Fitcher's Brides (14 page)

A third lane contained a tanner's, which stank acridly, followed by a glassblower, where the girls paused to watch the two craftsmen at work: One was blowing a long cylinder. While it was still warm, the other man slit the length of the tube and opened it out into a sheet. It looked like magic. Fitcher waited patiently behind them until the glass had been laid flat, then said quietly, “Let us see the rest now, good ladies.”

They walked on, passing a furniture shop, one for broom-making, and finally a workshop for musical instruments. Through the door to that one, they could see the bellies and backs of violins dangling, slowly turning in the sunlight like hanged men. Even within the shops, the workers paused and stood as Fitcher and his group passed by, and repeated the universal welcome.

One shop, designated as the chandler's by its small hand-carved sign, was closed. Vern stared at it as they walked past. Fitcher said, “We lost our candle-makers—isn't that terrible? A husband and wife. They were very good, too. A most unfortunate accident took them and I'm afraid I've not yet assigned anyone to replace them. We must, too, and soon, as we've exhausted our supply and now deprived Jekyll's Glen of every candle it had.”

Farther on they passed a laundry with sheets and clothing hanging on dozens of lines. At the end of the village stood a huge barn. The smell of hay and manure rode the breeze.

Fitcher skirted the barn, taking yet another lane. “Up here are what the community calls the ‘sisters' shops,” he said, and they shortly found themselves passing the broom-making shop again but from a different side, though how they'd come there they couldn't say. As open as the village was, it seemed queerly labyrinthine, a maze constructed of buildings, folding in upon itself.

After the shops came plots of ground for vegetables. A brown and white dog sat, sunning itself. Fitcher said, “Behind the barn there's a church. Even now we can't all fit in the chapel, and so many worship in the course of their working day, that I delegate to other preachers in our midst to sermonize here. It saves time, which is most precious, more than the community yet realizes. It also serves as our school, for the children. Off that way”—he raised his stick and pointed it toward the open woods beyond the tilled fields—“on the creek lie the grist and flour mills and the granary. We are, as I said, self-sufficient.”

“Where are all the good folk housed then?” asked Mr. Charter.

“The upper floors of the wings above the dining hall, kitchen, bakehouse, and above the chapel itself, those are dormitories. There are more rooms in the main house on the second and third floors, and others used mostly for…special members of the group.”

The way he emphasized “special” made Kate glance his way. He was already looking at her, as if he had known his remark would catch her attention of all of them. He smiled before turning to lead them back to the house.

“This is Harbinger, my friends. Our grand Utopian experiment here on Earth as it is in Heaven, and hence our name. This is where we shall experience the Next Life. Now, you will stay awhile? For a meal, and the afternoon sermon?”

“Of course,” Mr. Charter answered.

“Excellent. I'm sure the walk has given you an appetite as it has me. We'll eat with the next group, and then attend to matters of employment.”

He turned and stepped between Amy and Vern, throwing an arm around each of them. Beside Vern he held his walking stick by the shaft. She could see the silver knob on it clearly for the first time. It was in the shape of a woman's head with scooped-out eyes and an open mouth that seemed to be shaping a cry; the strands of hair were oddly thick and dotted as if with tiny eyes. They lay so that the fingers of his hand could fit between them. Fitcher told her, “It's the head of Medusa. But don't worry, I'll protect you from her glare.” His voice was light and carefree, his encompassing arms warm and avuncular, as if he were the greatest friend she could imagine.

“Ah, but I didn't show you our flower garden, now, did I?” And as he spoke, he steered both the elder sisters around the back of the shops. The other three followed after, Lavinia and Mr. Charter arm in arm, and Kate on her own, an afterthought to the entourage.

The garden comprised row upon row of flowerbeds. There were plants with buds but no flowers to be seen. A thin trellis ran up one side, supporting the bare stems of roses. Then Fitcher pointed with his stick again, and they saw, right in the middle of the trellis and utterly out of season, a single red blossom. The reverend stepped between the girls and plucked it. He held it before him as if observing a miracle, then with a flourish presented it to Vern.

