The Taker-Taker 1 Page 6

  “He’s not my boy,” I shot back.

  “You want him to be your boy,” my brother said, teasingly. “Though God in heaven only knows why. You must have a backward streak in you, Lanore, to be taken with the nelly bastard.”

  “You’re just jealous, that’s why you don’t like him.”

  “Jealous?” Nevin sputtered. “Of that peacock?” He scoffed and walked away, not wanting to admit I was right.

  About thirty townsfolk followed the preacher to the Dales’ place on the other side of the ridge where he would continue speaking to all who were interested. They had a good-size house but we were still packed in tightly, eager to hear more from this captivating speaker. Mrs. Dale lit a fire in the big kitchen fireplace, for even in the summer a chill came on in the evening. Outside the sky had darkened to a deep periwinkle with a bright band of pink at the horizon.

  How angry Nevin must’ve been with me—I begged my parents to allow me to hear the preacher, which meant I needed a chaperone, so my father told Nevin he must accompany me. My brother fumed and turned red in the face, but could refuse my father nothing, so he stomped behind me all the way to the Dales’. But Nevin, for all his traditional sensibilities, had a streak of the rebel in him and I had to think he was secretly pleased to witness the rest of the gathering.

  The preacher stood by the kitchen fire and studied us all, a wild grin on his face. This close, I saw that the preacher was less like a man of the cloth than he’d seemed in the big field. He filled up the room with his presence, made the air feel tight and thin, like at the top of a mountain. He started by thanking us for staying with him. For he had saved the greatest secret to share with us now, those who had demonstrated that we were seeking the truth. And that truth was that the church—whatever faith you followed, which in the territory was mostly Congregationalist—was the biggest problem of them all, the most elitist institution, and only served to reinforce the status quo. His last statement drew a sneer of contempt and agreement from Nevin, who prided himself on going to the Catholic service with Mother and not rubbing elbows on Sundays with the town fathers and more privileged families in the meeting hall.

  What we must do is throw off the precepts of the church—the preacher said with that fiery glint in his eyes again, a glint that looked less peaceable up close—and embrace new precepts that were more in keeping with the needs of the common man. First and foremost among these outdated conventions was the institution of marriage, he said.

  In the close room, with thirty bodies nestled snugly, you could hear a pin drop.

  Before us, the preacher stalked his small circle like a wolf. It wasn’t the natural affection between men and women that he objected to, the preacher assured the group. No—it was the legal constraints of marriage, the bondage, that he railed against. It went against our human nature, he protested, gaining confidence as no one had tried to shout him down. We were meant to express our feelings with those with whom we felt a natural affinity. As God’s children, we should practice “spiritual wifery,” he insisted: choosing partners with whom we felt a spiritual bond.

  Partners? a young woman asked, raising her hand. More than one husband? Or wife?

  The preacher’s eyes danced. Yes, we’d heard right—partners, for a man should have as many wives as he felt spiritually drawn to, as a woman should be allowed to have more than one husband. He himself had two wives, he said, and had found spiritual wives in every town he had visited.

  A titter ran through the group and the room became charged with suppressed lust.

  He tucked his thumbs under his coat lapels. He didn’t expect the enlightened here in St. Andrew to take up spiritual wifery right away, on his advice alone. No, he expected we’d have to think about the idea, think about the extent to which we let the law dictate our lives. We’d know in our hearts if he spoke the truth.

  Then he clapped his hands and dropped the serious expression from his face, and his entire demeanor changed as he smiled. But enough of this talk! We’d spent the entire afternoon listening to him and it was time for a little enjoyment! Let’s sing some hymns, lively ones, and get to our feet, and dance! That was a revolutionary change from our regular church service—lively singing? Dancing? The concept was heretical. After a moment’s hesitation, several people got to their feet and began clapping their hands, and before long, had started singing a tune that resembled more a shanty than a hymn.

  I nudged my brother. “Take me home, Nevin.”

