The Wishing Star Page 8

“Why you lick your lips like that when you read the words?” he asked. He had lifted the razor strap down from the wall beside the washbasin. Jenny’s vision exploded like a bubble. She tried to focus on the battered tin bucket. “Answer me! Why can’t you leave my book alone?” he shouted.

  His first blow knocked the book across the room. It spun out of sight under the edge of the bed quilt. She tried to see it even as she willed it to stay hidden.

  When the blows had ceased and the scent of his alcohol-laden breath filled the room, when the blood was warm and wet on her legs, Jenny knew she would be staying in Manchester when Pa and the others moved on.

  When Tom saw Jenny’s bleeding legs and listened to her, he turned and without a word left. When he returned, he had a promise of a position for Jenny with the Martin Harris family. Harris owned the livery stable where Tom worked. She took comfort in that. It’s a link to Tom, she thought as he told her Mrs. Harris needed a girl.

  June found Jenny settled in her new home. Some days she regretted her position as hired girl in the household, especially when she stirred the wrath of Martin Harris. While his stern words condemned the dust in the corner and the weeds in the garden, his wife patted Jenny’s shoulder, saying, “Never mind a word he says. He knows we couldn’t be gettin’ along without you.”

  It was true. Mrs. Harris was lame this spring, and limped slowly about her house and garden. They expected Jenny to fill the gap.

  When her family had left, Jenny had watched the wagon lurch away from the little house behind the livery stable, carrying them away from her. As she thought about that scene, even now, the tears blurred that final picture. If it hadn’t been for the pain in her bruised body and Tom’s restraining hand on her shoulder, she would have run after the wagon, begging for her old place beside Nancy. If the tears hadn’t filled her eyes, would she have been able to find in Ma’s face the tenderness she longed for?

  She recalled the day Pa had used the razor strap on her. She could still see how Ma had turned away when she saw the blood. Tom had washed her legs and rubbed in the ointment. Not Ma, not Nancy. Had her sin been too much? She didn’t need to be told they thought she deserved the hurts.

  Nowadays it helped to have Tom and the hard tasks at her new home. They wiped out the miserable, lonesome thoughts.

  Tom had been given a spot in the loft at the Harris home, and he took his board with them. During the evening hours, he split logs and stacked them under the eaves to pay for his keep.

  As the summer passed, Jenny continued to nurse the one secret she hadn’t dared share with even Tom. She promised herself that she would. But as time drifted by, she forgot how Ma had turned away and how Nancy had scorned her. The guilty secret didn’t seem as frightening nor as important now.

  Come evenings, Jenny took out Pa’s green book and looked at it, no longer trembling with guilt for stealing it. She still promised herself once in a while that she would share her secret with Tom.

  As autumn approached, the Sabbath day became a high spot in Jenny’s week. After the breakfast dishes were done and the dinner roast shoved into the oven, Jenny was free to change her dress and go with Mrs. Harris to the Presbyterian church.

  Not that church had become important—however, for this one day Jenny would be beyond the disapproving eye of Mr. Harris.

  On that first Sabbath, Mrs. Harris had seen Jenny’s perplexed frown as Martin Harris settled down on the porch, still wearing his carpet slippers. In the wagon Lucy Harris snapped the reins along the backs of the team and tried to explain her husband’s newest beliefs. Jenny’s eyes grew round with wonder.

  “Why does he keep joinin’ so many churches?” she asked. “I’ve heard of the Quakers, but what’s a Restorationist and a Universalist?”

  Mrs. Harris shrugged and forced a weak smile, but Jenny could see the pain behind her eyes. “Child,” she said, “some people just never seem to be satisfied with settlin’ for the truth. My husband Martin, he’s a good man, been raised with true religion. But he’s so restless, he’s never made a commitment of himself to the truth. So he keeps lookin’ for something new—and he always seems to find it.”

  Jenny stared at her new mistress, dumbfounded. Her own mother had taught her to honor the Bible and to read it instead of Pa’s green book. But no one had ever talked about truth in this way.

  “You mean,” she stammered, “there’s just one truth, one power?”

  They had reached the church, and Mrs. Harris turned and looked Jenny square in the eye. “Lots of powers, child—some good, some bad. Only one truth.” Her eyes softened. “Maybe someday you’ll understand.” She turned and limped ahead to find her friends.

