Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (7 page)

All the windows were opened in the church to allow for the heat, which the many bodies in the room were generating. It seemed to Preacher Bowman that the whole town had turned out for the get-together. Bowman took in the music man’s notes of the scale, designated strangely by circles and squares and triangles that were drawn on the blackboard for all to see. Each visitor was provided a tune book.

He didn’t look much like a song leader. He looked like a poor dirt farmer, and he smelled like he’d been barrel-rolled in an outhouse. But the man proved himself a fine musician in short order.

“You, over here…and you…sing some notes for me…okay. Let’s put you here…”

He divided the voices into four harmonic parts—tenor, bass, treble, and alto—and then set his tuning fork for a comfortable range and commanded the group to vocalize in fa-la-la syllables. Bowman found the whole exercise ludicrous and was beside himself when the musician led him over to the bass group and directed him to sing along.

After a spell, the four parts of the choir took up different parts of a song, each singing different sets of words, and by some manner short of sorcery, they all came together at song’s end in perfect harmony. The music was so pleasing that Angus Tjaden, on Bowman’s left, kept grinning and nudging the preacher nonstop during the singing, making the preacher more uncomfortable still.

Look at that idiot, tapping his feet and acting like a jack
ass, Bowman thought.
What else can you expect from a man who runs bath houses for a living?
He also professed himself to be a “doctor of spiritual and mental health” and was laying claim to an ability to heal all forms of illness, from diabetes to cancer.
Bah!
Bowman moved himself a bit farther from the man’s elbow.

They sang every psalm they knew. Then, for the finale, the musician passed out tune sheets for a popular new song, “You’re the Cream in My Coffee.” Bowman feared the roof might blow right off, and the windows too, for the singing was loud and pure and shaking with pride. The collection of voices was truly unique. Every one of them could carry the notes, most of them surprisingly well.

“Well, that’s it, er, that’s all there is,” the music man announced when the song was done. He began collecting his tune books and sheet music amid a cacophony of protests. A new chorus broke out among the parishioners, who were sad to have the session end.

“Oh, must that be the last one?” someone whined.

“One more?” several more voices pleaded.

“Can we do this again soon, Preacher?” asked Angus Tjaden.

Preacher Bowman bristled a, “We’ll see,” and led the music man back to his cottage for lunch.

Chapter 14

T
he song leader played his role as logger and felled the small tree near the house, the one marked with whitewash, and cut it into manageable pieces. He’d taken a wedge from the side of the shack, propped up where he’d left it, and he split the log pieces for firewood. He’d stacked more than half a cord before he was done. The man worked hard, and he worked fast. For his effort, he was promised a good meal and better pay than he’d ever had before. Of course Bowman couldn’t guess what the logger’s usual pay was, but then the music man wasn’t too bright, either. He’d taken the preacher at his word. He was a man of God, after all.

Although he hadn’t bothered to wash up first, the music man plunked himself down on the bench before the dining table. He smelled foul, and he clearly needed a shave. Blair thought him uncouth, especially given the amount of time she’d spent preparing the meal. She had selected a fine pork roast of about four pounds and trimmed it carefully. She spit the roast and had built up a good fire under it. All afternoon, she’d kept vigil over the fire, sprinkling it with both apple and hazelnut wood chips for flavor while she basted the roasting meat with the juice of a pomegranate.

She had also chopped potatoes and onions and put them in a heavy iron pot that she had heavily greased with the pork fat trimmed from the roast. Those potatoes roasted until they were an enticing golden brown, and their aroma could be smelled all the way to their neighbor’s home hundreds of yards or so north. Spring vegetables wouldn’t come for another two months, but Blair retrieved a large jar of carrots from her canning shed. These she had allowed to caramelize in a pan full of butter and brown sugar, and just a dash of pumpkin pie spices that she blended herself. She also baked a pumpkin pie to round out the meal, and had set it in the pie safe to cool. It was indeed a meal fit for a king. Blair thought the musician/logger eyed the dessert a might impolitely.

The music man had grown hopeful for his pay, although he found the whole matter strange. Earlier, he’d been certain the preacher was unimpressed with his music lesson.

The music man ate so much food that he’d found it necessary to splay himself out on the bench with his belt and his top trouser button undone. He sat there and belched away his discomfort while Blair cleaned up the dishware.

“My compliments, ma’am,” the musician told her as he tipped the hat he had failed to take off before diving into his meal.

Blair mumbled a hurried, “thank you,” and exited out the back door to her canning shed, where she hoped to disappear from the sight of the vulgar man.

“Seems she don’t much care for song leaders neither.” The musician reached for another piece of the pie.

“On the contrary.” Preacher Bowman gave the man a knowing look.

“Serious? Naw. Pull my other leg, it has bells on!” he’d told him.