  “Heard enough, have you?” he said, clambering to his feet. “Me, too. I’m tired of listening to that man’s nonsense. Wait while I trouble the Dales for a light; the road is sure to be dark.”

  I stood conspicuously by the door, wishing Nevin would hurry. Still, the preacher’s words thrummed in my ears. I saw the looks of the women in the crowd when he turned his powerful gaze on them, the smiles that lit their faces. They were imagining themselves with him, or perhaps another man in town with whom they felt a spiritual bond … and could only wish that such desires could be acted upon. The preacher had professed the most alien concept imaginable, moral turpitude—and yet, he was a man of the Bible, a preacher. He’d spoken in some of the most august churches in the coastal area, from the gossip that had arrived in town before him. Surely that gave him some sort of authority?

  I felt alit under my clothes with heat and shame, for if truth be told, I, too, would like the freedom to share my affection with any man I desired. Of course, at that moment, the only man I desired was Jonathan, but who was to say another wouldn’t cross my path one day? Someone perhaps as charming and attractive as, say, the preacher himself? I could see how a woman would find him intriguing; how many spiritual wives had the itinerant preacher known? I wondered.

  As I stood by the door lost in my thoughts, watching my neighbors dance a reel (was it my imagination or were some desirous glances being exchanged between men and women as they spun past each other on the dance floor?), I became aware of the preacher’s sudden presence before me. With his piercing eyes and sharp features, he was beguiling and seemed aware of this advantage, and grinned so that I could see his incisors, sharp and white.

  “I thank you for joining me and your neighbors this evening,” he said, bowing his head. “I take it you are a spiritual seeker, looking for greater enlightenment, Miss …?”

  “McIlvrae,” I said, edging back a half step. “Lanore.”

  “Reverend Judah Van der Meer.” He reached for my hand and gave my fingertips a squeeze. “What did you think of my sermon, Miss McIlvrae? I trust you weren’t too shocked”—here his eyes danced again, as though he was teasing me for his enjoyment—“by the frankness with which I present my beliefs?”

  “Shocked?” I could barely choke out the word. “By what, sir?”

  “By the idea of spiritual wifery. I’m sure a young woman like yourself can sympathize with the principle behind it, the idea of being true to one’s passions—for if I’m not mistaken, you seem a woman of great, deep passion.”

  He picked up vehemence as he spoke, his eyes—and I do not believe I imagined this—running over my body as surely as if he’d used his own hands. “And tell me, Miss Lanore, you look a marriageable age. Has your family already bonded you in the slavery of betrothal? It would be a pity for a fine young woman such as yourself to spend the rest of her life in a marriage bed with a man for whom she feels no attraction. What shame to go through one’s entire life without feeling true physical passion”—here his eyes glinted again, as though he were about to pounce—“which is a gift from God to his children!”

  My heart was near to bursting from my chest and I was like a rabbit drawn up in the wolf’s sights. But then he laughed, placed a hand on my arm, sending a tingle straight to my head, and drew close to me, close enough for me to feel his breath on my face and for an errant lock of his hair to brush my cheek.

  “Why, you look as though you are about to faint! I think you need some air … Will you step outside with me?” He had my arm
already and didn’t wait for me to answer, but whisked me to the porch. The night air was much cooler than the stuffy confines of the house and I took deep breaths until my stays wouldn’t let me draw in any more.

  “Better?” When I nodded, he continued, “I must tell you, Miss McIlvrae, I was so happy that you joined us in this more intimate setting. I hoped that you would. I noticed you in the field this afternoon and I knew right away that I had to meet you. I felt a bond with you immediately—did you feel it, too?” Before I had a chance to answer, he took my hand in his. “I’ve spent most of my life traveling all over the world. I have a thirst to meet people. Every so often I meet someone extraordinary. Someone whose singularity can be seen, even across a field full of people. Someone like you.”

