The Visionist: A Novel (17 page)

Her anguish will disappear, but only when she trusts that I am here to protect her. I have seen the stern glances Elder Sister Agnes flashes at me when she fears my love for Sister Polly is overshadowing the devotion and meaning in which I steep such simple acts as sweeping the floor of the dwelling house, pressing apples, pulling the fur from a raccoon pelt that it might be spun into thread and used for the knitting of mittens. Those are the moments when Mother makes Herself most visible, the better to inspire us to do our work as She would wish it. My eldress has taken a lifetime to teach me this.

But I have found that Mother resides in a rarer place still, at the center of another sister’s heart. When I find Her there, She shows me that my worries are one with Sister Polly’s. She teaches me that our laughter rings out more fully for being forged by the both of us, that she and I fashion a single young sister in all that we say and do. And Mother tells me that this is a wondrous thing.

I know that such attachments are to be discouraged, for they can only lead to the destruction of union. Why, even knitting a scarf for another or saving her a sweet bun from the kitchen is considered by the strictest believers to be an affront to the whole. Even the diversion of a child’s affection for a pup or kitten is known by all to be against the teachings written in the
Book of Secrets.
For in that text, Mother Ann says:

Why had my mind turned to animals? I wished that it would cease wandering, for again the sisters were talking about my Sister Polly and I knew I should prick up my ears. It was a relief when I heard Sister Eunice speak, her voice rich and wise. I relaxed my guard and kept my eyes on my work.

“I have rarely seen a sister who walks so light of step and yet can manage such heavy tasks,” she said, appearing to speak to the yarn in the sweater over which she labored. “The other day, I watched Sister Polly lift the largest of the pickling jars and carry it to the farthest storeroom. She knew I was nearby, but she did not call out for help in her chore. I felt that Mother showed me that even one possessed of the ghostliest presence can toil with the strength of an ox in her labors.”

“Indeed,” answered Sister Regina, “she is a pleasant girl, both to look upon as well as in her manner. Just Tuesday last, she bent to help me gather something I had spilled—what were they now? I remember fewer and fewer of life’s details… At any rate, her face was aglow when she turned it towards mine, smiling so kindly as to make me feel as though I was blessed to have been brought so close to her goodness. It made light my heart the remainder of the day.”

This quieted the room for a bit. Then one of my younger sisters—Sister Vestia—commented that she wondered that the possessor of so light a spirit and frame could keep herself upon the earth at all, that perhaps Sister Polly had filled her shoes with stones to act as ballast.

Sister Honora, a wicked compatriot, giggled and added, “If we are lucky, we might catch our dear Visionist rising ethereally into the Heavens from the Sabbath Meeting, for there is little room for stones in the soft shoes we wear for dancing.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight for sore eyes!” Sister Vestia exclaimed. The other sisters lowered their chins to their chests, the better to peer at one another from beneath arched eyebrows.

How well I knew such changes in the conversational weather, for this particular group ridiculed with great agility, never saying anything for which they could be chastised by their eldress yet successfully turning the tenor of an evening in such a way that no one felt in safe company. This was the case now, and as I looked up, briefly, I caught the nervous glances exchanged between the elder sisters, afraid for whoever might feel the sting next.

“How little some of you have changed since I last passed an evening here,” I said calmly. “Stimulating talk is a temptation for us all, is it not?”

I wrapped up my knitting in a clean cloth and placed it in my basket. I displayed not a jot of irritation in my movements. Smiling and raising myself slowly out of my chair, I regarded my eldress. She stared back. We are, I think, in a game of hide-and-seek, where neither wants to show the other her thoughts.

“Good night, Elder Sister Agnes,” I said. And in truth, I wished her nothing but goodness. She did not encourage the young sisters’ pettiness. Rather, I think she was made uncomfortable by it, for it revealed the sort of character she abhorred and I could feel her disappointment that the evening had not taken a different turn. She does not accept that I have never really fit in. My faith, my markings, my friendship with Sister Polly—they hold me apart, even from her.

I finished saying my good-byes. “Alas, I must leave the rest of you to complete your work in peace. My nights have been quiet of late and I am unaccustomed to the spiritedness you display. Good night, dearest Sisters Lavinia and Prudence. And, Sister Eunice, you have warmed my heart. To all, I trust sleep will come easy.”

In the entry hall, I unhooked my cape from where it hung alongside those of the other sisters. The pegs were numbered by chamber, but as I was a visitor on this night, mine was blank. I breathed deeply. The room had become hot and still—full of the odors of sweat and smoke from the stove—and I found myself pausing in the cool dark of the vestibule before heading outside. In the retiring room, having taken up where they left off, the sisters were laughing again.

“Had you not heard?” This from a new and very pretty young sister named Abigail. “Our buoyant sister was spotted just yesterday, floating outside the windows of the Brethren’s Workshop. She was, no doubt, seeking only to inspire those within.”

“Or perhaps to give them a vision more earthly in kind!” said Sister Ruth, her laugh as acid as a tanner’s bath. The young sisters joined in her mirth and then suddenly went quiet. My eldress had doubtless thrown a withering glance around the circle. It was a look I knew well; it left little need for words.

