UNSUNG by Mashaela L. Farris A project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah December 6, 2021 Approved ______________________________ Ryan Ridge ______________________________ Laura Stott ______________________________ Abraham Smith Farris 1 Unsung: Critical Introduction “There are women, rebellious . . . who have lost much more than I, who have given more.” - Heather Harris Bergevin, Lawless Women I write narratives surrounding powerlessness. My pieces habitually shadow characters as they encounter unique situations, where they often find themselves helpless in brutal and unrelenting oppressive systems. The characters I write about endure authentic fears and experience complex situations—similar to what people in the real-world face. Margaret Atwood claims that for her epistolary novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, there is “nothing in the book that didn’t happen somewhere” (Hetching). I employ a similar tactic and take inspiration from events in history and our current day. The helplessness I write about is specific to the marginalized voices of women—who have been and still are oppressed—whose bodies do not fit the norm of the historically empowered and have thus been erased, silenced, and burned away. For centuries the literary canon has been incubated within the core of an explicitly patriarchal, heteronormative, and racist ideology—affirming the dominance of a certain type of voice and body more readily than others. Recently, many have acknowledged this gap and have labored to underline marginalized perspectives in literature. For instance, Jay Dolmage discusses the traditional studies and teaching tactics of rhetoric in his piece, “Metis, Mêtis, Mestiza, Medusa: Rhetorical Bodies across Rhetorical Traditions”. In short, Dolmage highlights a rhetoric that emphasizes bodily knowledge—particularly through the paradigm of a body that has not been included in classical literature and rhetoric studies—and claims that scholars must revisit history to flesh out these once silenced and erased voices. In his piece, Dolmage identifies how feminist scholars and writers must “live inside the ‘belly of a prevailing androcentric ideology’ Farris 2 and that they must reread the past cunningly in order to overcome normative forms of interpretation” (13). With such patriarchal hegemonic filters in place over much of literature and history, contemporary marginalized voices still grapple in the fight to be heard. Dolmage presents a challenge to current writers and scholars to take up the task of cunningly reworking history to include fresh angles of classical stories—a challenge that I echo in this project. While exploring the topic of power in history and literature, we must also consider the question posed by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar in their book, The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination. They ask, “What does it mean to be a woman writer in a culture whose fundamental definitions of literary authority are, as we have seen, both overtly and covertly patriarchal?” (1926-1927). Indeed, how do women—and other marginalized voices—overcome historically instituted systems designed to silence them? A primary historical picture of the strain women writers have confronted is the domineering of their works by envious husbands. In her intimate manifesta, Heroines, Kate Zambreno digs into the stories of past women writers, while providing stark observations on her own experiences as a modern woman writer. She writes: Zelda Fitzgerald, the tarnished golden girl of her husband’s legend, who burned to death in an asylum fire in Asheville, North Carolina. All that remained to identify her: a single charred slipper. Jane Bowles stroked out, later buried in an unmarked grave in Málaga, Spain, while her husband Paul never stopped writing. (9) Throughout much of history women have not been allowed to write, while their male counterparts had the literary roads paved ahead for them and “never stopped writing”. Much like Zambreno's effort to highlight the lengths at which husbands of great writers went to in order to halt or derail their wives’ authorship, I also endeavor to venerate silenced women. There is no Farris 3 single or sufficient answer to Gilbert and Gulbar’s question, as women writers must uniquely confront the unequal distribution of power within their own lives through clever and cunning methods. One strategy is to continue writing. Marginalized writers must carve through the established androcentric sinews of the literary canon and professionalized authorship to make their perspectives heard. By writing on the powerlessness of the marginalized woman body, I situate my own writing in celebrating differences. As Zambreno eloquently asserts, we must “use up all the channels possible through which to scream, to sing, to singe” (296). With our weapons of ink and typeset, we must rage in our refusal of erasure. As Dolmage and Zambreno encourage the reexamination of history, alongside marginalized bodies and voices, it’s imperative that we also acknowledge the powerlessness harassing many today. As Heidi Pitlor wrote in her foreword of The Best American Short Stories 2020 Edition, “There are infinite horrors unfolding across the world right now” (ix). When I read her words, I think of the blatant and unapologetic suppression of women’s rights, education, and voices prevalent across modern day global politics. With the unfolding of these events in which more women are silenced, Dolmage’s words become even more evident. We still unmistakably “live inside the ‘belly of a prevailing androcentric ideology’”. Many writers work within these systems to break out, to be heard, and to matter. My primary goal as a writer is to highlight these once shadowed over stories and perspectives—in hope that they reach those thriving with empowerment in the modern patriarchal systems. Polygamy and Madwomen My project, Unsung, takes inspiration from the secret polygamy and polyandry circles in early Mormon history. This piece explores the lives of overlooked and powerless nineteenth century women. As their stories merge with mythology, these characters discover unique means Farris 4 of empowerment, even within their androcentric environments. As a child I had always been infatuated with two particular topics. The first topic being mythology and folklore. Having a grandfather who gathered his large brood of grandchildren around a campfire each summer to tell tales of a fur-coated woman living alone on an island, instilled a deep passion and appeal for the mysterious within me. The second topic I was fascinated with as a child was Mormon polygamy. I am a scion of an unyielding patriarchal society—a product of polygamous great-something foremothers and forefathers. As an eighth-generation Mormon, polygamy quite literally haunts my ancestral line. Like many generational Mormons, my ancestors and those they idolized in their communities were directly involved with the practice of polygamy and polyandry during the early stages of Mormonism. Growing up in an orthodox Mormon household, I was horrified, and—I must confess—a bit fascinated, by the rich history of polygamous families that peppered the communities of early Mormonism. What were their lives like? Did they feel trapped in these marriages? Did they feel that their male leaders listened to their opinions and voices? Did they really support polygamy and consequently preach that it was a budding emblem of feminism? The women-only indignation meeting of 1856, held in the Old Tabernacle in Salt Lake City, offers an interesting outlook on the wide-spread practice of polygamy among the Mormon community in Utah. In A House Full of Females, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich describes masses of Mormon women gathering in protest of the federal government’s interference with polygamy. Ulrich recounts Eliza Snow’s exclamation, “‘What nonsense!’” (xii). Ulrich also quotes Harriet Cook, who argued that the empowerment within polygamy lies in the “privilege of marrying a ‘husband of her choice’” (xv). Despite these claims, it is difficult for contemporary audiences to Farris 5 envision that all women in polygamous marriages felt empowered by their participation in polygamy. Likewise, it is also doubtful that all women had much of a choice in a custom that their religious doctrine openly advocated for. In fact, Snow later writes the following poem: To which the will of man must bow or break— The time is past for her to reign alone, And singly make a husband’s heart her throne: No more she stands with sovereignty confess’d. (Ulrich 309) Curiously, while she advocates for polygamy during the indignation meeting, she then also argues that women lose their power when they enter matrimony. Much like many topics in history and our contemporary times, the narrative of polygamy and polyandry