The Gifted (20 page)

To turn, turn will be our delight.

’Till by turning, turning we come round right.

Again the dancers began their measured steps interspersed with turns and bows as the singers sang. Tristan kept his eyes on Jessamine as she wound through the lines of dancers, her feet light, her movements in time to the melody. There was a freedom about her, a grace that seemed different from the others. As though she were dancing for the joy of the movement and not necessarily in fervent pursuit of the spirit. Or perhaps he just imagined that because he didn’t want her to be one with these odd people.

More songs and dances followed. They swept with imaginary brooms and sang songs in childish babble. Suddenly they all dropped to their knees and lifted their hands toward the heavens as they sang a prayerful song. Then once the prayer words were sung, they bowed their heads to the ground and stared at the floor while silence filled the room. Here and there a visitor shuffled his feet or coughed, but absolutely no sound came from the assembled Shakers as they continued to stare down at the floor.

Something powerful about the silence sent a chill down Tristan’s back. It was the feeling on the battlefield right before the charge was sounded. That moment when a man was facing his mortality, seeking courage, wanting to extend the moment and at the same time to hear the charge order and simply get it over with. He wondered what the Shakers were thinking as they knelt together. Was it some sort of peaceful serenity? Gratitude for the perfect life they aimed to find? Perhaps sorrow for their wrongs? Or for what they’d given up to live a life of worship with no freedom to reach for love as the world knew it?

But then some in the world didn’t have that freedom either. Love had to be sacrificed for practical purposes. It was good when a man and woman married for convenience and discovered love in the process the way his mother and father had, but love wasn’t always so easily ordered to suit a family’s needs. In fact sometimes love wasn’t ordered at all. It just happened.

Tristan’s eyes settled on Jessamine. Her head was bent like all the others, a position of silent repose. Prayerful. Committed. Dedicated. Even if there was no Laura, he had no future with the beautiful sister. She was one with these odd people. A people who believed romantic love and marriage a sin.

He shifted uneasily on the steps as the silence continued. He wanted to go pull her up to stare into her eyes and ask what she believed. But that was foolish. He barely knew the girl. Love didn’t happen in a flash. At least not lasting love. That kind of love needed time to grow like a fruit tree pushing down roots and reaching branches to the sun until it could bear fruit.

Then as suddenly as the Shakers had fallen to their knees in silence, they rose to their feet and began forming lines to leave the meetinghouse. Tristan also stood. He didn’t know if he was supposed to follow them out, but he couldn’t bear another minute inside the building. Let the onlookers think he was one of them. He didn’t care.

He lagged a little behind the Shaker men as they silently exited the building. He was outside and down the steps when one of the visitors chased after him, calling out, “Tristan Cooper!”

Tristan made the mistake of letting his step hesitate at the sound of his name. He should have kept walking, pretended no recognition.

The man grabbed his good arm and swung him around. “I thought that was you. What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here?”

13

Jessamine lagged behind the other sisters on the way out of the meetinghouse in spite of Sister Edna’s annoyed looks her way. Sister Edna couldn’t tell her to hurry because the spirits had ended the meeting with silence. When that happened, the Believers were to continue in silence as they returned to their houses. There, they would contemplate the spiritual gifts of the meeting before the bell rang for the midday meal. The food would be simple, prepared in advance, and eaten in yet more silence.

But Jessamine wasn’t in any hurry to get to her room. Instead she moved as slowly as possible while peering around at the people from the world. She wanted to see how they were dressed and what foods they spread on their blankets as they sat under the shade trees and attuned their ears to the Believers’ songs.

It wasn’t only her wondering about those from the world outside the meetinghouse that made her steps lag. She greatly desired to catch yet another sight of Philip Rose. He had been in the meetinghouse, taking in all that happened from where he was seated directly below one set of the watching eyes. She had never before seen anyone allowed to sit on those steps to the door to the Ministry’s rooms. Never. That had to mean the Ministry favored this man more than most from the world. Had they given him this special vantage point in hopes he would see and note the spirit falling so abundantly down on the Believers? Perhaps even open up to it? Not that Jessamine had ever been overtaken by the spirit the way many of her brothers and sisters were each and every time they went forth to labor the songs.

Once when she expressed concern over this lack, Sister Sophrena had assured Jessamine she had no need to worry. “Many very committed Believers have never felt the first quiver of shaking or heard even a whisper of an angel’s message from above.”

“But shouldn’t they?” Jessamine asked. “If they truly believe in a good and proper way?”

“Oh no, my sister. While you with your human eyes might see that as a lack in one who believes, our Lord and Mother Ann look with holy eyes. They know all our thoughts and our gifts since the Eternal Father is the one who planted those gifts within us. A gift of weaving or cooking is surely as worthy in holy eyes and as valuable to our family as one of whirling in a burst of abundant spiritual joy.”

“But what of the gift of imagination? Of words?”

“Each gift within us can be useful, but such must be properly channeled for the good of the Society and not simply for our own amusement.” When Sister Sophrena noted the disappointment on Jessamine’s face, she had offered more words of encouragement. “You will learn to use your gifts to our good. I know the pull of words to you, so write them in your journal. Record the events of your day. Write of the work we do, for such is a testament of our love for the Lord and our Mother. Such written records confirm our faithfulness and industry and are much to be desired.”