Pulling on my cape, I pushed open the heavy main door and stepped outside. It had been injuring to listen to my sisters mock the one I have come to believe in with such fullness. Had I done enough to defend her? Had I not, myself, allowed my mind to drift into judgment when I thought of Sister Polly and the Sultan?

I shook my shoulders loose and stood on the snowy path. Beneath such a full moon I felt the world to be generous again. I could believe once more in happenings too strange for others to comprehend. I could hear in the rattling of tree branches a language so intricate that few could glean meaning from the mysterious creaks and cracking. I moved along, glad to be walking the dark road towards the North Family houses. For there, I knew, resided one who heard and understood everything, one at whose feet I could lay all of my doubts and find not scorn but love.

Simon Pryor

I THINK THAT
I have made it quite plain: I do not believe in Providence. However, I must admit to moments when it seems an invisible hand extends itself and pulls sinners like me up out of the mire. On the particular morning of my salvation, I trundled downstairs after a bath and a shave—even in the dullest of times, one must keep up appearances—to find the corner of a letter peeking out from under my door. I pulled it to me and squinted hard at the print, for though it spread tidily across the envelope—each letter as perfectly formed as the next—it appeared very small indeed.

To Neighbor Simon Pryor,
it read. Strange, I thought, because never have I known a single one of my neighbors to categorize our relationship so officially.

Making my way to the study, I looked forward to an interesting morning read. I settled into the sagging seat of my chair—as clear a reprimand for my sedentary ways as a piece of furniture can manage—and slit open the missive.

The tone of her letter was upright enough, and I welcomed the opportunity to learn more about the Kimball clan—to say nothing of calling upon so mysterious a people as the Shakers. They do not often crop up in regular conversation, their ways having been deemed too strange to merit mention. Oh, and the purse promised? What do you think? I wrote that though I was indeed a busy man at present, I would find a way to meet the Elder Sister at her convenience. Then, as instructed, I slipped the envelope under my door. By the time I had finished my breakfast, it was gone.

I sighed. Not even the prompt, early morning response to a professional inquiry could save me from the bureaucratic task that lay ahead. I had tried my damnedest to avoid it, but now with a new client to please, it seemed all the more important to keep abreast of the facts. After all, who knew what the Shaker woman would have to say? If there was something I’d missed the first time I rifled through the town files—some record of a will or a far-flung heir or a child—I wanted to find it.

Property deeds and church records of marriages, births, and deaths: Does society offer up documents of a more paradoxically dry nature? They testify to our ownership of the very earth upon which we live, our most costly oath, our grand entry, and our final bow. Still, it often seems to me that they are written solely to be sorted in the wrong spot by a bespectacled clerk, pale as a grub and sporting suspenders.

In the bowels of the Ashland courthouse, dust and faded ink made an enemy of me for hours as I searched once again for something that might indicate the owner of the Kimball farm. A birth certificate testifying to the existence of May’s son would have been equally welcome. A thorough perusal of the ancient rolls in a nearby church had led me to discover official proof of the death of Benjamin Briggs, his wife and newborn son, and the births of May and her daughter, Polly. But there was no reference whatsoever to Silas, nor to his son—the boy Peeles had inquired after. May’s name had been entered in the flowing script of Reverend Israel Harkness, next to the elegant signatures of her mother and father, Mister and Mrs. Benjamin Briggs. I could not help noticing that Polly’s entry bore only Peeles’s careful print, May’s shaky scrawl, and Silas’s
X
followed by his name, which a more confident scribe had written out in full. Their marriage had been recorded in much the same manner, but those were the only official mentions I could find relating to members of the Briggs and Kimball clans. The illiterate farmer’s death had yet to be noted, probably because May was not present to see it done.

With regard to ownership of the property, I could find nothing except an old deed on file in the courthouse indicating Benjamin Briggs to be the original proprietor of the Ashland farm. It almost didn’t matter that there seemed to be no indication as to whether Briggs had had a will. Given what I knew of the efficacy of James Hurlbut’s machinations, it was likely that the farm would end up within his greedy grasp whether or not there existed a legitimate heir. As for Elder Sister Agnes, I could not imagine what foothold the Shaker woman’s pursuit of bounty and purity might gain in this slippery scenario. In my experience, greed trounces good most every time.

So what did I expect to find in this dismal, underground room? My report, provided I could find and speak to May and her children, had assured their innocence. Now, I sought a means by which I might thwart Hurlbut’s plans, but seeing Benjamin Briggs’s property placed firmly back in the hands of his kin would be tricky. I needed more information and I needed to find May Kimball. I packed up and hoped that my new “neighbor” could assist me.

“Pryor?” I heard a voice close by my right shoulder. “Simon Pryor?”

Turning to face my inquisitor, I nearly bumped into a gentleman possessed of a windswept wave of brown hair, a full face, and expressive dark eyes that advertised an earnest, intelligent mind. He was dressed like a man who brings in little more than his keep through hard work and a sharp wit, which is to say that the notches on the lapels of his well-made waistcoat had lost their crispness and the garment displayed diminished resolve to hold its shape. His style was rumpled, to be sure, but a far cry from the patched garb of the common swindler. I granted him a respectful nod.