within Mormonism is murky—fluctuating between different thoughts and perspectives. However, I am adamant in my argument that this practice was not a form of empowerment for women. When my devout grandmother of eighty-four years recently admitted that she also felt uneasy about our family’s participation in Mormon polygamy, I was excited to discuss the topic with her. She commented that she once read a book that highlighted the beautiful and loving relationships between the various sister wives in a polygamous household. She recalled to me the memory of running to her mother and describing the book. When she had finished, her mother looked at her with a stern gaze and responded, “It was not like that.” My objective in writing on this topic is to highlight what it was like for the women who rebelled—the instances where polygamy was demeaning and oppressive to the women whose bodies were caught in these stifling systems. Mormon polygamy occurred at a peculiar time in history. With the whisperings of women’s suffrage and human rights on the horizon, the west provided a secure environment tucked away against the Rocky Mountains and hidden from the immediate eyes of progressive minds. The approaches and treatment toward women during the mid-nineteenth and turn of the Farris 6 century exacerbated the torment of them. In Susan Bordo’s Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body, an examination of women’s diseases, bodies, and disorders, she argues that women naturally and subconsciously protested their powerlessness through bouts of mood and bodily modifications. She writes, . . . whether we look at hysteria, agoraphobia, or anorexia, we find the body of the sufferer deeply inscribed with an ideological construction of femininity emblematic of the period in question. The construction, of course, is always homogenizing and normalizing, erasing racial, class and other differences and insisting that all women aspire to a coercive, standardized ideal. (2243) Those that steered from the “standardized ideal”—who did not fit the expectations of their superiors—were, as Zambreno states, “Locked away, rendered safe. Forgotten, erased, or rewritten” (8). We see this in the fictional example of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, with the character, Bertha—the madwoman in the attic. However, this did not only happen in literature. F. Scott Fitzgerald contributed much to the locking away of the great novelist, Zelda Fitzgerald. The societal expectations surrounding women from these eras represent the quelling of women’s bodies, knowledge, emotions, and voices. As I structured my narrative, I studied Mormon and nineteenth century history, feminist theory, women in mythology, and the intricate craft of writing. Many of these topics were displayed and fleshed out within the literary works and essays I reviewed. The combined investigations informed the model and structure of my novel and added to my overall writing techniques. The ongoing manuscript of Unsung is a storyline that highlights European-descended women’s voices, as they struggle to live in an overbearingly patriarchal and religious society. The following sections incorporate analyses of the literary texts I read in preparation for writing Farris 7 Unsung. These investigations take inspiration from the following books on craft: Meaner, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative by Jane Alison; Thrill Me: Essays on Fiction by Benjamin Percy; Writing with Emotion, Tension, & Conflict by Cheryl St. John; and Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook by David Galef. A Visit from the Goon Squad - Jennifer Egan Plot Structure: Meander Jennifer Egan’s novel, A Visit from the Goon Squad, offers an intense illustration of a large cast of characters, who are all somehow intertwined in the punk rock scene and circulate around a record label executive. The characters are often faced with difficulties ranging from sexual impotency, cancer, infidelity, and suicide. This plotline is not linear, but instead meanders through the events of the narrative. Alison writes, “If a narrative naturally wants to flow toward its end but doesn’t want to get there yet—the pleasure’s in the journey” (117). Rather than following the typical linear progression of a plotline, Egan’s novel acts in a meandering pattern, often looping back in time or exploring the same time frame, but from a different character’s experience. The plot pulls the audience through the narrative spontaneously and drops them down into the action at random. This sort of structure provides a unique viewing into the lives and pasts of each of her characters, as it meanders back and forth between scenes from the 1970’s to the 2020’s. Although creating a larger picture, each of Egan’s chapters stand-alone— providing vibrant scenes that embellish her characters’ personalities. The self-contained stories of each of her chapters do not distract from the novel but adds to it. Craft Analysis: Violence In the chapter, “Ask Me if I Care”, the audience is introduced to a group of punk rock teenagers in the San Francisco area, during the late 70’s. The teenagers’ goals are to make it big with their Farris 8 band, The Flaming Dildos. The story is told from Rhea’s perspective—a teenage girl hopelessly in love with one of the band members and who feels like she is not punk enough because of her freckles. When her best friend, Jocelyn, begins dating an older man named Lou, Rhea feels a shift occur within her small friend group. At one of the band’s gigs, the audience begins throwing garbage on stage and pushing their way to the front to fight the band members, in true punk fashion. Not only is the conflict in this scene intense, but it also foreshadows the moment in which the rift between the friends emerges. Jocelyn and Rhea are not in their usual front row spots at the gig but are leaning discretely against a wall with Lou. Much like many spectacles of violence, this scene is turbulent, dark, and confusing. Percy writes about methods of revealing violence in narratives and explains, “supplying minute particulars, never showing us everything, only glimpses that anchor the moment . . . allows us to fill in the rest of the nightmare” (59). Egan masterfully captures her audience’s attention by focusing on certain sensations that Rhea fixates on during the fight. For instance, while the fight is occurring Rhea watches the stage from the sidelines, half wondering if she should jump in and fight or stay where she is. She recalls, “Scotty tears off his dripping T-shirt and snaps it at one of the garbage throwers, right in the guy's face with a twangy crack, and then at another one—snrack” (52). The audience doesn’t experience every detail of the fight but are granted a single sensory description that anchors them to the scene. Egan does this in the next paragraph as well. As Rhea looks to her friend, she suddenly finds her kneeling between Lou’s legs, while Lou grasps onto Rhea’s shoulder. She focuses on “Lou’s fingers spread out over [Jocelyn’s] black hair” (53) and then looks away, overwhelmed by the sexual act and the way Lou is grabbing onto her shoulder. By providing these images or sensations for the audience to focus on during scenes of violence or conflict, Farris 9 writers avoid overpowering their audience with excessive amounts of violence. Instead, they allow their audience to take in the action with small and memorable doses. Alias Grace - Margaret Atwood Plot Structure: Explosion Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace presents a narrative that springs through time and setting. Her novel is based on the actual accounts of the notorious Toronto murders of Thomas Kinnear and the pregnant, Nancy Montgomery, and the sentencing of James McDermott and his accomplice, Grace Marks. Once caught, McDermott is hanged for his crimes and Grace is sentenced to life imprisonment. In deeply melancholic approaches, Atwood dives into Grace Marks’ head as she goes about her daily tasks in the Kingston Penitentiary. Grace’s personality, past, and complicated struggles—befitting a poor immigrant girl from the nineteenth century—are brought to light. Atwood’s plotline is structured similarly to an explosion or a firework. The explosive event that ignited the narrative are the murders of Kinnear and Montgomery. Alison writes on explosive narratives and claims that “a powerful center holds the fiction world—characters’ obsessions, incidents in time—tightly in its gravitational force” (165-166). Despite, Grace’s attempts to not think of the murders, her mind and the events of the plot are constantly drawn back to that gruesome explosion. In fact, the characters around her refuse to let her forget the event and the narrative is often yanked from the present to the past and back again. The other main character in Atwood’s novel, Dr. Simon is also plagued by his own