“‘My love is like a red, red rose,'” he quoted as she took it. Beside her, Amy gasped. The Reverend Fitcher remarked, “A perfect flower. That is a rare thing indeed. I don't know that I have ever met one.” Blushing, Vern held out her hand to take the rose. A drop of blood fell into her palm. Fitcher released the flower into her hand and spread wide his fingers. Blood shone on the tip of his index finger. “Mmm, a thorn,” he remarked, then put the finger to his lips to suck the blood away. He'd stepped back between them, and to suck on his finger he snaked his arm around Amy's throat, which drew her against him.

He let his hand fall across her shoulder again for a second. His touch was as soothing as his voice. Amy stared at his long, thin fingers. The hand abruptly snaked away behind her. “And now,” Fitcher said, “please allow me to lead you all to dine. This way.” He fell back and took Mr. Charter by the arm as he might have guided an old compatriot, adding, “I have another matter to discuss with you, sir, away from here.”

Lavinia released her husband as Fitcher drew him ahead, and her walking slowed as though she had been dismissed. A moment later Kate caught up and took her arm. The gesture of kindness seemed to dismay her stepmother even more. Kate was no less surprised herself. She'd acted upon instinct, without thinking, and had chosen compassion. She couldn't think why. Nevertheless, linked, the two of them walked together through the orchard and back toward the massive edifice of Harbinger above them on its rise.

 

The meal was a wholesome if meatless stew, and bread. The stew had cooked so long that the carrots in it had turned to mush. Everyone drank water. As Fitcher had said, nobody spoke. The fifty or so Fitcherites in the hall ate eagerly, but encapsulated as if no one else shared the space with them.

Even Fitcher, who had seemed so animated a few minutes before entering, ate silently once he had blessed the meal.

Those who finished their food first waited contemplatively for the rest to catch up. Only when everyone had set down their utensils and taken a last drink of water, did the group rise as one. Those next to the family reached over and gathered their bowls and cups to carry away with their own.

Fitcher explained, “This is the last group for dinner. Normally, you would all be expected to contribute to the washing up and cleaning, or preparing the supper—different tasks on different days. As you're guests, that isn't your concern. And now I must speak with Mr. Charter privately. You may bide your time in the chapel if you like. We'll have a small service there in a while.”

They went across the main foyer, which was still empty. On the far side, the reverend threw open a set of double doors. “Our Hall of Worship,” he said.

Where the refectory stood on the opposite side, a brief corridor led to an open archway, which opened onto the Hall of Worship proper. Tall windows like those at the front of the house lined the left side of the hall, and a red runner denned a central aisle between rows of high-backed pews.

The hall dwarfed every other room they'd seen. Even the elaborate foyer did not seem as impressive. The Hall of Worship was as broad across as the dining hall had been, but where the other side of Harbinger House had been broken up into smaller areas—into dining room, kitchen, and bakery, this hall ran the entire length of the left wing. The runner ended, in the distance, before a pulpit. To the left of that, on a dais, stood a small pipe organ.

The pews were dark, stained almost black. Candles on metal tripods lined the outside aisles. It was easy to see how the congregation had needed all the candles Jekyll's Glen had to offer: Just to light the hall at night would have taken thirty or more.

The inside wall, the one across from the tall curtained windows, glowed with the dozen small stained-glass windows they had first viewed from outside. Dark beams sectioned the ceiling. In awe of the space, the sisters almost crept along down the center.

