Chapter Fifteen

Nantucket Island

The reverend thought the Browns’ farm looked like the Promised Land, compared to the Meadowlarks’ hovel. The fog thinned enough for the reverend to see the well-tended fields and the handsome farm animals as he approached the house. Crushed oyster shells covered the drive and the path to the front door, a door distinguished by a large oval window with beveled glass. Despite the bucolic splendor, he knew his tardiness would not sit right with Chester Brown, who kept his watch wound tight.

The reverend tied the horse to the hitching post. He pulled two sugar cubes from his coat pocket and picked off the lint. No sense Horace should suffer, he thought. The animal seemed appreciative. The reverend climbed the stone steps and gave the door several raps. A moment later, Patrice Brown, a full-figured black woman with a warm smile and eyes he could get lost in, opened the door.

“I see the sun has come out already!” said the reverend, smiling back at her. “A very good day to you, Mrs. Brown. I hope I’m not too late.”

Patrice Brown stepped back and held the door wide. “Welcome! The table is set and will soon be laid out with all your favorites. We were waiting on you.”

The reverend walked down the familiar hall to the kitchen, where Mr. Brown sat at the table glowering as he held a cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry for my tardiness,” said the reverend. “Needed to bring some comfort to the Meadowlark family out in Shawkemo. Their little girl is powerful sick, and I believe the Good Lord may be calling her home in a day or two. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Patrice using a towel to take a covered dish from the warming oven and setting it on the table. She lifted the lid to reveal the pieces of fried chicken and looked at her husband to second her courtesy. It didn’t come.

“You an expert on doctoring, as well as everything else?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Chester!” Patrice said in shock. The sunshine drained from Patrice’s demeanor. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Nothin’ and that’s the problem.” Her husband banged the cup down on the table and helped himself to a drumstick and a thigh. “I’m sure the reverend’s mission of mercy provided great comfort to all except my stomach. Oh, and there’s the fact I need to get back to work. I’ve been here half the day, waiting around for his holiness, and I’m not going to wait a minute more. I’m sure you understand, reverend, and will forgive me.”

“Of course. Again, my apologies.”

Mr. Brown’s parting words were made incomprehensible by him gnawing on the drumstick as he left the room.

Patrice looked close to tears. “I—I can’t understand—” she stammered.

“No matter at all,” said the reverend, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Patrice turned and hugged him, crying for some time onto his shoulder. “I wanted everything perfect for you,” she sobbed.

“Again, it is I who need your forgiveness for being so late.” While the reverend enjoyed the fresh smell of Patrice’s hair and the warmth of her embrace, he also eyed the chicken. “Let’s sit down and not let all your efforts go to waste.” The reverend held her shoulders and stepped back so that she could see his most disarming smile.

The reverend continued to grin through most of the meal due to its deliciousness. After they ate, the two chatted about spiritual matters and together they prayed for a good harvest. In the course of things, Patrice’s knee pushed up hard against his. With some regret, he scooted the chair back to maintain a sense of propriety.

When the two parted company, the reverend steered his horse in the direction of the Hutchinson house. He would be late arriving there as well. As he rode, he considered the attraction he felt for Patrice.

Stop it. Carmilla’s a good woman. He remained glad he made an honest woman of her, yet he couldn’t help a wistful consideration of Patrice and other women on his circuit. No one told him before becoming a man of the cloth, being a minister acted as a powerful aphrodisiac. Is it because I listen and spend time with them?

The fog had fully lifted during his time with Patrice. The reverend lifted his face toward the sun and smiled. As he approached the old Hutchinson place, he checked his watch. 4:36 If he missed Maude, he resolved to stop by the Mahogany farm on his way home to make his apology. Perhaps, as a result, he would benefit from another free meal and the opportunity to put off returning to his own crowded home and to Carmilla’s cooking. There’s always a silver lining.

He rode around to the rear of the house, where he assumed the help would come and go. No horse or wagon waited there. He started to turn the horse away then noticed the rear door stood wide open. She still here?

Curious, he dismounted and attempted to tie the horse’s reins to the post for the small roof above the entry, but the horse shied away. The reverend pulled at the reins, “Come on, Horace,” he said, but the gelding planted its hooves and refused to move. “Maybe they should have cut off something more,” he muttered. Deciding on the path of least resistance, he crossed the drive, away from the house, and tied the horse to a bush.

The reverend came up to the doorway and removed his hat. “Hello?” he called into the kitchen. “Maude?”

No answer. He called again, much louder than before. He stopped shouting and grinned.

Of course, if Maude were the only one here, she wouldn’t hear him. He looked around and listened. No sign of anyone.

“No harm in checking,” he told himself out loud. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

The huge kitchen appeared to be well-stocked and orderly. He sensed Maude’s handiwork. The reverend moved through the room to the open door to the pantry. In the rear were stairs leading down to where faint light shone in the cellar.

“Maude?” he called and shook his head again, feeling foolish.

He descended the steep stairs and held onto a rail on one side for safety. The lamp shone from back behind the stairs, so he needed to descend fully to see if she were there. At the bottom of the steps, he noticed the basement’s packed-earth floor. The dim light also revealed a wall twenty feet ahead with a door set into it.

The reverend turned and saw the lamp sitting on a bench halfway across the large basement. He squinted in the weak light and judged the dingy room to run the length of the house in this direction. Shadows cloaked much of the room. The reverend began moving toward the light. He glanced around to see if he could catch a glimpse of Maude.

Something tripped him and he went down hard, smacking the side of his face onto the dirt floor. He kicked at whatever grabbed him, and a rod swung around and hit his chest. The reverend snatched at it and realized he had hold of a rake. He gave a little laugh to calm himself and threw it aside. His eyes, adjusting to the faint light, could now discern tools of various kinds—shovels, hoes, scythes, buckets, and a wheelbarrow nearby.

He got up, brushed himself off a bit, and retrieved his hat. He started forward again. The lamp sat on a wooden bench in front of shelves stocked with dusty mason jars. The reverend assumed the unidentifiable brown, green or red contents were once fruits and vegetables.

Had she simply forgotten about the lamp and left it burning? The reverend peered into the shadows all around for any sign of the girl.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose.

The light went out.

Talons grabbed his hair from behind and jerked his head back. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“Hey!” he managed to shout before something—not sure what—ripped into his throat. The reverend’s body jerked with pain and he inhaled blood from the wound. Then came spasmodic coughing.

The reverend felt warm wetness down his front from a fountain of blood and from the urine pooling in his crotch before it ran down both legs. He wondered why his assailant held him in such a cruel embrace before consciousness slipped away.