fills me with such joy that I can barely speak! But I shall catch my breath and attempt to calm myself, for if I do not, my words will tumble forth, meaningless.

Where to begin? She had been so unremarkable since awakening on the morn of our holiest day. Polly, the new believer, of course. Clothed in the borrowed dress of a backslider—one who has forsaken us to rejoin the World—she said nothing as we readied ourselves to take part in the Sabbath Day Meeting. From our neckerchiefs to the soft shoes we wear to dance, we sought to make ourselves a perfect reflection of Mother Ann’s way. Throughout, she watched then copied my every move, though she hardly seemed present. Indeed, as we walked side by side into the sisters’ entryway, I had the feeling that she might float away, like fluff from a dandelion. In the vestibule, there was the usual swish of cloaks being hung and bonnets made loose, for the start of every Meeting is hectic however obediently we try to keep order. The new believer’s presence caused me to ponder the strange, small ways in which we begin to abandon ourselves before worship. Perhaps we are preparing, in some unknowing fashion, for the wondrous disorientation visited upon us by divine spirits. Perhaps it is nothing more than the shedding of encumbrances on a cold day. All the same, peace won out eventually as we took our places in the large meetinghouse hall, where the sisters and brethren settled themselves in several lines on opposite sides of the room.

I motioned that my charge should bow her head as Elder Brother Caleb read his sermon. How strange to think back upon it now. That
I
told
her
how to worship! But what did I know of her then? Only that she might need instruction, like so many new girls, and that I was the one to give it. We bent our heads before our elder, who did not presume to offer his own thoughts as do so many ministers in the churches of the World, but trusted instead that the Bible was the last and only Word, and was thus without need of prideful elaboration.

Still, I will whisper here that I sometimes find myself wishing for the last and only Word to make good on the promise of its description, and pass quickly so that we might begin our dances. For the past week, we had gathered every evening after dinner in the North Family dwelling house to learn the steps of a new labor, one that had been seen by a Visionist at Canterbury and brought to us by a visiting minister. Its movements were simple and beautiful in the humility they showed before Mother. We bowed, we turned, we reached our hands aloft to receive her blessing, then swung them low to spread her Word. We danced and were made glad.

Brother Caleb ended his sermon and we began, bending down and lowering ourselves again and again—first the sisters, then the brethren, faster and faster until the room appeared to rise and fall like waves upon the sea. Our breath came quicker, too, our faces filled with the pure joy one feels when caught up in the fullness of worship. We smiled—why, some were even taken with what we call the Laughing Gift, their merriment catching everyone up in its sway. Before long, the hall rang with such mirth that it was impossible to imagine that any spirit—divine or otherwise—could be oblivious to our elation.

Then we set to circling, sisters holding hands and turning in the center, brethren to the outside. We circled to the right—never left, the way of the Devil—faster and faster. After many revolutions, we became so dizzy that when we let go of one another’s hands, we each stumbled in place, falling this way and that like lost souls. In this manner, we celebrated the strength we show in union, all joined together, all moving in the same direction. And we showed the waywardness and confusion of a believer left unto himself.

But even the most inspiring dance must come to an end at some point, and as our heads cleared and the dizziness left us, we formed lines again and began slowly marching in place. It was then that I heard our labors to be accompanied by a strange noise, a moan so mournful and otherworldly that I felt sure a sudden wind had come up round the corners of the meetinghouse. As I ceased in the dance, I looked upon my fellow believers and found that they, too, had stopped to listen. I could not see Polly, for our places had shuffled, and I wondered what she must have made of such an odd occurrence. Even I, who cannot remember a time when I did not dance and sing, found it frightening.

“It’s a haunting cry that greets us, is it not?” whispered Sister Lavinia, standing so close that I could smell the clove she had tucked into her cheek. “I’ve not heard anything the likes of it before. What a tortured soul it is that visits with us today.”

I nodded and leaned in closer. “The spirits have spoken quite freely of late, though none sounded so fast upon us.”

Sister Lavinia looked nervously about her. Then, as her eyes settled on Elder Brother Caleb, she placed her hand on my arm to signal his intent to speak.

“Lo, is that Satan we hear?” he asked. “Or can one of the eternal spirits be calling to us?” His deep voice rang out against the howl. “Mother, show thy vessel that we may better understand.”

We searched the room for an answer, but the sound only grew higher in pitch as the expressions on the faces of those around me began to change from curiosity to fear. Surely no man or woman could give voice to such a pure translation of misery. We were in the presence of a warning spirit, one who had something of the gravest importance to tell us.

Then, I saw her.

Who could have imagined such a transformation? The new believer, standing apart from the rest, swaying with eyes closed and fists clenched, dancing—a slow, mournful shuffle—alone in a sun-soaked spot. Under the blue, blue beams of the ceiling, her hair ablaze, the whiteness of her skin giving off a light all its own… I can only say that the sight stunned every believer in the room into stillness. But her song—its sounds spoke of suffering without ever sinking into words. In her wails and cries resided all the Earth’s pain and sadness, yet she appeared so radiant, like an angel warrior delivered into The City of Hope to help us fight against the doom she embodied. The utterances and look of her were singular indeed, and we stood in awe of the gift before us.

She began to speak. “I am in light,” she chanted. “The only light. Still, he paces round my angels—look! They flit in and out! He moves faster, he moves faster, and his feet pound the floor around me, so loud, in rhythm with the raging thunder, in rhythm with the rain that I might not hear him steal up behind me, to the side of me, in front of my face—so close, so close!”