  He had the glittery-eyed look of a man with a high fever, the wild look of someone chasing a thought but unable to focus, and I started to become frightened. Why had he singled me out? Or perhaps I hadn’t been singled out, perhaps this was an enticement he made to any girl impressionable enough to consider his offer of spiritual wifery. He pressed against me in a way too familiar to be polite, seeming to enjoy my distress.

  “Extraordinary? Sir, you do not know me at all.” I tried to push him aside, but he continued to stand stubbornly in front of me. “There is nothing extraordinary about me.”

  “Oh, but there is. I can feel it. You must feel it, too. You have a special sensibility, a remarkably primal nature. I can see it in your lovely, delicate face.” His hand hovered near my cheek as though he might touch me, as though he was compelled to do so. “You are full of want, Lanore. You are a sensual creature. You burn to know of this physical bond between man and woman … It is in the fore-front of your thoughts. You hunger for it. Perhaps there is a particular man …?”

  Of course there was—Jonathan—but I thought the preacher was angling to see if I fancied him. “This talk is not proper between us, sir.” I stepped sideways and started to dart around him. “I should go inside …”

  He put a hand on my arm again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I apologize. I’ll speak of it no more … but please, indulge me for one more minute. I have a question I must ask of you, Lanore. As I took the field this afternoon, and I noticed you, I saw you were speaking to a young man on horseback. An exceptionally good-looking fellow.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Yes, that’s the name I was told. Jonathan.” The preacher licked his lips. “I have since been told by your neighbors that this young man might be sympathetic to my philosophies. Do you think you might arrange an audience for me with Jonathan?”

  I felt prickling along the back of my neck. “Why do you wish to meet Jonathan?”

  He laughed in his throat, nervously. “Well, as I said, from what I’ve been told he seems a natural disciple, the kind of man who can appreciate the truth of what I say. Could take up the cause and, perhaps, be an outpost of my church up here in the wilderness.” I looked into his eyes and saw for the first time a true wickedness about him, a love of chaos and disruption. He meant to sow this wickedness in Jonathan, too, as he tried to sow it in this town. As he’d hoped to sow it in me.

  “My neighbors are amusing themselves at your expense, sir, since you don’t know Jonathan as I do. I doubt he would have much interest in what you have to say.” Why I felt I had to protect Jonathan from this man, I don’t know. But there was something ominous about his interest.

  The preacher didn’t like my answer. Perhaps he knew I was lying or he didn’t appreciate being thwarted. He gave me a long, intimidating stare, as though thinking about what to do next to get what he wanted, and I felt for the first time in his presence true danger, a sense that this man was capable of anything. Just then, Nevin appeared in front of us with a blazing torch in hand—and for once, I was glad to see him.

  “Lanore! I was looking for you. I’m ready. Let’s go!” he bellowed.

  “Good night,” I said, breaking away from the preacher, whom I hoped to never see again. His fiery stare bored into my back as Nevin and I left.

  “Satisfied with your little outing?” Nevin grunted at me as we headed down the road.

  “It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “I would say so. The man’s daft, probably made so by the diseases he undoubtedly carries,” Nevin said, meaning syphilis. “Still, I hear he’s had followers down in Saco. Wonder what he’s doing this far north?” It didn’t occur to Nevin that the man might have been driven out by the authorities, that he might be on the run. That in his madness he could be given to visions and grandiose predictions, putting ideas into the heads of gullible young girls and threatening those less than willing to do as he wished.

  I hugged my shawl tightly around my shoulders. “I would appreciate it if you’d not tell Father what the preacher said …”

  Nevin laughed blackly. “I should think not. I can barely bring myself to recall his blasphemous talk, let alone repeat it to Father! Multiple wives! ‘Spiritual wifery’! I don’t know what Father would do—take to me with a whipping rod and lock you in the barn until you were twenty-one for even listening to the heathen’s words.” He shook his head as we walked on. “I tell you what, though—that preacher’s teachings sure would suit your boy Jonathan. He’s made spiritual wives out of half the girls in town already.”