explosive event: the death of his father. Now that his father’s finances are in ruin and he is dead, Dr. Simon feels the pressure to make a name for himself in the medical world and to financially support his mother. Atwood’s move in crafting an explosive narrative forces the audience to focus on the magnetic past of her characters. Farris 10 Craft Analysis: Point of View Atwood’s narrative begins fifteen years after Grace’s imprisonment and moves between scenes that highlight Grace and Dr. Simon. On one hand, Atwood applies first-person narration during Grace’s chapters. On the other hand, the events within Dr. Simon’s sections are exposed in third-person narration. St. John discusses what she calls the deep point of view and explains, “You, the writer, want to be invisible. You don’t want to write flowery prose or use words that distract the reader from becoming immersed in the narrative” (75). Her warning is as an essential reminder to all writers. To pull, or jar, an audience member from the text is to lose their focus and interest, and thus encourage them to lose sight of the deeper themes a story. Some may argue that switching between first-person narration and third-person narration pulls the audience from the story. However, Atwood successfully keeps her audience in the story, despite switching point of view from chapter to chapter. During the chapters dedicated to Dr. Simon, Atwood tells the story in third-person narration—encouraging the audience to observe his character, much like Grace does when in his presence. During Grace’s chapters, she speaks in present tense and first person, as she describes her daily activities and the flashbacks revealing her past. A little later in the novel she begins to tell her life story to Dr. Simon, and breaks her narration up by addressing him with, “Sir” (109). This method provides a voice for Grace within a space she is typically not allowed to speak. The audience is then encouraged to empathize with Grace, but to also question the accounts she supplies. Utilizing a present tense in Grace’s chapters not only forces the audience into the immediate action of the novel, but also encourages the audience to question the sanity of her character. For instance, when a doctor comes to visit Grace, she explains: And then I see his hand, a hand like a glove, a glove stuffed with raw meat, his hand plunging into the open mouth of his leather bag. It comes out glinting, and I know I have Farris 11 seen a hand like that before; and then I lift my head and stare him straight in the eye, and my heart clenches and kicks out inside me, and then I begin to scream. (Atwood 29) The narrative catches Grace in the throes of a panic attack but doesn't explain what triggered it or if the doctor visiting her is really there to hurt her like she thinks. The audience is provided a limited perspective into the plot and only sees things from Grace’s—sometimes unreliable— point of view. With these methods, Atwood succeeds in giving Grace Marks, the notorious murderess from history, a space to speak. Autobiography of Red - Anne Carson Plot Structure: Wavelets Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red is an experimental novel, written in verse, that revisits the tale of the red-winged monster, Geryon, and the hero, Herakles. In her novel, Carson highlights Geryon and throws him into a contemporary light. Following him throughout his childhood and young adulthood, the audience learns that the young and misunderstood Geryon becomes fascinated with photography and begins creating an autobiography. As a small child, he suffers from anxiety about his red wings and from the bullying and sexual abuse from his older brother. He grows into a shy and awkward teenager, who falls in love with the older Herakles. They begin a sexual relationship, to which Geryon doesn’t feel comfortable with. After a few months, Herakles becomes bored of him and breaks off their relationship. The following years, Geryon is numb and depressed, but continues to take pictures and to work on his autobiography. When he is twenty-two, he goes to Argentina to pursue his photography career and runs into Herakles and his new lover, Ancash. Geryon joins them on their travels to Peru. After a few sexual encounters with Herakles, Geryon decides he isn’t in love with him anymore. At the end of the narrative Ancash and Geryon watch the fires from a bakery oven and Herakles watches the men who bake Farris 12 the bread. The events unfolding throughout the narrative mimic what Alison calls wavelets. Instead of a large conflict, climaxing toward the end of a narrative, Autobiography of Red captures miniscule waves, swaying to and from the shoreline. Alison writes, “energy in narrative might also flow in smaller waves, wavelets. Dispersed patterning, a sense of ripple or oscillation, little ups and downs, might be more true to human experience than a single crashing wave” (95- 96). Geryon’s life is made up of happy moments and traumatic ones, as he attempts to discover himself. Craft Analysis: Imagery As Autobiography of Red is written in verse, Carson displays a proficient tact in pulling her readers directly into the scene with her vibrant and enticing imagery. Intricate webs of prose, such as this, requires and deserves particular attention in crafting the imagery of its scenes. Galef writes, “Good description isn’t just a flurry of adjectives but also rich imagery, metaphors, sensory information, and speculations” (87). Skilled writers provide their readers with images, compelling them to fall into the text and to care about what happens to the characters next. Percy calls these descriptions “Widowed images” (41). He argues that writers write to make sense of the widowed images stolen from their lives and placed into fiction. Not only can writers use the widowed images from their own lives to establish animated scenes, but readers can single out widowed images from texts that potentially leave a lasting impression. For instance, Carson writes, “The world had gone black and bulbous. Shiny ropes of old lava rose and fell in every direction” (63). In this case, Carson transports her audience to the foot of an old, erupted volcano and allows readers to fixate on the image of “shiny ropes of old lava”. As Galef advises, Carson “Show[s] how [her] setting breathes,” (89). She does this throughout most of her novel, but another notable occurrence of her imagery is when Herakles gives Geryon a hand job on their Farris 13 flight to Peru. The details aren’t graphic, but Carson evokes a simile with absorbing images that keeps the audience anchored to the scene. She writes, “Geryon’s head went back like a poppy in a breeze” (150). This sort of image distracts from the sexual act and emphasizes the emotional impact this encounter has upon Geryon. With images that encourage readers to read deeper into specific scenes, they discover more about the characters they are invested in. Awayland: Stories - Ramona Ausubel Plot Structure: Networks and Cells Ramona Ausubel rewrites Greek myth and history within the short stories that comprise Awayland: Stories. She reworks myths, giving them an often odd, but alluring, contemporary twist. For example, one of her stories is written from the position of a cyclops monster, who signs up for an online dating site. The story that caught my attention is titled “Template for a Proclamation to Save the Species” and consists of a sleepy Minnesota town that has lost all desire to reproduce. Tom, the mayor of the town, takes inspiration from a mayor in Russia, who dedicated a day, nine months before Vladimir Lenin’s birthday, for all his citizens to procreate. Inspired by all things Russian, Tom follows this example and offers his citizens a day off, so that they can procreate. He also offers a brand-new Ford, as a reward to the first mother to give birth on the designated day. At first not very many seem interested but are just pleased to have a day off. Eventually, several of the townspeople get excited for the prize. And Ausubel plunges into different characters’ reactions to the day. The “Template for a Proclamation to Save the Species” employs a narrative structure that showcases a microscopic viewing of networks and cells. Alison writes, “all complex narratives are networks; your experience moving through them is never purely linear, but volumetric or spatial as your thoughts bounce across passages” (188). On Love Day, as the mayor titles it, Ausubel peers into different reactions of several townspeople. Farris 14 She dives into the reaction of the teenagers, who wish to be rebellious, but don’t know how to react when there is a specific day set aside for having sex. The narrative then takes the audience into Martha and Jeff’s home. Martha watches her neighbor; Fat Henderson stand naked in front of a mirror—perhaps trying to convince his wife to join in on Love Day. With these