Eden West (9 page)

I lie.

I do not know how I do it, but I lie to Brother Enos. I tell him that I know nothing of the note, neither who wrote it nor for whom it was written. He believes me, possibly because I just admitted to visiting Tobias.

“Has Brother Will said anything about meeting a girl?” he asks.

“He has said nothing to me.”

He frowns at the note in his hand. “There is a child named Evelyn who lives on the Rocking K. I imagine this ‘Lynna’ to be her. Have you met anyone on your patrols? Anyone at all?”

“I would have reported it to you.”

“Of course you would. As you reported your visit to the boy Tobias.”

I say nothing.

“You will not visit him again.”

I nod.

“I will bring your transgression to Father Grace. He will assign you penance. G’bless.”

I leave his office on jellied knees, expecting him to call me back at any moment, expecting him to beat me and throw me in the Pit with Tobias, expecting Zerachiel to appear before me wielding his sword of flame, to send me spinning headless into the Void.

My fears are not realized; I am left only with my shame.

I do not have long to wait to receive my penance. Brother Jerome delivers an envelope to me at supper. Inside is a short note. There is to be no beating, no public confession, no shaming, no examination of my soul. I suspect that Father Grace does not wish Tobias’s incarceration to be on the minds of all the Grace.

Instead, I am to kneel before the Tree at last light and pray aloud until the sun once again strikes its topmost branches.

You will speak of this to no one but the Lord
, the note ends, followed by Enos’s spiky signature.

I pray for Tobias; I pray for my own sullied soul.

Does the Lord hear me, or am I truly alone here? My knees are on fire, the cold seeps into my body through every pore, the leaves of the Tree shift and rustle in the wind. Through the branches I see the new moon, rising up over the high hedge that protects the Sacred Heart.

My voice, raspy and weak, is swallowed by the night.

I pray for redemption, I pray for forgiveness, I pray for the Ark to come. I pray for rain, that I might tip my head back and let the drops flow down my parched throat. I pray for all the sinners of the World, I pray for Von, I pray for dawn. It must be well past midnight when I hear soft footsteps behind me. I continue to pray as the footsteps draw closer, then stop.

“Brother Jacob.” The voice is high, soft, and familiar; I feel my heart clench.

“Father?” I have spoken privately to Father Grace only once before, on the day I was made a Cherub.

He seats himself on the wall. I keep my eyes upon the Tree, grateful that I do not have to look into his eye.

“Your prayers are strong,” he says. “I have been listening.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Your concern for the new boy does you credit.”

“It was wrong of me to go to him.”

“Many sins are born of good intentions.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Enos and Peter praise your industry and dedication.”

I bow my head. “That is good to hear.”

“The boy will remain, for a time, in the Praying Pit.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yet I sense you question the need of it.”

“I am sorry,” I say miserably, knowing he can read my heart.

“The fact is, young Jacob, there is a storm brewing in Helena, where the politicians weave their wicked webs. The World beats at our gate. Those who would see the Grace sundered and scattered are amassing. We must stand together if we are to survive. We must speak with one voice. Our Faith is our future. We must be as one.”

I do not understand what Father Grace is telling me. He senses this, and continues.

“They will descend upon us — the politicians, the police, the media. They come in hopes of destroying us. We must present a unified front.”

“Why should we allow them in at all?” I ask.

“If we do not open our gates to them, they threaten to take us by force.”

“Why?”

“They twist their Worldly laws to advance their dark agenda. They say we harbor weapons, that we abuse our children, that we are evil upon this land.”

“That is not true!” I say.

“Truth is nothing to such people. Still, if we stand together, they have no power. The boy Tobias is an unknown quantity; I fear he will tell lies about us. He must remain in confinement until he understands the error of his ways.”

“He repented to Brother Enos,” I hear myself say in a small voice.

Father Grace does not reply immediately, then his hand cups my shoulder and squeezes gently. It is warm; I feel his heat radiating from my shoulder into my core.

“You have a good heart, Jacob. Would that all men felt such love of their fellows. Do not worry about the boy. He will not be harmed.”

“How long must he stay there?” I ask.

“Only until his heart becomes whole.” As he speaks the words, I know them to be true, and my own heart swells with gratitude.

“Yes, Father.”

He lifts his hand from my shoulder, and I feel the
loss of it.

“When the Ark comes, you will be welcomed by Zerachiel with open arms. Repeat the Arbor Prayer three times, then return to your cell and sleep well. May the Lord be with you always.” Father Grace stands. “G’bless.”

I hear his footsteps receding.

I speak the Arbor Prayer.

The next day, Father Grace calls a Convocation. As we gather, there is much whispering. No one seems to know why we are meeting. I suspect that Father Grace is going to tell us of the impending visit from the Worldly folk, but I am wrong.

The Convocation begins with Elder Abraham leading us in the Prayer of Joining. This is a hopeful sign, for it is the prayer used for espousals, baptisms, and the elevation of Cherubim. Father Grace, his wives, and his girl children are seated beside the pulpit. Von is seated with the congregation, picking at his nose while staring blankly into space. I search the Sisters’ side of the hall for Sister Ruth, but I cannot see her.

After the prayer, Father Grace rises.

“Brethren, I have joyful news. The Lord has spoken to me, and He has told me that I am to take a new wife, and she is to bear me a son.”