  “Enough about Jonathan,” I said, keeping the preacher’s strange interest in Jonathan to myself so as not to confirm Nevin’s poor opinion of him. “Let us talk no more about it.”

  We fell quiet for the rest of the long walk home. Despite the cool night air, I still tingled from the dark look on the preacher’s face and the glimpse into his true nature. I didn’t know what to make of his interest in Jonathan nor what he meant by my “special sensibility.” Was my longing to experience what went on between a man and a woman so obvious? Surely that mystery was at the heart of the human experience; could it truly be unnatural, or especially evil, for a young woman to be curious about it? My parents and Pastor Gilbert would probably think so.

  I walked down the lonesome road agitated inside and titillated by all of this open talk of desire. The thought of knowing Jonathan—of knowing other men in the village the way Magda knew them—left me hot and liquid inside. This evening I had awakened to my true nature, though I was too inexperienced to know it, too innocent to realize I should be alarmed by the ease with which desire could be sparked within me. I should have fought against it more staunchly, but perhaps there was no use, as one’s true nature always wins out.

  SEVEN

  Years passed in the way they do, with each year seeming no different than its predecessor. But little differences were evident: I was less willing to follow my parents’ rules and longed for a measure of independence, and I’d grown weary of my judgmental neighbors. The charismatic preacher was arrested down in Saco, tried, and imprisoned, then escaped and disappeared mysteriously. But his absence from the scene did little to quell the unrest gurgling just beneath the surface. There was an undercurrent of sedition in the air, even in a town as isolated as St. Andrew; talk of independence from Massachusetts and statehood. If landowners such as Charles St. Andrew were worried that their fortunes would be adversely affected, they made no show of it and kept their concerns to themselves.

  I grew more interested in such important matters, though I still had few opportunities to exercise my curiosity. The only fit topics of interest for a young woman, it seemed, were her domestic domain: how to make a tender loaf of molasses bread or coax milk from an aging cow, how well you could sew or the best way to cure a child’s fever. Tests to prove our suitability as wives, but I had little interest in competition of this sort. There was only one man I wanted for my husband and he cared little for the tenderness of a bread crumb.

  One of the household tasks I cared for the least was laundry. Lightweight clothing could be taken down to the creek for rinsing and wringing. But several times a year, we’d have to do a thorough washing, which meant setting a large cauldron ove
r a fire in the yard for a full day of boiling, scrubbing, and drying. It was a miserable job—arms plunged in boiling water and lye, wringing out voluminous wool garments, spreading them to dry on bushes or over tree limbs. Laundry day had to be chosen carefully, for it required a stretch of good weather when no other laborious household task needed doing.

  I remember one such day in the early autumn of my twentieth year. Oddly, my mother had sent Maeve and Glynnis to help my father with the haying, insistent that she and I could handle the washing by ourselves. She was strangely quiet that morning, too. As we waited for the water to boil, she fussed with the washing things—the bag of lye, the dried lavender, the sticks we used to push the clothing around in the pot.

  “The time has come for us to have an important conversation,” my mother said at last, as we stood beside the cauldron, watching bubbles rise to the surface of the water. “It’s time to think about getting you started on a life of your own, Lanore. You’re not a child any longer. You are well into a marrying age …”

  Truth be told, I was nearly past a good age for marriage and had been wondering what my parents intended to do about the situation. They’d arranged betrothals for none of their children.

  “… and so we must address what to do about Master St. Andrew.” She held her breath and blinked at me.

  My heart fluttered at her words. What other reason would she have to bring up Jonathan’s name in the context of marriage if she and my father didn’t intend to seek an arrangement for me? I was speechless from joy and surprise—the latter for knowing Father didn’t approve of the St. Andrew family, not anymore. Many things had changed since the families followed Charles St. Andrew north. His relationship with the rest of the town—with the men who’d trusted him—was strained.