viewings into different scenes, occurring within the same time frame, a deeper and more complex narrative is revealed to the audience. Through the lens of networks and cells, writers can best capture an entire communal experience, presenting it to their audiences in the complex and intricate ways large and close communities enable. Craft Analysis: Setting There are a multitude of methods in which a writer can build a setting and environment. In “Template for a Proclamation to Save the Species,” Ausubel shapes her setting not only with descriptive imagery, but also with an abstract entity of the small town in her narrative. For instance, she writes: Perhaps it is the shittiness of the northern Minnesota town that keeps her residents from reproducing. Theirs is not a furious protest, a political movement. It is as if their lives are so boring, so deeply muddy that it hardly even occurred to two people to couple with enough feeling to create anything other than a disappointed sigh. (Ausubel 33) Ausubel’s introduction to her setting saturates her readers into the mood and environment of her small town. Through a comical anecdote, readers understand that the town of her story is filled with a passionless, dull people. Percy claims that “The writer has an obligation to quickly and efficiently place the reader in the story” (119). Not only has Ausubel done so, but she introduces the quirky tone of her story as well. Percy would, perhaps, claim the opening to this story as too abstract. He would much rather have the author provide descriptive details, throwing their Farris 15 audience into the setting. However, Ausubel does this as well in this story. For instance, she describes a bench the mayor erects to commemorate Love Day. She writes, it is “shaped like two hearts, side by side. The seat is curved to encourage couples to slide close together. He names this the Bench of Love. Teenagers immediately notice that from behind, the bench looks like two large butts” (35). Again, Ausubel humorously sinks her audience into her setting with intriguing and unforgettable descriptions. Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys Plot Structure: Spiral Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea takes another look at the literary figure of Bertha, the madwoman character in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Through the lens of this character, the audience discovers that Bertha’s real name is Antoinette and that she is perhaps not as mad as we are led to believe in Brontë’s novel. The narrative follows Antoinette as she grows up in Coulibri, Jamaica. Her family is wealthy from owning plantations on the island and are soon thrown into destitution once slavery is abolished in Jamaica. She experiences the loss of her father, mother, and younger brother and is sent away to a convent school. Her stepfather retrieves her and marries her to an unnamed Englishman, who we later learn is Mr. Rochester from Brontë’s novel. Rochester marries Antoinette for her money, and they honeymoon in Jamaica. He soon begins to question his marriage, as he learns of Antoinette's family’s unstable mental health. He sleeps with their maid and Antoinette hears their tryst from outside the door. She runs to a woman who practices obeah and begs for her to make a love potion, so that her husband loves her again. She gives him the elixir and Rochester is horrified the next day, thinking she has poisoned him. He whisks her away to England and locks her in his attic. She frequently escapes at night and falls into madness from the isolation. She confuses her dreams with reality and Farris 16 eventually sets fire to the house. This emotional narrative is structured much like a dizzying spiral, around Antoinette’s character. Alison writes, “A spiraling narrative could be a helix winding downward—into a character’s soul,” (143). Wide Sargasso Sea follows a plot structure that spirals into madness, much like its main character. As the audience reaches part three of this novel, the description and narrative become less dependable and more sporadic compared to the rest of the novel. For instance, Antoinette narrates, “it seemed to me that someone was following me, someone was chasing me, laughing. Sometimes I looked to the right or to the left but I never looked behind me for I did not want to see that ghost of a woman who they say haunts this place” (168). Referring to the ghost that Jane Eyre often comments on in Brontë’s novel, Antoinette has no idea that she is the ghost that haunts the mansion. Craft Analysis: Set Pieces Percy explains that one method of successfully setting your plot for the tension and the conflict it deserves is to invoke language that foreshadows the events beforehand. He writes “Set pieces are the moments . . . the stakes are escalated, the staging carefully managed,” (44). Even as Wide Sargasso Sea is filled with haunting images and difficulties plaguing Antoinette, her dreams foreshadow and set up her eventual imprisonment in Mr. Rochester’s attic. For instance, she explains her dream: “I walk with difficulty, following the man who is with me and holding up the skirt of my dress. It is white and beautiful and I don’t wish to get it soiled. I follow him, sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen” (54). The excerpt is intense and evocative but is quickly followed by a scene in which a nun hands Antoinette a cup of hot chocolate, quelling the anxieties of the audience. The resolute confession of “This must happen” also sets the narrative up for tension later in the plot. Eventually in her dream the man guides Antoinette to a set of steps that signify the steps Farris 17 leading to the attic she is later locked away in. As Rhys heightens the sensory description in her text, audience members’ pulses quicken, and they are frightened by what she slowly reveals. The audience is then stuck on the image of Antoinette being led by a mysterious man, long after they set her book down. Feminist Revisitation Not only have women been silenced and pressed to the sidelines of history, but they have also been substantially demonized through mythology and religion. From tales of the Hebrew and Christian villainess, Jezebel, to the Slavic and grotesque witch, Baba Yaga, religion and mythology often intersect in their mistreatment of women. In the foreword of Warriors, Witches, Women: Mythology’s Fiercest Females, Maxine Peake writes: Entire groups [of women] are demonised. Women who have the power to heal, to care for others, who have the skills in astronomy and herbalism or live on the fringes of society, have all been derided as ‘witches’ by those who would like to see their power and knowledge neutralised. (Hodges 4) Viewing her statement through a historical lens, we can see the influences of the prejudices against nineteenth century women bleeding over to contemporary paradigms. Women who push back against society or exhibit talents and characteristics contradictory to their presupposed expectations are often punished and dubbed as harlots, witches, and shrews. Following the emergence of the waves of feminism, many postmodern feminist writers operate in the field of feminist revisitation. Scholars and authors contribute to the closer examination and rewriting of classical works. Their work often highlights characters who are demonized or on the edge of myth and history. Dolmage, a revisionist historian himself, provides a new interpretation of the tales of Metis. He explains that through swallowing Metis, Zeus Farris 18 becomes consumed by her power, as her mêtis lives on in his head, influencing his actions and thoughts. Likewise, Hélène Cixous argues in The Laugh of Medusa that even though Medusa is presumed slaughtered and eliminated, her severed head still contains the power to turn men to stone. The traditionally hegemonic tales of Metis and Medusa are chief illustrations of how history, myth, and rhetoric have emphasized voices and bodies of difference as monstrous and have shoved them into the cracks of tales. As many writers and scholars are joining the ranks of feminist revisitation of history, audiences learn of outside perspectives and can contemplate these new voices. Like many recent works, Unsung also engages in a fresh glimpse at traditionally misogynistic myths and histories. Unsung explores mythology through the character of a shape-shifting woman, who haunts the Mississippi shores and impacts each of the four main characters of the novel. This character is inspired by the Arthurian figure of Morgan Le Fay. Throughout the centuries the tales of Morgan have oscillated between hateful scorn and veneration. Her figure unfailingly always gravitates around the great King Arthur and his knights. In one tale she is his eldest sister; in another she is the succubus aunt of Arthur, who attempts to manipulate his knights by sleeping with them; in another she is a woman