A Deadly Shaker Spring (2 page)

S
ISTER
R
OSE
C
ALLAHAN, NEWLY APPOINTED ELDRESS
of the Kentucky Shaker village of North Homage, dragged open her eyes to darkness. She groaned and sat up in bed, sweeping a mass of unruly red hair off her forehead. Wearily tossing aside the light bedclothes, she slid her long legs over the side of the bed. She shivered and crossed her arms as the cool air of early spring penetrated her long-sleeved cotton nightgown. The cracked-open window of her second-floor retiring room framed only black buildings in black air. No sign of dawn. She fumbled for the light on the plain wooden table next to her bed. Her small clock read three-thirty.

Rose padded barefoot across the cold pine floor to her east window. The Trustees' Office, in which Rose stubbornly still lived and worked despite her recent change in status from trustee to eldress, was located at the far west end of North Homage. Her corner retiring rooms, including a sitting room and a bedroom, looked east and south over the entire village.

At first she saw nothing that could explain why she'd awakened. All windows were dark in the Center Family Dwelling House, directly across from her, and
in the Children's Dwelling House, to her right just across the unpaved road running through the center of the village. Then she heard something, like faint, short cries.

She eased the window open farther and leaned her head and shoulders out into the crisp night air. She squinted at the buildings that lined the central path all the way to the fields beyond the orchard at the east end of town. Each building was dark and still.

A movement caught her eye, straight down the path near the new barn. She opened her eyes wide, as if it would help her penetrate the darkness. A bright spot of light hung suspended in the darkness. As the moon emerged from behind a cloud, Rose could distinguish an arm extended from the light. Someone was carrying a lantern. Since the Society's beagle-spaniel, Freddie, wasn't barking wildly, it must be one of the brethren out checking on the animals or getting an early—very early—start on the chores.

Relieved, Rose turned back to her small bed, which looked warm and inviting. But as she slid between the rumpled sheets, she heard the sounds again. This time she recognized them. The alarmed cries of animals. She ran back to the window. Just beyond the barn, white dots that could only be sheep roamed free in the fields. They should have been in a small pasture near the barn, surrounded by sturdy slatted fencing. A few sheep had reached the lawn around the Laundry building and were no doubt making quick work of the newly sprouting Kentucky bluegrass.

At the high-pitched whinnying of a startled horse, Rose squinted at the barn's front door. It stood open. She was certain it had been closed just minutes earlier.
She could see several shapes now flowing out the barn door and wandering around. Two certainly were horses trotting in confused circles. No brethren would be chasing animals out of the barn at this hour.

Rose came close to cursing. Someone must be out there now, letting the Shakers' animals loose and maybe even stealing their horses. The village owned only four horses, which they needed now more than ever, with spring plowing in full swing. Where was Freddie? Why hadn't he barked to alert the brethren to an intruder?

Rose yanked her nightgown over her head. Her long navy work dress hung where she'd left it the night before, buttoned on a hanger latched over a wall peg. She pulled the loose-fitting dress off the hanger and forced it over her thick mane of hair without undoing the buttons. No time for stockings or a cap. She slipped her bare feet into her black work shoes and ran.

As Rose arrived, panting, at the barn, Elder Wilhelm Lundel's unmistakable figure burst from the front door of the Ministry House, just across the pathway from the barn and Laundry. His white hair stuck out in spikes. A stocky, muscular man, he lumbered toward the sheep, waving his arms above his head.

Several of the brethren came running from the Center Family Dwelling House, including Brother Samuel Bickford, a tall, gaunt man in his mid-fifties. He slowed to a walk as he neared the alarmed horses and spoke to them soothingly, calling each by name. At the sound of his voice, a pinto named Rainbow stopped prancing and ducked his head toward Samuel's outstretched hand.

With the horses under control, Rose took time to look around. All four horses and the village's few dairy cows had been led, pushed, or frightened out of the barn. They would never have exited so quickly without encouragement and someone to open all their enclosures and the barn door.

With his usual calm efficiency, Samuel secured the horses in the barn while the other brethren herded the cows back home. Samuel emerged from the barn carrying a spare board, which he nailed to a broken length of white fencing. He opened the gate and began gently shooing in the nearest sheep.