  In church, Jenny was becoming conscious of the people around her. She heard the pastor read the black book, using words she still couldn’t understand. But her neighbors and school friends, the grocer and the man who had worked with Pa at the foundry were all changed. On the Sabbath day laughing faces were sober, thoughtful. School-yard folly was forgotten. Dirty shirts were exchanged for clean, and tousled hair was neatly braided.

  Somehow there was a tie between this place, the words that man was reading, the serious faces under smoothed hair, and the truth of which Mrs. Harris spoke. She saw responses from the parson’s listeners, and the quiet atmosphere of the church became shivery with intense feeling. Although Jenny didn’t quite recognize it, the feeling awed, even frightened her.

  Sometimes she was nudged into thinking thoughts about sin, about evil, about her soul, about heaven and hell.

  She pushed aside that sense of foreboding and thought of her desire for spirit power. There were lots of powers, Lucy Harris had said. Which power, she wondered, was the one she wanted?

  For some reason she couldn’t understand the parson’s words about sin and evil. But it made Jenny think of the stolen green book, the pictures of spirits, and the words of power. Again she felt the mingled fear and fascination and remembered the strange glitter in Joe Smith’s eyes. He knows, she thought, of the gold of the treasures guarded by the power of the spirits.

  Often at night, when Jenny was in her room under the eaves, seeing the moonlight, listening to the crickets and feeling alone, she found she couldn’t sleep. Wide-eyed she would lie in the drift of moonlight, missing the sounds of her family’s soft breathing in the room, lonesome for the warmth of Dorcas beside her.

  One night, when the moon was high and the Harrises had set the rafters to trembling with their snoring, Jenny heard the creak of the barn door. She crept to the window, heard the distant clank of shovel against stone, and saw dim shadows slip through the yard.

  The next day she followed Tom to the barn. “Tom, you’re diggin’ nights. Why can’t I go with you?”

  He looked astonished, then glanced quickly around. “Hush. I don’t want Mrs. Harris to know. Look, Jen, I gotta get it across to you; this isn’t fun, it’s serious business. We can’t risk a young’un messin’ it up again.”

  “You’re still blamin’ me for not findin’ the treasure over at South Bainbridge, aren’t you?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way,” he said shortly. “There’s enough chance you did it that none of us will risk it again.”

  She studied him curiously for a moment before she said, “Look, I’m older now. Trust me. From the way you said that, there must be some in the bunch knowin’ about last time. There’s no one else around except the Smiths.”

  He nodded, “You’re right.” He closed his lips tightly and turned to lift a forkful of hay to the cows. Jenny studied his expression. Tom wasn’t going to say more.

  She tried to find a way to break past the barrier. “Tom, you’re shuttin’ me out on purpose. We’re all the family there is now.” She let the lonesome feelings tremble through her voice.

  He rumpled her hair. “Aw, Jen. You’re the best sis I could have, but you can’t be out followin’ the fellas.”

  “Do you really think you’ll be findin’ something this time?”

  He
said nothing. In frustration she turned away.

  The matter would probably have ended with Tom’s stubborn silence if it hadn’t been for the trip to Palmyra. It stirred afresh her desire to be in on the digging.

  The Harris farm lay tucked between the two villages of Manchester and Palmyra, New York. Jenny knew Manchester well—it was a wonderful place with its shops and mills. But she had never been to Palmyra.

  The day Martin Harris declared he was going to Palmyra, Lucy Harris elected to go with him. Mr. Harris sighed in resignation. “Might as well take Jenny. I’ll not have the time to tote you around, so ye better have company.”

  Martin Harris was unusually talkative on the ride. Watching his face as he described the building of the Erie Canal, Jenny was surprised to see his dreamy, contented expression. It was unlike the employer she had come to fear.

  When the wagon reached the Palmyra side of the bridge, he said, “This is a great country, this United States of America. Just watch. The nation will be great because our democracy is based on the laws of nature. We’ll steadily become more perfect and our people will be purified. One day the whole world will come running after us to follow our example.” He waved his whip at the canal. “This Erie Canal is part of the dream. Sure, it costs, but it makes progress possible on a grand scale. It costs in lives and money for us to be moving westward. It’s brave men doing it. There’s not a power on earth can stop the progress once the Lord wills it. Manifest Destiny, they are calling it. This canal’s been open less’n two years, but look at the boats.”

