Eden West (2 page)

I returned to the Village, shaking with cold and excitement, and reported what I had seen. Brother Enos questioned me at length. It was clear that he doubted my eyes. “A coyote can look much larger than it is, Brother Jacob, especially when one is alone.”

“I saw what I saw,” I said. No one in living memory had seen a wolf in Nodd. There are wolves in Yellowstone, but that is hundreds of miles away.

Despite his doubts, Enos promised to send Jerome the next morning to search for wolf sign.

That night a Chinook blew in and the temperature shot up into the sixties; the snow melted, the river opened wide, and the ice never returned that year. Jerome found no wolf sign, and neither I nor anyone else has seen the wolf since that day, but I sense its presence, and I wonder at the several lambs that went missing from our flocks last spring.

Now, months later on this bright September day, Nodd’s border seems a wonderful place to be. I daydream as I walk along the northern fence, imagining myself as a winged Seraph gliding low over hills of gold. My carbine is slung over my right shoulder, its butt slapping my butt with every other step like the hard, encouraging hand of Zerachiel. I feel safe and strong with the fence on my right and the autumn sun warming my face, hearing the faint scuff of my boots on the dry path and the rattling flight call of a meadowlark. On such a day the thought that a wolf might be raiding our flocks fills me not with fear but with reverent wonder that a creature so large, so deadly, so powerful, could make its home unseen among us.

I am thinking about this when I hear the Worldly voice.

“Hey, Cult Boy.”

I jump from the path and land in a crouch, ready, my rifle pointing through the fence at . . . nothing? I look around wildly, searching for the source of the strange voice, but there is no one in sight. Did I imagine it?

“Are you gonna
shoot
me?”

He sounds young.

“Who’s there?” My own words are sucked up by the sky.

“I don’t want you to shoot me, Cult Boy.” The voice is coming from beyond the fence.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’re in that cult, aren’t you?”

With my ears I can tell where the voice is coming from, but my eyes see only tall grass. I move closer. Some of the grass looks different. It’s not grass at all, but some sort of netting. Camouflage netting. I swing my rifle toward it.

“Show yourself,” I say.

“Not with that gun pointed at me.”

“I order you to show yourself.”

“You got no right to order me, Cult Boy. I’m not on your land.”

He is right. As long as he stays on his side of the fence, he can do whatever he wishes. We are not permitted to exert our influence beyond the borders of Nodd. I lower my gun.

“Besides,” the voice says, “how do you know I don’t have a gun pointed at you?” The netting rises; I can see the shape beneath it. A slim hand appears and tugs the camouflage netting aside, and I see three things:

A rifle, pointing at my belly.

A smile, lips stretched over the whitest teeth I have ever seen.

A long, unbound shock of sun-colored hair.

It is not a boy. It is a girl.

“My name’s Lynna.” The girl lowers her rifle and walks up to the fence. She is wearing faded blue jeans, pointed boots, and a light camouflage jacket, unzipped. Beneath the unzipped jacket is a thin black shirt.

I step back a pace.

She laughs and shakes her head. Her long hair, the color of autumn grass, parted in the middle, moves like a thing alive. Her eyes are the color of the top of the sky at sunset. Many among the Grace have blue eyes, but none so deeply blue as hers.

“Scared of a girl?”

“You startled me,” I say. “I could not see you.”

“That’s why it’s called camouflage, Cult Boy.” She gestures toward the netting with her rifle.

“Do not call me that.”

“Why not? You’re in that cult, aren’t you?”

“We are not a
cult
.”

“Yeah, right. You got a name?”

“I am Jacob Grace.”

“Jake?”

“Not Jake. Jacob.”

She laughs again. It makes me think of bells wrapped in velvet.

“I’m sorry I scared you, Jake-
ub
.”

“I should not be speaking with you.”

“How come? Am I the spawn of Satan or something? Shit.”

I am struck speechless by her invoking the name of the Beast. And I have heard the word “shit” only rarely, as when Brother Wallace pronounced it after being butted by one of our rams.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she says.

I ignore her question. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I live here.”

“I mean
here
. Right here.” I point at the ground beneath her feet.

“I’m hunting,” she says.

“Hunting what?”

“Cult boys.” She makes her eyes go bigger, then laughs before I can say anything. “Just kidding. We lost a couple of calves out this way,” she says. “Cal says there’s a wolf, or a pack of ’em. We see tracks, but never the wolves.” Her teeth flash in the sunlight. “Ghost wolves.” I can see her neck, soft and tanned, all the way down to her collarbone. As if divining my thoughts, she shrugs off her jacket. “Getting warm out,” she says.

The thin fabric of her black T-shirt does nothing to conceal the shape of her breasts. I look away. It is, in fact, warm. Beads of sweat have gathered upon my brow. I see the sheen of moisture coating her forehead as well. Vividly, and for but an instant, I imagine wiping it away with my palm.

“So tell me, O talkative one,” she says. “What do you guys
do
in there all day? Just, like, pray and stuff?”

“We pray,” I say. “Don’t you?”

She snorts. “Yeah, right. Pray to get the hell out of Montana.” She rakes her fingers through her hair, lifting it off the back of her neck.

“I should not be speaking with you.” I take a step back.

Her mouth widens; her eyes become slits. Silent laughing now, like the wolf.