At the far end of the runner, two steps led up to a raised altar beneath the pulpit. The arrangement was a strange affair. The pulpit, rising above the altar, also projected toward the pews like a ship's figurehead. It looked as if it should have fallen forward. It was rosewood, with darker strips of wood on the corners, between which were panels inlaid with bone. The bone described swirls and scrolls and tiny figures. The center panel might have represented Adam and Eve on each side of either a tree or an immense snake; or maybe it was the snake wrapped around the tree. Small bone crosses adorned the upper lip of the pulpit. The stone altar below sat on four pedestal feet, also decorated with filigree bone. The altar table was slightly convex and rough-hewn. Dried cornstalks, squashes, gourds, and multicolored ears of corn had been arranged over it. Resting in the center of these like a part of the harvest was the strangest element of all.

It was a skull of milky glass or quartz. Light played on its features, defining it in bright splashes and stripes. Above the brow a crown of thorns had been carved, two intertwined strands circling the skull. The thorns stood out sharply. The head was human-sized. It was as though the skull of Jesus had crystallized in the tomb. The light playing around the orbits made the skull seem to have huge eyes with dark dilated pupils.

Reverend Fitcher ushered them to a front pew—all save Mr. Charter. “Others will be here soon,” he told the women, “and we shan't be long, ourselves.”

He led Mr. Charter around the pulpit and out a door beyond the pipe organ. The sound of it closing echoed around the hall. The three girls sat beside Lavinia in envelopes of silent contemplation. They weren't alone more than ten minutes before members of Harbinger began filing in. As with dinner, there was no discussion, no talking. Footsteps clumped along the aisle, some coming right up beside them. People sat directly across from them—three men and two women, all solemn, simply dressed, and perspiring, as though they'd come there straight from the distant fields. The odor of sweat, of human bodies, enshrouded them.

Sound muffled as the room filled with people. There was something discomforting about having an entire speechless room gazing upon them. They could feel hundreds of eyes. The oft-repeated “Welcome” did not color the sensation this time. Someone crossed behind the pulpit and seated himself at the organ, then began to play an unfamiliar hymn.

When finally Fitcher and their father returned, the sensation of being on view abated. But then Mr. Charter was staring with an indescribable look at Vern in particular, as though he were watching her transform before his eyes into something not altogether wholesome. She and Kate exchanged glances—both had seen his expression but neither could account for it.

He took his place beside Lavinia.

The Reverend Fitcher ascended the steps in back of the pulpit. He immediately gripped the sides hard, as though he expected to be tossed off it. After a moment, he raised his hands, palms outward, revealing the shapes of crosses pressed into his skin. The crowd shifted in their seats and a few voices moaned, as if he'd performed a miracle in imprinting his flesh.

He lowered his hands and began to recite: “‘Love not the world, neither the things
that are
in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that
is
in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever.'

“John's words, from his epistles, but he might well have been speaking directly to us of our own endeavor here. He might have been directing us in our preparations for the Advent and days to come. I say to you now: That time
has
been decided. The date of our departure from the world and it from us has been fixed. There can be no doubt of it, for the angel of the Lord has imparted His decision to me. I've
been
with that angel. We can see the end of things now, and we know that we have just eight months left to make ourselves fit to answer God's call.”

He paused. The hall was as still as death. The power his voice evinced when soft became the crack of lightning at volume. They all felt its charge. It rang out to the back of the hall and, returning, it drew people forward in their pews, physically propelled them toward him. In the front row, they could not look away, and Kate thought,
This is what Papa has felt and tried to imitate. This is his power
.

“The pride of life is what plagues our world. The living feel by the very fact that they live, they are somehow privileged, and full of pride at the special position they occupy. They do not
hear
God's words. They haven't
listened
to John's warnings, or Matthew, or Moses. The rutting, slavering hordes manifest their lust everywhere, on every street, in every dark closet of their malformed souls. They experiment in His name—those ultraists who think the sex act to be communal, those lustful experimenters in Oneida, in Brimfield, who argue that to give in to sin is to wash it away. They sin and think that God will not see the sin or will forgive them in their ignorance for having committed it. Because they deceive themselves, they believe they surely will be able to deceive God.