“Simon Pryor I am,” I said, closing the registry. “Who’s asking?”

“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Barnabas Trask. I work as a solicitor in Ashland. I wondered if I might have a word with you about the Briggs—I mean, the Kimball place.”

“Why?” I asked. “And how, pray, did you find me here?”

He looked down sheepishly. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I have been watching you, waiting for a moment when we might speak in private. When I chanced to see you enter the courthouse…well, I know from experience that few people save for myself hang about in these dungeons. So I thought it a grand opportunity to…” His voice faded, as though the effort of explaining himself had induced exhaustion.

I sighed. Another scavenger.

“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “You would like to pay me a tidy sum to ensure that, when the county is ready to bang the gavel, the Kimball farm goes to you.” I turned back to the register and stared blankly at the dusty cover in front of me. It’s bad business to appear overly interested in a new assignment. A world-weary manner always pulls the money in.

“You are half-correct,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “I am also interested in the family who lived there, but to be frank, I would like to ascertain whether there are any encumbrances upon the property. When it becomes available at public auction…on account of the death of… Well, you don’t need a lesson from me as to how complicated these things can be—I just don’t want to waste my time chasing a land sale that might turn out to be tangled in a web of legalities.” He paused a moment before asking, uncertainly, “Have you found them? The family, I mean?”

I avoided his question. I wasn’t on the clock yet, and so I owed him nothing.

“I believe I get the picture,” I said. “You’re a speculator caught up in a race to buy every bit of land you can find, especially when the parcel is as blessed by nature as this one appears to be. Well, I’ll not argue—it’s a lovely piece. But all I can say is, you’re not alone.”

“I know.” He sounded glum. “I rarely am in these matters. Still, what will you answer me?”

I hesitated for effect, calculating the pros and cons of his proposal. In fact, I was thrilled by the job, for it allowed me to assist someone—however shady he might be—
other
than James Hurlbut. Equally, I would line my pockets finishing a task I had already begun on my own: to find May Kimball.

Beat, beat, beat—I made him wait for my reply. No need to sound desperate.

“Of course,” I said, ruminating, “the money would have to be good. In these parts, finding a poor family—or what may be left of one—is like looking for fleas in a shepherd dog’s coat. There are more than a few to spot, and for one reason or another, they’re not always keen to be picked out.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a fat envelope of notes. “This should be enough to get you started. And there’s more, especially if you deliver a quick and tidy outcome.”

I ran my fingers through the paper, working hard to conceal my satisfaction. “This will get me on a bit,” I said finally. “I’ll take your case. Where can I find you, should information of any import come my way?”

“I’ve a shingle out on the main street,” he said, relief washing over his face and making him appear years younger. “I’m afraid the office serves as my lodgings as well for the time being, so you’ll find me there whenever you come looking.”

“You’re new to your trade?” I said. “Not that it’s any concern of mine.”

“New to…?” He was clearly perplexed.

“I don’t mean the law,” I answered. “I mean land-grabbing. You’ll pardon my saying so, but you’re either green or not much good at it. Otherwise you’d be rich enough to be sleeping somewhere with a better view than that of the underside of your desk.”

He looked down and smiled. “Yes, now I get your meaning. As a matter of fact, I am a novice in the game of chasing parcels of land. But lawyering doesn’t garner me much in the way of income, so… At any rate, I’m hoping to be the dark horse in this race—with your help, of course.”

“Of course,” I said as I gathered up my things and prepared to leave.

I liked this man, however unlikable he might turn out to be in the end. My opinion of people changes with every new piece of information I collect, but for now, he was certainly preferable to my usual employer. What a strange and unholy trinity of clients I faced: a crook, a Shaker, and a lawyer. Was this some sort of Heavenly test? If so, then God had more of a sense of humor than I’d previously given him credit for. Not quite reason enough to convert me any time soon, but a point in his favor nonetheless.

I bade Trask farewell and climbed out of the basement towards the light. Turning as I reached the middle step, I said, “You asked about the family—what I know so far. Well, I can tell you about as much as has already been printed. Silas Kimball died in his bed. As to the mother and her daughter, I’ve not a clue as to where they’ve gone.” I deliberately left out the mysterious son; after all, some people can’t wait to tell an inspector what he’s missed. But Trask said nothing. Waving the envelope, I added, “Here’s hoping this speeds the hunt.”

Perhaps it was my use of the word
hunt
that caused him to seem momentarily knocked off-balance by what I’d offered as a casual answer to his question. Looking away, he regained his composure and faced me once again.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he went on. “It occurs to me, if I might, that there may be any number of men like me looking out for the widow. As she is the person closest to the property, she’ll be the one best able to attest to its legal status. You’d do well to find her quickly if no harm is to come her way.” He laughed self-consciously. “But who am I to tell you your business?”

I said nothing in return and looked up the stairs towards a notice board where a single sheet had been pinned. Its news was common enough—a pauper auction was to be held in Burns’ Hollow on the coming Saturday. Foul event. I scowled, my mind darting quickly elsewhere.

“What’s that?” Trask asked.