Wilhelm, on the other hand, ran at the sheep, shouting as if he could shame them into returning. They scattered in terror.

Rose scooped up a bleating spring lamb and plunked him inside the hastily repaired fence. He bounded away to search for his mother.

“Well? Does this convince thee that the world is our enemy?” Wilhelm's white hair hung wildly around his weather-toughened face, and his labored breathing pumped his barrel chest.

“Wilhelm, this is surely an accident. Fences break.” She doubted her own words, but with Wilhelm it was best to downplay any episode he might turn into an excuse for a crusade against the world.

“Fences are not thy specialty, are they? Anyone can see this fence had help getting broken,” Wilhelm sneered. “Look, look for thyself.” Wilhelm longed to revitalize the declining Society, and his plan for doing so hinged on returning to the old ways, such as saying “thee” instead of “you,” to set the Shakers apart from the world. He had convinced North Homage Believers
to switch back to nineteenth-century dress, but most resisted changing their modern speech into archaic patterns that confused and frustrated them.

Wilhelm led the way to the break in the fence. The upper wooden slate was smashed inward. The wood showed several round indentations, as if splintered with a hammer blow from outside the pasture. No hammer or other implement lay nearby.

“Is it thy opinion that the sheep so yearned to roam free that they smashed this wood with their hooves from the outside? Someone from the world did this, of course, someone who hates us.”

“Wilhelm, these dents could have been here for years. They probably have nothing to do with the break in the fence. I'm sure this can all be explained rationally.” Rose felt a pang of guilt over her unwillingness to let Wilhelm be right. His suspiciousness triggered her own stubbornness.

“And what about the other incidents, eh? What about all the food stolen from our storehouse?” Wilhelm's blue eyes glittered with the victory of a scored point.

“Just a half dozen jars of raspberry preserves, for goodness' sakes,” Rose said. “It was probably just a hungry child, maybe even one of our own. We don't lock our doors, after all. We always grow and cook extra to share with the hungry. Somebody probably thought we wouldn't mind.”

Rose became aware of the quiet. A silent group had gathered around Wilhelm and her. The first light of dawn slivered through the sky and illuminated the circle of faces. They were concerned faces, even alarmed, watching their spiritual leaders argue.

* * *

Rose frowned as she ran her fingertips over the damaged fence rail. She had hustled everyone off to breakfast and returned alone to examine the damage. She admitted to herself that Wilhelm was right. The splintered marks were fresh. One of them had cracked through the white paint, exposing unweathered wood.

She squinted at the dented wood. What would have made such a mark? A hammer? Perhaps a shovel?

The heavy barn door stood open a sliver. Rose slipped into the cool dimness that smelled of hay and manure and fresh-cut wood. The barn was still under construction in some areas.

Rose quickly found what she was looking for—a hammer that lay close to the door as if tossed hurriedly inside. She picked it up. A bit of white paint stuck to the head.

A faint noise startled Rose and she dropped the hammer. It thudded softly on the dirt floor. She heard the noise again—a wheezing sound, somewhere between a snore and a whimper. It seemed to come from behind a stack of hay bales.

Rose's first impulse was to run out of the barn, back into the spring sunshine. But she stopped herself. Maybe this was a derelict, hungry, tired, perhaps injured. She couldn't just leave him.

The hay bales were taller than she was. With one shaking hand, she steadied herself against the coarse wall of hay and edged around toward the sound. She peeked behind the bales. The Society's guard dog, Freddie, lay on the dirt floor, his legs splayed unnaturally. His eyes remained closed as he whimpered again.

Whimpering herself now, Rose sank to her knees and cradled Freddie's mottled face and floppy ears in her lap.

“Freddie, come on, boy,” she urged. “Wake up. Let me know you're all right. What has happened to you?”

Freddie's limp body twitched. He showed no other sign of having heard the pleading of one of his favorite mistresses.

Rose knew she could carry thirty-five pounds, even of awkward, gangly weight. Getting Freddie off the ground and herself upright presented more of a challenge. She eased her arms under his body and pulled him onto her knees. She stumbled to her feet, clutching the dog about his middle while his legs flopped helplessly.