“It was not my intention to amuse you,” I say.

“Well, you do,” she says. “You’re so stiff.”

“I must leave.” I continue walking along the fence line.

She follows me along the fence, letting her left hand drag noisily across the chain-link. “Where you going?”

“I am walking the fence line.”

“You do that every day?”

I stop walking. I know I should not reveal our ways to one of the World, but I hear myself say, “I walk the fence every other Landay.”

“Landay?” She gives me a puzzled look.

“You call it Tuesday,” I say.

“Oh. That’s weird. Why don’t
you
just call it Tuesday?”

“Tuesday is its pagan name.” I start walking again. It bothers me that she thinks I am weird.

“See you in a couple of
Landays
,” she calls after me.

I do not look back.

I return late to the Village.

Brother Will sees me as I trudge the last few steps to Menshome.

“Brother Jacob!” he says. “You are just now getting back?”

“I was delayed,” I tell him. I have missed supper, but that is the least of my concerns. I have much to think on after my encounter with the Worldly girl.

“We gather for Babel Hour,” Will says. “Hurry!”

I have forgotten. Tonight the unmarried men and women of Nodd gather in the Hall of Enoch for Singles Services, better known as Babel Hour, the most eagerly anticipated event of the week, for it is the only time we men are encouraged to speak to the unmarried Sisters, and they to us. And there will be food.

For the moment, thoughts of the Worldly girl are driven from my head. I cleanse my hands, face, and feet, change into my formal garb, and make my way to the Hall of Enoch.

Babel Hour starts with we unwed Brothers, thirteen in number, standing at one side of the hall. We are wearing our robes of somber gray, the color of fortitude. The eight unwed Sisters, gowned and scarved in pale, modest earthen tones, line the opposite wall. Elder Abraham Grace enters the room, takes his place behind the pulpit, and leads us in callbacks. Elder Abraham has four score and six years, but his voice still rolls with Heaven’s thunder.

“And Arphaxad lived five and thirty years
—” he booms, facing the women.

The women do not respond immediately. That first call comes out of nowhere, and it is often hard to know which Scripture he is quoting.

“And begat Salah,”
one of the women calls back. It’s Sister Olivia Grace, one of the older unmarried women.

Abraham turns to the men.
“
And Arphaxad lived after he begat Salah four hundred and three years
—” says Elder Abraham.

“
And begat sons and daughters
,” shout several of the men. It’s easier once you find your place. Tonight, Abraham has chosen Genesis, which we know well.

“
And Salah lived thirty years
—” Abraham calls to the women.

“
And begat Eber
,” shout nearly all of the women with one voice.

We’re rolling now. It goes, back and forth, the men competing with the women to recall every line.

Elder Abraham can keep it up for more than an hour before his voice gives out, but on this night he ends with Genesis 11 —
and Terah died in Haran
. It is time for snacks and conversation. That’s the good part.

And the part that scares me.

Sister Ruth, daughter of Peter and Naomi, has eyes the color of honey, with flecks of green. Like all the Sisters, Ruth keeps her hair tied back in a bun and covered with a scarf, but her hair is so thick and willful that no matter how tightly she binds it, a few coils of brown always manage to escape. I think about her hair a lot, the fingers of my mind gently tucking those loose strands back beneath her scarf. During Babel Hour, my eyes constantly seek her out. Tonight she is at the far end of the row of women, shouting out responses confidently, a faint smile playing across her lips as she waits for the next call.

She is radiant; the Lord has filled her with light.

Once, I see her turn in my direction. I think it is me she’s looking at, or so I hope, as I plan to marry Sister Ruth. I have known since we were small children that she would be my wife. When I think of the future, of the years of waiting for the angel Zerachiel to come for us, I think of Ruth and me together. It has always been thus.

In less than a year, I will come of age. I will go to Father Grace and I will ask him to give her unto me. I cannot imagine him refusing.

Again, her eyes seek me out, and I hold her gaze for a moment before looking away. An image of the Worldly girl flashes before my eyes; I push it away. The Worldly girl has no place here.

Elder Abraham voices a short benediction, then invites the women to display their offerings. From within their robes, the women produce packets of sweets and savories. They unwrap them and lay them out on the long trestle table at the end of the room as we men watch and wonder at other treasures hidden beneath their modest garb. Once the treats are laid out, the women return to their places, and we men are permitted to examine and sample their offerings.

Father Grace’s son, Von, with his shorn scalp and doughy features, is the first to the table. He snatches several treats, shoving them into the sleeves of his robe, then quickly retreats to the far side of the hall, where he fits himself into the corner and begins to eat. Everyone ignores him. Von is not right in the head, but he is harmless.

The rest of us gather before the trestle table and admire our Sisters’ work.

Sister Ruth Grace has prepared a selection of small crescent-shaped savories decorated with seeds: some with nigella, some with amaranth, some with poppy. I take a plate and select one of each, along with several of the other women’s treats. I have not eaten in many hours, and my body is shaky from the long walk.

There is more to do than eat. Under the vigilant eye of Elder Abraham, as we sample each of the treats we have selected, we engage the women in conversation.

“Who among you prepared this chocolate drop cookie?” asks Brother John Grace. Brother John, at twenty-nine, is one of the eldest of the unmarried men. With his exceptionally long nose and spotted complexion, he is also among the least well-favored.