“I never knew a young girl who didn’t attempt to lure a man she’s interested in away from the prying eyes of her father.” The preacher pushed his platter away from himself and smiled. “You’ll probably be wanting your payment now. I believe I promised you better pay than you’ve ever had before. Well, my man, it waits for you in the canning shed out back.” Bowman nodded his head toward the kitchen window. He encouraged the music man to get up and take a look.

The musician followed Bowman’s gaze out the window that hung over the kitchen sink. He spotted the side of the small shed and his eyes caught barely a glimpse of Blair’s floral skirt moving within. He tossed a confused look to the preacher, who gave the man a surreptitious wink and then resumed his seat at the table.

A lecherous look registered in the music man’s deep-set eyes about the same instant the preacher’s intentions reached his cramped mind. The musician reached for the back door handle and opened it, looking back at the preacher once more to be sure that
that
was what the preacher intended. He was rewarded with a silent nod.

Preacher Bowman reached for another slice of pie.

Chapter 15

W
yatt Marshall was pleased to hear Rebecca’s beautiful soprano. He had to stand close to her to distinguish her voice among the boisterous others. In note singing, the tenor lead the choir instead of the alto. She sang with a wistfulness that matched the sadness of her smile. Whenever Wyatt tried eye contact with the young girl who had, up until a week ago, been a near constant feature in his home, she looked away.

When the singing was done and the overheated neighbors grouped out in front of the church, discussing mainly their music but also other provincial topics, Rebecca had sought Wyatt Marshall out among them.

“Mr. Marshall, how…how is everyone at your home today?”

He reached for Rebecca’s hand. “All’s well, dear. Though somethin’ tells me you’re most interested in how Sean’s doing.” He saw a flash of pain cross her face, and his heart melted. “Oh my dear, what’s happened between you two? A lover’s quarrel?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Marshall. He broke off…” She bit her lip and fought back tears.

Wyatt Marshall made himself look away while the girl struggled to maintain her composure. “Let’s walk, my dear.”

He led her away from the others by the arm. When they were some distance away, he turned to face her. “I don’t know what goes through my young son’s head these days, Rebecca. But I fear it is not about you, nor is it anything within your power or mine to change. All I know is that Sean’s been struggling mightily with something lately. I’ll promise you, dear, that I will make an effort to speak to him. Might be he just needs some time and space. I know he’s been doing some planning about his future. Forks in the road of that nature can send any man into a tailspin.” He patted her hand lightly.

Rebecca squeezed his hand in return, but she looked at the ground as they strolled along, revealing none of her thoughts. Wyatt Marshall was right about one thing. Sean had been planning some very big changes for his life. What Wyatt Marshall did not know, and Rebecca did, was that those plans no longer included her.

She looked back at all the folks milling around in front of the church and Wyatt saw the girl cringe slightly. He understood. Sean and Blair Bowman were obviously absent. His heart went out to the lovely girl at his side.

“I think”—Rebecca gently took her hand back—“I should be gettin’ on. I have chores. Thank you, Mr. Marshall. Would you…would you tell Sean for me that I…please just tell him I said hello.”

Wyatt nodded and began stuffing his pipe bowl as he watched Rebecca walk away. “Sure hope that boy knows what he’s doin’,” he said to no one in particular.

Chapter 16

W
hen Blair turned around, the music man was standing there, leering at her in a most disturbing way. He took a step toward her, his hands reaching out for her breasts.

“What are you doing here? You stop right there, do you hear?”

Blair skirted around the work table she’d had her back up against, and she backed a couple steps out of the open shed, intending to make a run for it, when she tripped over a buckling tree root in the dirt. Splayed out now, with the man converging on her with that horrid look in his eyes, Blair screamed. Still, he kept coming. She kicked at him as she crab-walked backward in the dirt. He jumped on top of her, pinning her clawing hands out to her sides.

“So, that’s what this is all about.” His breath was foul. “You like it rough, huh? That daddy of yours is sure an understanding preacher. He don’t judge you none. He just goes out an’ gets ya what ya need. Let’s see what we got here.”

Blair squirmed beneath him with all her might but succeeded only in arousing the man more.

“Get off…stop…my God…” She fought him. “He’ll kill you if he finds us!”

“Kill me?” He stopped long enough to laugh in her face. “Shoot, darlin’. Your ol’ pappy gave you to me.” He pulled his pants down and wrestled her skirt up.

Blair did not believe what she heard. Surely her father, if out of nothing more than sheer jealousy, would defend her against that violation. She turned her head toward the house and saw the silhouette of her father’s head and shoulders looking out the window at them. She screamed for him. Then she saw him walk away.

“There!”

The music man was grunting, with one hand still pinning her arms over her head and the other hand ravaging her body. Blair yelped. The music man was hurting her, but when she cried out, it only seemed to spur the man on.