living alone on the island of Avalon and acts as a magical protector and healer of the wounded Arthur; but most significantly, she has been portrayed as the greatest enemy of Arthur. I’ve selected her character because Morgan Le Fay fascinates me, and she provides a rich character to influence my narrative. My effort in examining Morgan pairs with the revisitation of mythology and history mentioned earlier. Feminists have demonstrated their own defiance against patriarchal ideologies through their work of deconstructing systematic thought. Cixous writes, “It is time to liberate the New Woman from the Old by coming to know her—by loving her for getting by,” (1945). Jean Farris 19 Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea exemplifies what Cixous advocates, by embracing the whole of a story and liberating the woman of Old. This fresh look at a classic tale emphasizes just how often a singular narrative shuts out the other voices—particularly marginalized voices—as a whole. By coupling an overlooked and underappreciated character from the Arthurian myths with fictional nineteenth century women, I work to liberate the voices of the past. Unsung, exhibited here in manuscript form, dares to answer Zambreno’s challenge. She manifests, “The only way our narratives will be told is if we write them ourselves. I urge you to write your own selves, your true and complicated selves” (296). With her challenge in mind, Unsung not only explores themes of my own Mormon ancestral line, but it also highlights images and slivers borrowed from my experiences. For as Gloria Anzaldúa writes in Borderlands, “for images, words, stories to have . . . transformative power, they must arise from the human body—flesh and bone” (97). With my tattered scraps of paper and the ink that bleeds and stains the insides of my middle fingers, I write to venerate forgotten women. If these narratives are to be told, I want to write them. If women like Zelda Fitzgerald were locked away and shut off from writing, I write to honor them. I echo Zambreno’s words: “Fuck the canon. Fuck the boys with their big books” (297). In defiance of what readers and writers see as the valid voices that make up the establishment of literature and history, marginalized writers must spurn these influences and write anyways. Crafting this piece provided an opportunity for me to pay homage to my unsung female ancestors, who willingly and unwillingly participated in polygamous and polyandrous relationships. I acknowledge and praise the women before me— whose voices were pushed to the side, who laughed and danced, cried and bled, and delighted in the intricacies of their unique lives. These are the women who have sacrificed and given more than I—who have helped shape who I am and Unsung is how I honor their voices. Farris 20 Works Cited Alison, Jane. Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative. New York, Catapult, 2019. Print. Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands: La Frontera. San Francisco, Aunt Lute Books, 1999. Print. Atwood, Margaret. Alias Grace. New York, Doubleday, 1997. Print. Ausubel, Ramona. Awayland: Stories. New York, Riverhead Books, 2018. Print. Bergevin, Heather. Lawless Women. Salt Lake City, BCC Press, 2018. Print. Bordo, Susan. “The Body and the Reproduction of Femininity”, The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, second edition, edited by Leitch, Vinvent, B., Norton & Company, London, 2010, pp. 2243. Print. Carson, Anne. Autobiography of Red. New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1998. Print. Cixous, Hélène. “The Laugh of Medusa”, The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, second edition, edited by Leitch, Vinvent, B., Norton & Company, London, 2010, pp.1942– 1959. Print. Dolmage, Jay. “Metis, Mêtis, Mestiza , Medusa: Rhetorical Bodies across Rhetorical Traditions.” Rhetoric Review, vol. 28, no. 1, 2009, pp. 1–28. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/25655927. Accessed 19 Apr. 2021. Print. Egan, Jennifer. A Visit From the Goon Squad. New York, Anchor, 2011. Print. Galef, David. Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook. New York, Columbia University Press, 2016. Print. Farris 21 Heching, David. “Margaret Atwood: There's Nothing In 'The Handmaid's Tale' ‘that didn't happen, somewhere'. EW.com, 8 Mar. 2017, https://ew.com/books/2017/03/08/margaret-atwood- handmaids-tale-reality/. Accessed 5 Nov. 2021. Web. Hodges, Kate. Warriors, Witches, Women: Mythology’s Fiercest Females. London, White Lion Publishing, 2020. Print. Percy, Benjamin. Thrill Me: Essays on Fiction. Minneapolis, Graywolf Press, 2016. Print. Pitlor, Heidi., & Sittenfeld, C. The Best American Short Stories 2020: Selected from U.S. and Canadian Magazines. New York, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2020. Print. St. John, Cheryl. Writing With Emotion, Tension, & Conflict. Blue Ash, F+W Media International, 2013. Print. Rhys, Jean. Wide Sargasso Sea. New York, W. W. Norton & Company, 1966. Print. Ulrich, Laurel Thatcher. A House Full of Females: Plural Marriage and Women's Rights in Early Mormonism, 1835-1870. Toronto, Alfred A. Knopf, 2017. Print. Zambreno, Kate. Heroines. London, The MIT Press, 2012. Print. Farris 22 Unsung Lady of Waters a creature birthed on a ripple of salt and wind, bones welded with the power of rivers. She moves as a meteor, gliding through ivory hills of sand and showers of emerald leaves that flap in the static lightning rain. Tearing at the textured charcoal sky, with glittering nails, dripping claret beads onto the parched ocean floor—now a desert embedded with the crystallizing bodies of her people. Skin phosphoring against the abrupt embrace of death. Particles of bodies break and return to the dirt, feeding worms and root. She steps on their dissolved forms, fluttering against the lull of time, past the blind eyes of humankind. Some flock to her as dandelion tufts on a summer wind, fingers arched and stretched like the boughs of a willow. Reaching. Wanting. Claiming. She flits away. Folding rib bones around a pulsing heart that roars in flames. Farris 23 Prologue When the first summon rang out through the middle of a bitter January night, the twenty chosen young ladies of Rosestead stirred from their sleep. The call thrummed, chiming in the darkness like the golden echoing vibrations of a harpsichord. The young ladies untangled themselves out from under their piles of quilts and sheets, throwing them to the sides of their beds. Creeping out from under the arms of husbands, sisters, and young children, each stood mechanically. They reached under their bed frames to find a never-before-seen medallion-yellow cloak folded neatly. Pushing their arms through the cloaks, they threw them on and over their thin nightgowns. Some closed their eyes in bliss at the buttery velvet feel of the wool cloaks. The young ladies of Rosestead placed their feet into boots, pulled the deep yellow hoods over their faces, and walked out into the brisk winter air. When the cool embrace of the night cloaked the tips of their exposed noses, they each stalled. They sucked in the sweet citrus air, before scurrying on their way—like blond foxes running through a snow coated meadow. The young ladies of Rosestead marched toward the Mississippi River from every direction in town, following the honey-rich hint of the summon. They were beckoned toward a thicket of wood at the river’s edge. Only when they began hiking through a cluster of crowded silver maples and Kariba weed, did they notice others clad in yellow surrounding them. Despite reaching out in the dark and clasping arms or hands, they did not reveal who they were to each other. Once they made their way through the tangles of branches they came upon a tranquil moonlit glade. A heap of stones, mortared and piled messily, formed a small squat cottage at the back of the clearing. As they approached the cottage, an old woman emerged from inside. She stood in the doorway, her eyes shining as the moon in the dark night. Waving the young ladies Farris 24 forward, her deep black robes of wool billowed out from her form, revealing sagging calloused skin wrapped in a silver ancient gown. Her hand braced the pointed ridge of each of the young ladies’ shoulders as they strode toward her. Some young ladies, once feeling the bark-rough caress of her gnarled fingertips, turned on their heel and went back to town, as if her touch had been a dismissal. The ones who were sent home, folded their cloaks, tucked them under their beds, and fell back asleep under the embrace of their bedfellows—instantly forgetting the night and never again hearing the twinkling summon of the old woman. For the others, the old woman whispered, “Enter, my daughter.” The inside of her cottage loomed wide, with a low ceiling. By some magic or miracle, the one-roomed cottage was much bigger on the inside than it had