A murmur ripples through the congregation. This is good news indeed, for although Father Grace loves and treasures his girl children, we all know that he desires a boy child above all else. I look at Von’s vacant face. Does he comprehend any of this? Father Grace’s three wives sit beside him with their faces carefully composed. I turn my attention to the unmarried women, wondering who it will be. Could it be Sister Judith, Tobias’s mother? Is she young enough to bear another child? Perhaps it will be Olivia or Louise, who have waited longest to be betrothed.

Father Grace spreads his arms wide and speaks a prayer of thanks, then extends one hand toward the congregation. One of the Sisters stands and climbs the three steps to kneel before Father Grace. She rises and embraces him, then turns to face us.

It is Sister Ruth.

My ears are filled with a soundless roar as Father Grace’s wives gather to embrace their newest member. I tear my eyes away and see my mother looking at me from across the aisle, her face soft with pity. I squeeze my eyes closed. I tell myself to breathe. I feel a touch on my shoulder. It is Will, who knows of my feelings for Ruth. I shrug off his hand. I want to run from the hall, to take myself across the field to the Spine, to follow Sister Salah into the gorge.

Somehow, I do not. I remain, I sit, and I pray. I push the pain and fury and shame into a hard knot and hold it suspended, a bag of broken granite dangling in place of my heart.

As the Convocation draws to a close, I sense Will’s worried looks, but I keep my face still as frozen water. Father Grace descends and walks down the aisle, followed by his wives: Marianne, Juliette, Fara . . . and now Ruth. I fix my eyes upon her as she passes. She does not look at me, but the prideful, smug, self-satisfied curve of her lips tells me more than I wish to know.

Back at Menshome I retire to my cell and am left alone, as alone as Tobias in the Pit. I lie curled on my pallet, waiting in vain for sleep to take me. I keep seeing Ruth’s face as she paraded down the aisle with the wives. I meant nothing to her. I am embarrassed, I am ashamed, I am furious, but most of all I feel powerless. There is nothing I can do to undo that which is done. They are wed. They were wed the moment Father Grace declared it to be so; such is our custom.

As my thoughts swirl and begin to cohere, I realize that my desire for Ruth, so strongly felt for so many years, has left me. She is not who I thought her to be. The thought of touching her now repels me, and so I turn my anger upon myself, for it was I who allowed myself to care for her.

Sleep does not come. It is well past midnight when I rise and walk outside. I move through the darkness to the Tower and press my face to the barred window of the Pit. It is silent inside: no recording, no snoring, no sound at all. I call out for Tobias. Nothing. I gather a handful of pebbles, reach through the bars, and toss them toward the pallet where he sleeps. No response. I call out again. I throw more pebbles.

Nothing.

Tobias is gone.

I am awakened by Brother Jerome standing in the doorway to my cell, poking me with the handle of a broom.

“Brother,” he says.

I open one eye. It is still dark outside. I swat away the broom handle.

“Brother, it is fourth Landay.”

Fourth Landay?
I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

“It cannot be,” I say.

“It is. You patrol today.”

I groan. I must have slept, but it could not have been for long. Thoughts of Tobias and Ruth and Father Grace kept me up most of the night, and now I am faced with a daylong walk.

“Brother Gregory has reported a breach in the north-central section,” Jerome says. Gregory has taken Will’s edge-walking duties while Will waits for his knee to heal.

“Why then did Gregory not repair it himself?” I ask.

“He was not equipped. You will need a shovel. Do not delay. There is weather coming.”

Ordinarily I welcome the walk, but the events of last night weigh upon me so heavily that I fear I will be unable to bear them as I make my solitary trek. I consider going to Enos and telling him I am ill. Would he believe me? I do not think so. With leaden movements, I dress and prepare my backpack: wire, wire cutters, a folding shovel, and other fence-maintenance items. I take a thick slice of soda bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a honeyed seedcake. I fill my water bottle. I fetch a carbine from the arms locker.

By the time I hoist my pack onto my shoulders, the Cherubim are stirring, and I am suddenly glad to be leaving. I do not need their morning banter and their pitying looks, and the eastern sky is brightening with the promise of day.

The borders of Nodd may be walked in many ways. The usual route is to take the road to the North Gate, then follow the fence east or west, depending on wind and whim. Sometimes I follow the trail through the High Meadow past Shepherd’s Rock to the fence, a slightly longer but more pleasant route. Today I choose to head west, up the Spine to the Pison, then north along the edge of the gorge and down into the Mire. The land drops quickly. The rocky trail becomes green and moist, and soon I am at a level with the Pison where the river mingles with the Mire, becoming indefinite, sending fingers of water into a vast, boggy cedar swamp. When the water is high, as it often is in the spring, the bank of the river disappears completely, and one must pick one’s way through the tangled morass, leaping from mossy rock to mossy tussock, walking along the trunks of fallen trees, finding shallow ridges of firmer ground, and occasionally sinking a foot deep into the bog. I have on more than one occasion found myself wet to the hip, struggling to free myself from the sucking peat.

This autumn the Lord has blessed us with weeks of dry weather, and the Mire is relatively dry. I move through a land of twisted cedars and willow, mosses and mushrooms, rotting logs and patches of marsh marigold, chittering squirrels and buzzing insects, always keeping the river in sight to my left, choosing each step with care. Some find the Mire to be a disturbing place, dark and deceitful. I have always enjoyed it. As I make my way across the spongy, treacherous surface, I feel a part of it, as if I am one of its creatures. As I walk, I keep seeing that smug smile on the face of Sister Ruth. It is clear to me that she is pleased with her sudden betrothal. Even more than pleased. How long has she known of Father Grace’s intentions?