Whispering words of comfort to the unconscious animal, Rose cut across the grass to the Infirmary. She reached the doors just as Sister Josie Trent, North Homage's only nurse, returned from breakfast.

“He's been drugged,” Josie concluded after a gentle examination. The Infirmary Sister had just turned eighty, but her fingers were as quick and sure as ever.

“That's my guess, anyway. I'm not a veterinarian. What sort of cruel nature would do such a thing?” Josie's normally cheerful many-chinned face flushed with anger. “I'm hopeful he'll come out of it, but nothing is certain. He is in God's hands.”

Freddie's breathing had quieted somewhat. He lay on a long wooden examining table surrounded by shelves filled with bottles and boxes. Freshly packed
round tins of Shaker herbs were stacked in precarious columns on a small oak desk.

“Could the drug have been an herb, do you think?” Rose asked.

“What you mean is, could one of us have done such a thing? I certainly hope not, but I can't really say. Poor Freddie is only a small creature compared to us. And his physiology is different. Who's to say how a large dose of valerian might affect him, for instance.” Josie stroked the dog's long, silky ears. He didn't respond.

“I can't believe a Believer would want to do this, or feel it necessary to use such a large dose. I'll keep him here and watch over him. Good heavens, what can that be?” Banging and clattering in the outer waiting room sent Josie bouncing for the door, Rose close behind.

The waiting room seemed crammed with Believers, all chattering at once and swirling like leaves in the spring wind. Samuel and another of the brethren whipped through the anxious crowd into one of the sickrooms. Between them, they carried Sarah. Sister Charlotte scampered behind them, supporting Sarah's lolling head. Once pure white, Sarah's cotton indoor cap was streaked with blood, as was the triangular kerchief which covered Charlotte's shoulders and crisscrossed over the front of her bodice.

Her rescuers eased Sarah onto a narrow bed. With deft, plump fingers, Josie removed the cap. The bleeding began again as she pulled the fabric away from the scalp.

“First off,” Josie said, “she'll need stitching up. Charlotte, fetch my bag from the corner, would you?
Thanks.” She doused a sewing needle in alcohol and began to stitch quickly. Most of the Believers who had crowded in the room averted their eyes. They were hard but careful workers, and all had taken a vow of nonviolence. They rarely hurt themselves, and they viewed violent injury with horror. Rose was tempted to look away as well, but she sat on the edge of the bed and held Sarah's hand, searching her face for signs of pain.

“What happened?” Rose asked, without shifting her gaze from Sarah.

Samuel stepped forward and squatted next to Rose by the bed. “We don't know for sure. When Sarah didn't show for breakfast, Charlotte went to check on her. Found her in the Sisters' Shop, out cold at the bottom of the stairs.”

“She was alone in the shop?”

“Yea, as far as we could tell. We figured she'd tripped and tumbled down the stairs. Took a mighty bad crack on the head from hitting a step, that's all we could figure.”

Rose frowned. Sarah's injury was on the lower right side of her skull, toward the back. She tried to imagine what type of fall would cause a wound in that spot. Perhaps if Sarah tripped and twisted sideways in an effort to catch herself? Rose made a mental note to check the steps at the Sisters' Shop as soon as she knew Sarah would be all right. If the pine was nicked or worn smooth in any spot, it should be mended quickly. And it wouldn't hurt to examine the area carefully, just to understand what had happened. Something bothered her, but she couldn't piece it together
from the tidbits in her brain. Too many incidents, that's all.

“Samuel, ask the sisters not to clean the staircase and hallway of the Sisters' Shop until I've had a chance to look them over.”

Samuel nodded and left immediately.

Josie pierced Sarah's skin with another stitch, and the injured sister moaned. As the needle entered her scalp yet again, Sarah cried out.

“One more, Sarah dear, just one more,” Josie said.

The final stitch jerked Sarah to full consciousness. Her unfocused brown eyes wandered among the faces before her. As the pain reached her awareness, her face puckered.

“Cal,” she said, and, “Nay, nay.” Her eyes closed and she lost consciousness again.