seemed from the outside. It was cluttered with dried herbs, cast-iron pans, and various animal furs hanging from the ceilings. A pot of stew bubbled above the hearth of a red brick fireplace on one wall of the cottage. Her possessions were archaic, hinting at an ancient era. One wall contained a towering shelf, stuffed and crammed with ancient books and trinkets. A neat and tidy bed was shoved to the corner, and a raven was nestled into the pillows, watching the yellow-clad women crowd into the cottage with black-stone eyes. A large quilting frame and weaving loom took up the center of the room. There were straw baskets filled with fabric, stuffing, thread, and needles under the quilting frame. Ten wooden stools dotted the perimeter of the frame and the young ladies of Rosestead, as if in a trance, sat down and got to work. They collected swaths of fabric and began sewing swirls and stars into squared patches, designated for a larger quilt. The old woman surveyed them as they worked, eying the details flowing from their weaving hands. Every few moments, she touched a Farris 25 young lady’s shoulder and slipped a small silver coin into her palm, releasing her. The young lady would then stand and leave. On and on it went—until, during that first night, the number of young ladies had dwindled down to three. As the darkness outside began to brighten, the old woman snapped her fingers once and the three young ladies lifted their heads, their noses peeping out from under their hoods. They blinked, startled to find themselves seated in such a cottage. A wrinkle twitched up the side of the old woman’s face as she said, “Welcome my daughters, to the Midnight Quilting Society of Rosestead. Remove your hoods and reveal your faces.” The three ladies each reached up and pulled down their hoods. Alice Shaw Taylor gasped as she caught the icy eyes of Hannah Bloom Caldwell, one of the most devout ladies in town. They both turned to the third member, whose frizzy hay-colored hair escaped the bonds of her cloak. Alice smiled at Celia Bellefont, the young midwife who lived on a farm on the outskirts of town with her ailing father. Hannah pursed her lips, guilt washing over her at this nighttime meeting. The old woman’s white hair, thin and scraggly, shifted in the light of the cottage. “My daughters, until I call you again.” With another snap of her fingers, the three young ladies covered their heads and went home. And for six months after that first night, the old woman called them weekly to their quilt making. Farris 26 Chapter One Elizabeth Paige Some mornings when I wake, I expect to find the thick of his crimson blood coating my hands, once again. Yet, when my eyes open and I peel off the brown leather riding gloves that I keep on at all times, there is nothing but my pale hands—insect leg-thin fingers, chipped and short nails, the half-moons of white bordering the bottom of my nails, and the single freckles on each of my middle fingers. After I see that my hands are clean, I carefully ensconce them in the gloves once again, ensuring that my skin is wrapped and layered away from the filth of the world. In these moments, when my fingers tremble and a boulder sits squarely on my chest, I miss Nancy so much that it hurts. Or at least I miss how she used to be. Nancy has turned to God in a way that I can never. Her letters are dripping with such a magnitude of holy fire and goodly righteousness that they seem to burn me when I hold them up to the lantern at night to read. My chest falls each time I read her words. Who is this person that signs under the name of my sister? Though, I can hardly lay the full weight of my blame and vexation on her. First, she’d stagger beneath it, with those spidery thin limbs of hers. And second, I know her conversion is a direct influence of Uncle Albert and Aunt Tallulah. Nancy is just a naive girl caught up in the passionate zeal of those surrounding her. And now I venture out west to collect her. When I’d first heard of her baptism into this strange new church, I cursed Father’s name for leaving her behind in Boston while we toured Europe. Now I curse his name for leaving me behind. For dying. I drop from the stagecoach and into a patch of parched dirt. We are on the outskirts of Rosestead, and even here I sense the aroma of my grief hovering above my charcoal Tyrolean cap. This bleak vapor—as I often call it—follows me as I take several steps forward. I should Farris 27 hardly be surprised. These days I am never rid of its swirling, all-consuming essence. Dust rises from the earth, upon the impact of my weight. It churns around my face, and I wave my gloved palm in front of my nose. The journey from Boston has not been pleasant. The transportation and switching of coaches and river barges has whittled me down to a thin sliver of skin and bone. And I have little patience for this damned driver who turned the coach twice during our passage. My slim skirts flutter around my ankles and I breathe in my new environment. The muddy Mississippi River runs lazily to my right. It stinks, as if a collection of dead fish fester at the warm surface of the water. Heat bubbles pucker at the water line and a snake slithers through a thicket of foxtail barley. To my left a dense cope of trees twists into each other, forming what looks like a thatched roof of a hut. A raven caws from the branches and I squint to catch a glimpse of the black creature. When I don’t spot the bird, I turn my gaze northward. A winding dirt road lies ahead. There is no great city of Saints in sight. I twist my torso to glance up at the towering driver. “How far is the city?” The burly driver, whose perspiration reeks of liquor, chuckles. “Miss, it ain’t no city. I reckon you have about five miles to walk.” I release an exasperated snort and grab my luggage cases from another man seated at the back of the coach. Oh course, Uncle Albert didn’t arrange for actual passage into the city. I turn toward the road, when abruptly the driver’s sweaty palm wraps around my wrist. I freeze. His grip clamps down on the small circle of skin that I’ve allowed freedom—one of the only places where my skin directly kisses the outside air. I feel the bones beneath my wrist bubble and itch—churning within his grasp. A tremor quakes through my limbs. I glance down at the coin-sized fingernails, encrusted with grime. Farris 28 As quickly as an adder strikes, an image flashes before me. I am in a darkened room with a small golden candlestick in my grip. My knuckles are blue. The embellishments of the candlestick cut into my palm. The flame flutters and gasps for air in the bleak atmosphere. Father’s finely adorned four-poster bed sits before me. The curtains around the bed waltz with the night wind and a rotten smell blows through the room. A pale face peers up at me from the center of the pillows. A deep gurgling sound. His skin is grotesque—swollen, flecked and etched with cavernous leaking sores. Blood begins to spill from his red lips. “Let go!” My voice is shrill. The driver raises his ruddy hands in surrender, his eyes wide in apology. “Miss, I was only warning you about them Paragons. They’re strange folk.” I turn my back to the man and smooth my fitted plum coat against my body. My hands are shaking. Heat stains my cheeks and I hurry down the dirt road. A whip cracks. The clatter of the mules fades into the distance behind me. My stomach curdles beneath the heightening burn of the sun. And then I’m running into the shaded refuge of the trees. I drop my luggage and collapse to the earthen ground, pressing my face into the dirt. I rip off my gloves and use my nails to scrape at the skin of the wrist the man had violated. I scratch until I draw blood. For a moment, I stare—transfixed at the blend of the thin cherry-colored liquid and the white pale of my hand. And then I vomit the meager meal of stale bread that I had this morning. “What is the reason for your sickness?” I startle at the silky voice behind me. The woods have gone dark, and a horde of soft whispers grows. My eyes catch onto an auburn-haired woman leaning against the bark of a nearby sycamore. The deep red of her hair Farris 29 rises in stark contrast against the sycamore. Her sultry pink lips curve into a smile, around a long and straight nose. She wears a black robe, open and parted down the course of her naked body. At the sight of the woman’s exposed milky stomach, I force my gaze back toward the muck of the earth. “Good God, woman! Where are your clothes?” “What makes you so ill?” “My…my blasted coach turned over. Twice.” I allow my eyes to rest on the women’s black robe. Nerves gutter through me as I glimpse one exposed breast—the petal pink of her nipple. “Again, I ask. Where’s your clothing?” “Do not lie to me, Elizabeth.” I stand at the mention of my name and lean over to pick up my discarded gloves. “Are you familiar with my Uncle Albert? Is this how you