She froze and opened her eyes, whirling about to stare at the circle of believers who had gathered round. She was as stunned by her outburst as were we, but though few among us had ever seen a Visionist, we knew enough to recognize that one stood before us now. To be sure, I never expected the vessel chosen by Mother Ann to lead us into grace would manifest torment over hope. The miracle had finally come and such is the power of Holy Mother Wisdom: ever surprising and never diminished, even when passed down through the frailest of believers.

The Visionist’s expression suddenly turned fearful, as though she were scouring out the Devil among us. For who else could “He” have been? Her shoulders drooped, her fists loosened, and she began to tremble. Yet the presence of her terror after so forceful a display did nothing to dampen the wonder that lit the features of my sisters and brethren. All had seen the new believer for what she truly was. All had felt her worship fill the meeting hall with the Gospel Spirit, and the knowledge set many of us to shaking. We broke from our lines and, entranced by Mother Ann’s glory, began again to sing, each raising a voice to the Heavens that was at once unpracticed and in perfect harmony.

“Listen!” one of my sisters cried out. “She has come! The Book of Revelation tells us:

It was Sister Margaret who spoke, one of the older and more sober believers. Passion had been aroused even in her quiet soul. “She warns that the Devil is near! Though it has cost her much pain, she is come to save us! We must move as blades of grass on a wide plain, sway as one, blown by the winds of faith and love. Dance with me now, my brethren, my sisters! Show Satan the strength of our souls!”

We began to move and bend, our bodies rocking gently from side to side until we danced in union, our movements increasingly expansive even as they remained filled with the grace of leaning, reaching, undulating upwards. Everywhere on the faces of my fellow believers was etched an attitude of peace and contentment, and it was only after many minutes had passed that we abandoned the great prairies to which we had traveled in worship and moved into the ways we knew by rote. Though forever transformed, we had been led back to ourselves.

I felt that hours had passed with the fleetness of a falcon’s dive. We were breathless from our quick dances, from turning fast on our feet to show Evil our backs, from raising our hands to give and receive gifts from the Gospel Spirits in Heaven, from shuffling our feet along the righteous line we walk in Mother’s name. Throughout it all, the Visionist stood apart. She did not move or sing. It was as though she were drained of all life, and when her eyes met mine, I felt that she was beseeching me to come to her. I pushed through the rapturous throng and caught her as she fell against me. She shook as she watched the commotion around us. There was no triumph, no glow of renewal in her gaze. Bleached as a river-stripped branch, she did not seem to know where she had been or where she stood now. I placed her arm about my shoulders and bore the full weight of her as we turned to walk across the floor. Guiding her, I looked to Elder Sister Agnes for her blessing, but she and the new believer seemed locked in silent communication, scrutinizing each other with expressions more difficult to read than if they had been made of mist.

I had erred to think that she was like any of the other novitiates I have known. Those who giggle and make fun of our ways, ignorant of the bareness of their souls before Mother. They do not know that She watches them from on high, Her countenance dark, Her will unstoppable. But it has been made clear that the Visionist is different. Indeed, the power of Spirit lying hidden within her ragged soul had lifted all the sisters and brethren in The City of Hope and made us strong.

I led her so quickly from the Meeting that we did not stop to put on our thick wool cloaks, leaving them instead to hang limply on the row of blue pegs inside the entryway. Even so, the cold did not pierce the skin on our faces or the soft cloth of our dresses. We were, I knew, under the protection of Mother, and the warmth of Her gaze beaming down on Sister Polly filled me with heat.
Sister Polly:
By virtue of her gift, she had earned the title even before formally confessing, and now it was
I
who had become
her
student. There was so much to ask. I wondered how it felt to be entered by the Divine. Was Mother Ann’s presence convulsive, like gulps of White Vitriol? Or, as I have imagined, did She pour through the body smooth as springwater?

“You have shown something few save Elder Sister Agnes have seen before,” I said, trying to keep my speech steady though my heart was pounding hard in my chest.

“I have done nothing,” she answered, tired. “I am nothing. I heard the sounds of your dances so loudly and felt the heat of the sun, and inside the meeting hall, the smell of so many bodies brought back memories I could not push away. I was begging for deliverance. That is all.”

Her step was light over the frozen ground. Walking fast as though to distance herself from the clamor of our worship, she looked neither right nor left through the tears that ran down her cheeks.

“You are mistaken,” I said, unsure whether to touch her with my bedeviled hand. But she pulled me close, and I was forced to entwine my arm round hers in order to bear her weight. “You have filled the vessel of your body with the Word of Mother. She chose you, do you not see?”

Suddenly, I realized the truth about my markings. They made of me a leper because I had dared to think I was different. And here before me was my trial: to lose myself in teaching Sister Polly the full extent of her gift, to celebrate one who deserved to think she was different and thus sublimate my own foolish pride.

“I have done nothing,” she said again, fixing me with her pale blue eyes, red from crying. “Not even here, where everyone is good, can I be saved. Someday, you will realize that I speak the truth. Someday, perhaps, you will even task me for it.”

I refused to believe her. Color had begun to shade her cheeks, and when, in sadness, she softened her gaze, I felt as if I were leading an angel.

She put her free hand on mine and tried to smile. “Thank you for holding me up,” she said. “I keep thinking I have known you before. Not in nightmares like those that came upon me just now. But in the dreams that saved me again and again, before I knew you even walked this earth…”