  When they reached Palmyra Jenny gaped at the crowds, whispering, “It’s so big! Bet it’s bigger’n New York City.”

  Harris laughed. “Less’n four thousand people.” But sobering, he said, “That’s a goodly lot though, and it’s a fair town. You ladies be at your shoppin’ and get back to the stables. I wanna be outta here before midafternoon.”

  As they climbed out of the wagon, Jenny spotted one of the stores and exclaimed, “Look! That shop has just books!”

  Mrs. Harris glanced around and said, “Oh my, it does. Funny I never noticed it before.” She studied Jenny curiously and added, “I don’t claim to be all that interested in reading. If there’s time later, I’ll let you have a look.”

  With her mind filled with that one thought, Jenny trailed around the shops with Mrs. Harris, trying to be patient.

  Finally, Jenny’s arms loaded with parcels and Mrs. Harris’s bag bulging, the woman announced her shopping completed and they turned toward the stables. Halfway back, Mrs. Harris stopped to talk to a friend. When Jenny shifted from foot to foot, the woman said, “Be off to the book shop, and then go on to the wagon.”

  When Jenny stopped, breathless and flustered, in the doorway of the bookstore, she could only fidget and sniff deeply of the dust and leather and ink.

  “Yes, young lady, what would you like to see?” Jenny looked past a very white shirt and black string tie to a round face as friendly as the parson’s. She smiled at him.

  “Oh, everything,” Jenny whispered. “Do you mind if I look? I’ll be careful.” She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dress.

  He chuckled. “You’re not the usual kind. Help yourself,” he pointed to the double rows of bookcases, and Jenny eased herself between them, wondering where to begin. There were leather books and cloth-bound ones, dark covers and bright. Some wore strange titles she didn’t understand. She also saw familiar books, ones she had read at school and at the library in Manchester, the ones the librarian had called classics.

  As Jenny moved slowly down the aisle, touching books with a cautious finger, yet not daring to pull them from the shelf, a bright green cover caught her eye. Hardly believing what she saw, she tipped it out of the shelf. It was the same from green cover to the gold outlines on the front.

  The shopkeeper was at her elbow now. “You wouldn’t want the likes of that book,” he said gently. “It’s not for fine young ladies.”

  She turned. “Why not?” she asked, surprised. Her hand still held the book. “It’s a bonny book, all green with the gold lady.”

  He cleared his throat and continued to smile kindly at her. Leaning closer, he whispered, “It’s a book about magic, witchcraft, and the like. Now, if I were to have my say, such a book wouldn’t even be in town, but there’s some who set great store by such things. Nowadays we don’t hear much said against such teachings, but frankly I believe it is wrong, terribly so. I think this treasure-digging and using seer stones to hunt for lost articles or for telling fortunes is of the devil. But the owner, Mr. Anderson, insists we must provide what the people want.”

  “The book’s bad?” Jenny asked, still fingering it.

  His smile was gentle, his eyes full of concern. “It’s of the devil. Satan is behind the likes of such stuff.”

  “Satan,” Jenny stated flatly. She pulled the book down and turned the pages. “It’s talkin’ about power, knowledge, how to get things you want. Isn’t that good?”

  He looked astonished. “Child,” he said, “there’s power, and there’s power. Not all power is good.” His sensitive eyes took her in, and he was about to continue when the door opened. He turned and moved toward the front of the shop.

  Jenny slowly replaced the book. She frowned, thinking about the strange manner of the little man, hearing the echo of Mrs. Harris’s words. The booming voice from the front of the store caught her attention. As she looked up she heard the man ask, “You have some Masonic books?”

  “Right this way.” Beneath the clomp of boots, Jenny heard the shopkeeper ask, “Why would you be needing them?”

  After a pause the man said, “I’m joining the lodge.”

  Suddenly Jenny recognized the voice. She popped around the corner of the bookcase. “Hyrum!”

  They left the shop together. Jenny was chattering, running to keep up with Hyrum, when they met Mrs. Smith and the Harrises talking together on the street corner.

  Martin Harris looked up at Hyrum and said, “Your mother’s tellin’ me you’re about to join the Masonic lodge.”