But she hadn’t wanted to write truth. At least not the truth of ordinary daily events and chores. She wanted to capture the truth in the stories that bubbled up in her imagination from she knew not where. Stories of princes and magical kingdoms. Stories of eagles or ladybugs. She felt little joy in writing down the number of dresses she had ironed or the packets she had filled with an exact number or measure of seeds. Not unless the dress began to sparkle and have ribbons festooned across it like the dress Cinderella wore to the prince’s ball or the seeds in those packets grew beanstalks high into the air where she could climb into a different world. That’s what her imaginings did. Helped her climb into a world where amazing things could happen. A world where a prince might ride into her life as her granny had once promised.

That wasn’t the world she was in. She was a Believer or near to one. Only a little more than a year away from signing the Covenant. Perhaps when that happened, when she actually made the written promise to abide by the rules forever, then she would be ready to use her gifts in a more proper and fitting way. She would write down the events of the day without the desire to embellish them. She would know the pure love of the Believer and not wonder about the forbidden love of the world. She would not think of how a man’s lips might feel on hers or have trouble keeping her promises to Sister Sophrena. She would be able to withstand the temptations that had her feet lagging to catch sight of Philip Rose before Sister Edna pulled her away from the meetinghouse.

The man from the world had fastened probing eyes on Jessamine as soon as she’d entered the meetinghouse. In spite of her promises of obedience only moments before, Jessamine had not kept her eyes away from him. Instead she had sneaked many looks his way and once smiled quite brazenly at him while whirling with pretense of being filled with the spirit. She could only hope the watching eyes would believe her smile prompted by her spiritual fervor.

They would not. Any more than Sister Edna had as her bony fingers pinched Jessamine’s arm each time the sister even imagined Jessamine was allowing her gaze to stray toward the stairs. Jessamine had kept her face turned away from Sister Edna, but she had chanced a couple of peeks up at the eyes in the peepholes. She was never able to read those eyes—whether they were angry or loving or full of the spirit.

But now as she pretended exhaustion from laboring the dances and stepped up the pathway slowly, she had no trouble at all reading Sister Edna’s eyes. Or Sister Sophrena’s. The good sister was not frowning at her like Sister Edna, but instead wore a look of weariness. Jessamine remembered the tears in her dear sister’s eyes while they talked in the sleeping room before marching out to meeting. Tears put there by Jessamine’s own wayward spirit.

It seemed no matter how she vowed to correct her behavior, she could not resist the pull of her wondering imagination. She was going to have to work to change her ways, or she might never be free of the scowling Sister Edna beside her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Philip Rose follow the brethren out their door as if he wanted to join in their line but feared he would not be allowed. Jessamine didn’t know whether to hope that he might be drawn to the way of the Believers or to dread the thought. She should wish to see him set his feet on the road to salvation, but the thought of him being her brother gave her no joy.

When Sister Edna grabbed her elbow and jerked her forward, Jessamine stumbled just to be contrary. Another sin for which she would have to beg forgiveness. But that was why she was still close enough to see the onlooker from the world rush out of the meetinghouse door behind Philip.

She heard the name the man spoke as plainly as if he had spoken the words directly to her. “Tristan Cooper.”

She saw Philip hesitate as though the man had roped him with the name and pulled the loop tight. At last Sister Edna’s curiosity was aroused too, and she stopped goading Jessamine to continue on toward the house. Instead she bent her ears toward Philip and the other man as did many of the Believers around them. The man wasn’t very tall but his midsection bulged out roundly. Not a man on friendly terms with much physical labor.

“Tristan Cooper,” the man repeated. “I thought that was you. What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here?” The man was smiling, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. More the kind Sister Edna bestowed on Jessamine when she caught her in some wrong. Such occasions seemed to give the sister an odd pleasure.

Without a hint of an answering smile, Philip turned to face the man. Brother Benjamin stepped out of the line of Believers to go to his side. Another brother, Simon, moved over beside the onlooker from the world. Brother Simon’s face showed naught but serene peace, but he was sturdy and broad across the shoulders—a wall against the threats of the world. The onlooker paid the Shaker brothers no mind. His eyes were tight on Philip.

Other people from the world filed out of the meetinghouse to cluster behind the two men. The Believers stood on one side waiting to hear Philip speak some sort of answer to the man while the world people on the other side appeared to be pleased to have an added attraction to their morning’s amusement. A few of those under the trees got to their feet and edged closer to better see what might be happening.

“Do I know you?” Philip said.

The man wasn’t put off by Philip’s question. “I think you should. We ate at the same dining table over at White Oak Springs last Sunday. Lenwood Patrick’s my name.” The man started to extend his hand toward Philip, but seemed to think better of it and dropped his arm back to his side. “Then again, it could be your eyes were so full of that beautiful Cleveland lass, you weren’t seeing anybody but her that day.” The man’s smile spread wider.

White Oak Springs. Philip was from White Oak Springs. Perhaps Sister Annie was wrong. Perhaps he was a prince. A prince by a different name than the one he claimed. What had the man called him? Tristan Cooper.

Brother Benjamin spoke up. “You must have Mr. Rose confused with someone else.”

“Mr. Rose? Somebody’s confused, but not me. I never forget a face.” The man’s smile became more of a scowl as he looked at Brother Benjamin. “And I have plenty of others who can vouch that this is the man I supped with last Sunday. Tristan Cooper. Including his own mother. The poor woman has been quite beside herself.” He looked back at Philip, eyeing the sling holding his arm and the bandage on his head. “What happened to you anyway?”

“I fell off my horse.” Philip lifted his arm in the sling away from his body toward the man. “Broke my arm. These good people have been doctoring me.”

“Well, it’s a known fact these Shaker folk know their medicine potions, so I’m guessing there are worse places you could have landed. I’ve swallowed a few of their elixirs over at the Springs from time to time myself.” He stared at Philip a long second before he went on. “None of them ever had me forgetting who I was though.”