know my name?” When I raise my eyes back toward her, the woman is gone. Light filters through the branches and leaves, as it had before. The masquerade of whisperings has ceased. I peer around the sycamore, stuffing my fingers into my gloves, and find no indication as to where she had disappeared to. I swallow down my discomfort. Was this a hallucination? As I pivot back around to pick up my luggage, the toe of my boot scrapes against something stiff. A silver bangle lies on the forest floor, right where the strange naked woman had been standing. I pick it up, leaning close to review the symbols and markings etched into the wide lips of the bracelet. They are archaic—nothing I had studied before with Father. It is heavy and cool in my hands. The bracelet must be worth a small fortune if the silver was indeed authentic. I press the crescent bangle to my wrist—determining to return it to the woman if I ever find her again. The silver of the bracelet fits perfectly over the exposed skin the driver had touched and I feel a shiver of energy rush through my limbs. Farris 30 I trek back onto the dirt road, heading northward, with a crinkle knitting the front of my brow. Who was that woman? Was the west filled with these naked lunatics wandering around the wilderness? I knew very well that my family had the tendency to be lulled in by neurotic simpletons. Uncle Albert, Aunt Tallulah, and Nancy are the greatest examples of that occurrence. But this naked woman does not seem to be a simpleton. My eyes scan the horizon, searching for the small town that is to be my new home. At least temporarily. Until Father's will is settled and once I convince Nancy to return to Boston with me. It had been three years since I last laid eyes on my younger sister. She is fourteen now. On the cusp of young womanhood. When we began our great tour, Father had decided to leave the girl behind and in the care of his younger brother. Little did we know then that Uncle Albert had gotten entangled in a new church—The Paragons of the Last Days. Uncle Albert seems to have spent the majority of his fortune in joining the people, who refer to themselves as Saints. He took Nancy along with his young family when the Paragons settled Rosestead. They claimed Rosestead as an oasis for the righteous on the edge of the Mississippi River. This town is apparently a refuge from the world—a place where holy deeds and good people flourish. I do not know many details of the religion, nor do I care to learn much. It still shakes me when Nancy writes of it. I hardly recognize her voice in her letters. After our return from Europe and before Father’s death, he wrote to Nancy and bade her to come home. Nancy refused, claiming she had discovered pure and righteous happiness in the fold of the Lord’s people. And as if that wretched high being cursed my family, Father fell ill with smallpox shortly after her reply. I am still reeling from his death three months ago. Uncle Albert travelled to Boston for the funeral and had it fixed that I was to venture to Illinois and stay with him. He hinted that I Farris 31 was an old maid—an unwed woman of twenty-six—and that I could spend my time as a governess to his children. I’d laughed in his face at the suggestion. He didn’t bring the subject up again. I have a nagging sensation that Uncle Albert is trying to take a part of Father’s fortune in his design of having both his nieces live with him. What Uncle Albert doesn’t know is that Father left everything to his daughters. His name wasn’t mentioned once in the will. Once I receive the first letter from Father’s attorney, announcing that the funds and properties are settled into mine and Nancy’s names, we will leave. Boston is our home. I already miss the bustling city, the whispering of women’s suffrage, and the wind twirling the fresh air of salt between the red-bricked buildings. But I know this journey must happen. If only to save my sister from these religious zealots. I look out onto the Mississippi River and the feral wilderness that surrounds it. A deep, forlorn feeling of abandonment coils within me. The Paragons don’t seem any more dangerous than other religious group, but this uneasiness still haunts me. Suddenly, I catch sight of a gleaming structure situated on a bluff in the distance. The structure glows under the lowering sun. It’s cream granite stone overlooks a series of houses and buildings that dot the tidy squared streets below. This must be Rosestead, the city of the Saints. I stitch my eyes to the setting horizon and veer toward the structure, like an autumn leaf dragged from its branch and down to the unforgiving forest floor. ~.~ Hannah Bloom Caldwell His tongue moves over the nut of my throat and a finger of sudden and overwhelming nausea pokes through me. I try to still my quivering hands and swallow the acid bubbling up my throat. The prophet of the Paragons of the Last Days moans in my ear and moves against my Farris 32 exposed body, toying with the wrists he keeps pinned above my head. I count the minutes until it’s over and then he finally lays back. A sigh smooths across his features. He leans against the linen pillowcase that I'd sewed for my wedding trousseau. His pale arms fly up and one of his thumbs braces the initials I had painstakingly stitched into the lining of the linen, just the night before my wedding. H.B.C. and W.J.C.. The pink stitching glares out at me, mocking my naked body. Shame beats my eyelids shut and I turn my back to the prophet. “Hannah, my sweet. Are you unwell?” He peers over, with one eye closed—the lull of sleep already pulling him in. “I am well.” Hours later, after I cleaned myself, dressed, and began working on a new quilting square, depicting a goldenrod-colored doe under a black tree branch, the prophet is still snoring lightly in my bed. No one would find this great man here, tucked away in the midst of town—where the impoverished Paragons of the Last Days reside. William had secured this one room cabin after our marriage. It is squashed between a cluster of similarly built homes in what looks to be a back alley instead of a street. Mother was horrified when she saw where I would be living. But William promised her that he would build a larger home for us to fill with children as the years went by. But the home never came. Neither did the children. For William had been called by the Lord to preach the gospel and find converts in the east, and now it’s been one year and ten months since I last saw his sun speckled face, crooked smile, and auburn hair. Rocking back and forth in the chair my late Father built for my wedding, I drop my quilting square at a knock on the door. I move quickly to answer the bolted door, blocking the slumbering prophet’s form with my body. Silence spills out from me when I catch sight of Claude Templeton’s chinless face. My dealings with this man have never been pleasant. Farris 33 I step aside as Claude enters with a chuckle. “He is quite worn, isn’t he?” Claude’s glassy eyes roam over me. I feel his gaze, as though a garden rake drags across my skin, catching on the corners of my body. I fold myself deeper into the faded shawl around my shoulders. Claude moves to wake the prophet. “Henry, your wife is searching for you. Supper is about to start.” I glance down at my bare feet, as the prophet rises and dresses. He plucks the only scrap of food I’ve managed to scavenge, a bruised apple, from a small wooden bowl on my rickety table. My heart sinks as he bites into the tender flesh. He leans toward me, curling a finger at my temple. I jump as he yanks a thread of hair from my head. Sour juice spills from his breath as he whispers, “I will miss you, my sweet. Remember, ours is the holy work of the Lord. We are happiest when we serve Him.” I nod, watching him take another bite. The prophet chucks the half-eaten apple to the floor and drops a letter onto the table. Finally, the two men leave. I am alone. I run to the door, bolting it tight, and sink to my knees. It happened six months ago. Claude Templeton appeared on my doorstep, beckoning me to follow him. The prophet has urgent need of you. Deep in the molten core of my body, I feared that William was dead. Claude guided me not to the Hall of Scholars, the official headquarters of our church, nor to the prophet’s grand mansion in Old Town, but instead I found myself facing the Rosestead Gazette. I felt curious, as Claude glanced around the street, before ushering me through the back door. Farris 34 I was taken to a room and told to wait for the prophet to attend to me. I was anxious. I’d never been unaccompanied in the presence of this great man before, let alone spoken to him directly. Finally, the prophet entered and sat before me, settling his large palms on the rounded knees of his trousers. I followed the outline of his large, peaked nose and bulging eyes with my gaze. His sandy hair had been brushed to