  Mrs. Smith reached for the package Hyrum carried. “You found a book?” Her fingers picked nervously at the paper before she tucked it into her bag. She met Jenny’s gaze. “Hyrum’s been tellin’ me about how this Masonic book might be helpin’ a mite. He says we’ll understand more of how to get the faculty of Abrac.”

  When the Smiths had gone their way, Jenny and Lucy Harris trailed far behind Martin Harris as he headed for the livery stable. Mrs. Harris shook her head. “That Smith bunch! I’ve never seen the likes of them, always wantin’ something they don’t have. First they used the seer stone to tell fortunes, and now this. But I suppose I’d be worryin’ myself too if I were ridin’ as close to losin’ my place as they are.”

  Jenny turned to look after the little woman and her tall son hurrying down the street. “That’s sad,” she said, painfully aware of want. “The faculty of Abrac; I wonder—”

  Mrs. Harris interrupted with a snort, “Hogwash to them! You should hear the latest story the mister is puttin’ out. I heard him myself. He was talkin’ to that man Chase. Says several years ago his son, Joe, had an appearance. ’Twas a spirit come to Joseph, informing him there was gold plates hidden near his home. Young Joe tried to get them, he says, but there was a toad guardin’ them. Well, this toad changed into a man and hit him a wallop on the side of the head.

  “Old man Smith’s sayin’ that in September Joe’s to be let have the plates—genuine gold, he says, and need some translatin’. There’s supposed to be a story about the ancient people on this continent.—I’m thinkin’ if Lucy gets hold of them, she’ll be translatin’ them into cold, hard cash.”

  They were nearly to the livery stable. Jenny saw Lucy’s quick glance toward Martin Harris’s sturdy back. She also saw the tear in the corner of her eye and the impatient hand that flicked it away. Straightening her shoulders, Lucy Harris marched toward her husband, Jenny tagging slowly along behind.

 
Chapter 8

  Lucy Harris turned from the stove, “Jenny, run out to the barn and fetch me some eggs.”

  With a quick nod, Jenny dropped her dish towel and headed for the back door. As she crossed the yard, she saw Tom lean over the railing of the pigpen, tilting a pail. The air was filled with the shrill squealing of hungry pigs. Jenny paused to watch Mr. Harris poke at the pig sow.

  “Get out o’ there and let the little ’uns have a chance!” he roared, flailing at her shoulders.

  Jenny went into the barn and climbed to the loft to search through the straw for eggs. The squealing in the pigpen subsided, and Mr. Harris’s voice rose. “Well, I’ll be a-goin’ out with you tonight. Joe said Walters will be there. I can’t miss that. ’Sides, the other members of the Gold Bible Company will be there.” Jenny heard the low rumble of Tom’s voice answering him. She folded the eggs into her apron and slipped back down the ladder.

  As she walked toward the door of the barn, Harris spoke again. His voice was low and deliberate. “The boy’s got a talent. There’s something there, and I believe he’s learnin’ how to get it. It’ll help a lot if Hyrum will learn how to get the extra power from the faculty of Abrac.” His earnest voice stopped Jenny just inside the door. “He’s pretty convinced that joinin’ the Masons will do it.

  “You know, I was out to his pa’s place once. Joe was a talkin’ and I was standin’ there pickin’ my teeth with a pin. I dropped the thing in some straw and couldn’t find it. Well, old Joseph and Northrop Sweet were there and they couldn’t find it either. Just jokin’ I said, ‘Joe, use your stone and find it.’ I didn’t even know he had it with him. He pulled it outta his pocket, and stuck his face in his hat. Pretty soon he was feelin’ around on the ground—without lookin’, mind you. Then he moved a stick and there was my pin. That boy has a talent, and I’ll be waitin’ around to see what he does with it.”

  Slowly Jenny walked to the pen. “You believe it too? Do you ’spect he’ll be findin’ a treasure?”

  She watched the excitement light his eyes and felt her own heart thump. “Something big,” he said. “There’s things buried out there. And there’s forces fightin’ against you. A fella over Palmyra way said they were diggin’ by the old schoolhouse and the whole place lit up. Scared them so the bunch of them took out o’ there. Later they were diggin’ again, close to a barn. They looked up and a fella was sittin’ on top of the barn. They say he was eight or nine feet tall. He motioned them to get outta there. They kept on workin’, but finally they got so scared they took off.”