the side. Up close, he reminded me of a frog. I waited for him to speak, which was customary in the presence of the powerful men in our society. But he simply passed his large eyes over me—as if searching past the skin that wrapped around my muscles and bones—searching for the silver essence of my being. An air of solemnity weighed heavily over us. I fidgeted and picked at the skin around my nails. With my back braced against the wooden chair behind me, my emotions swirled—choking me. “I beg of you. Tell me. Is it William? Is he dead?” Amusement shot through the prophet’s eyebrows. “Not at all. William is well. In fact, I’ve just received another letter from him this day.” Heat rushed to my face, and I glanced down at my booted feet. “I apologize for my outburst. Please, forgive me.” I met his rounded eyes. “If William is well, then what business do you have of me?” The prophet then revealed a peculiar proposition. No, not quite a proposition, but a revelation. He explained that yet another messenger of the Lord had flown down from heaven, with glistening white wings and a flaming sword to visit him. My wonder at his story slowly dissolved as he explained that the angel commanded him to take another wife, or else he would be destroyed and cast out from the heavens. Farris 35 He ended his story with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He raised his eyes, seeking mine. “The angel hath commanded me to take you as my new wife, Hannah Bloom Caldwell.” I remember jerking away from him, a prickly sensation scurrying across my chest. “I am already married.” The prophet leaned forward, distress filtering through his eyes. “And William is a good man. Hannah, I have no desire for this. And yet the Lord hath commanded it and as the prophets of old, I must obey and complete His work.” I glanced at the closed door behind me. The prophet then reached for my hand. I pulled it away, tucking it beneath my skirts. He sighed, “My dear, Hannah. Do you not see that God hath chosen you to be a leader among women? Do you not see that I shall be destroyed if we do not obey His commandments? Would you cast out the one and true prophet of the Lord from all the glory of heaven? Do you desire to see me, His glorious servant among men, sunk low before the angels and all heavenly glory?” My voice was like flint scraping against rock. “No. Of course not.” “Then you must obey the Lord.” “What of William? What of Lydia?” At the mention of our spouses’ names, the prophet’s face soured. “They are goodly people, and the Lord is truly pleased with them. But the Lord hath commanded us to complete His sacred work. William and Lydia are precisely why this matter must be kept hidden and in holy sacredness. We must not tell a soul. God has called William away to spread the gospel and teach those to repentance. You also have a great work ahead of you, for the Lord, thy God, hath called you to be my wife.” The prophet’s voice had gentled. “My Hannah, my sweet, beautiful Farris 36 Hannah. The Lord will not wait long. You have until the morning to confirm your obedience and to save my soul from the angry hordes of the devil.” And with that, the prophet stood, and Claude ushered me from the building. The next day I returned with my answer. Upon considering the salvation of my soul and that of the prophet’s, I had agreed to marry him in secret. Since that secret wedding, the prophet visits me in my small home. I detest these visits, but as his wife I have no choice. As I sit on the floor of my home, my back lined against the locked front door, my nerves are finally still. I stand and tear open the letter the prophet left on the table, an eagerness rushing through me like the rapids of a river. August 10th, 1843 My dearest Hannah, I write to you from the east of the great state of Pennsylvania. I am stationed in the abominable city of Philadelphia. The people here are most wicked—crowded, living in smutty streets and filthy rambles. Having no morals and no God, they are a corrupt sort and seek out their living through depraved means. I cannot believe God’s creations would sink so low and I refuse to stain your virtue with any details of these people. I am eternally grateful that you, my angel, are tucked away in the haven of our great city of Rosestead. When one has traveled the states, as I have, the more they grow in gratitude for their peaceful home. The people of Philadelphia are unwelcoming to the word of God, but still, I must try to gather their souls to the herd of our Lord. Darling, I cannot spare any more time to write. Your latest letter was distressing. I perceive your eagerness to have me return to Rosestead. I, too, am eager to see your Farris 37 shining eyes, once again. But our beloved and sanctified Prophet has revealed to me by letter, that God wishes I next travel south to Virginia, to preach to the desolate souls there. I cannot return home, for I must follow the Lord’s commandments. We will be blessed for our dedication to His work. Do not lament over my absence. Praise the Lord and He will grant you consolation and reassurance that we are doing the right thing. Eternally yours and with love, William J. Caldwell Terror slithers through my veins. Staring at the half-eaten apple, I feel as if the walls of this scrap of home close in to crush me. With the fees of William’s travels and the sum I must come up with for my own rent and meals, I fear I will wither down to a dried stalk of wheat before his return. I crumple the letter in my fist and reach for the dirty apple. Farris 38 Chapter Two Elizabeth Paige A violent wind lashes against the windows of the grand white mansion. I lift my gloved palms in the direction of the roaring flames, wafting from the great stone fireplace at the center of the room. I shift, my corset and the mauve bodice of my dress digging into my ribs. The low puffed sleeves of my dress make me feel like a plumped-up Christmas chicken, but Aunt Tallulah had insisted that this was the style of the west. I much prefer the slimmer styles of the city. I itch at the skin exposed at my neck and toy with the silver bangle around my wrist. The prophet, host to the feast that has yet to start, lounges in an emerald upholstered armchair, one foot thrown lazily across his knee. This is the first time I’ve met him. He dons a cream waistcoat, brown pants, and a white shirt with ruffles at the front. He gestures wildly, as he speaks. His eyes enlarge and grow afire with fervor. The glass of port wine in his hand spills onto the rug and his young wife’s acute gaze rests on the stain as it spreads through the pale threads, like a purple ink on yellowing parchment. I press my lips together at the sight. At least I am not alone in my discomfort. Uncle Albert and Aunt Tallulah, insisted on my presence at the invitation to dine with the prophet. According to Aunt Tallulah, within the past week of my residency in Rosestead, I had caught his attention. Whether it is through passing women’s suffrage pamphlets out to the wandering ladyfolk of the town or my refusal to attend the Sunday School held in the white the church on the bluffs, I am not quite sure what piques the prophet’s interest. Whatever the reasoning, he’d declared to Uncle Albert that he desired to meet the new young lady of the Paige household. Farris 39 I watch Nancy, who kneels at the prophet’s feet. She acts as if she were a lowly worm crawling through the dirt and toward the sun. I clench my teeth. I have yet to inform her that I am here to take her back to Boston. She is not ready for the news. Nancy, dressed in a blue and white lace dress, nods eagerly at the prophet’s words. Her chestnut hair, styled into sausage curls by one of Aunt Tallulah’s maids, is unbounded and loose. Her face still has the roundness of childhood, and her stomach presses out from the seams of her dress. She is too young for a corset. With her position on the floor and the eager nods bouncing the sausage curls, Nancy has never looked more like a child. A small gasp escapes her pert mouth at the prophet’s story. I lower my eyes. I feel as if I’ve already lost her to these people. The prophet rises and the rest of the party follows suit. He offers his guests a charming smile, swaying his head back and forth. “Shall we convene for dinner?” Nancy bounds after the prophet. His wife, Lydia, throws her a sharp look of contempt, her dark brown blinker curls swaying against her face. Turning to Uncle Albert, I watch him whisper with the other men of the party. Claude Templeton and Doctor Benson are supercilious and haughty. I already dislike them. During our short walk to the grand mansion, Uncle Albert claimed that these men were among the inner circle of the prophet and that it was the ultimate honor to dine with them. It is evident that Uncle Albert desires a seat among the great men of his religion. I follow the others into the dining room. The prophet’s wife, Lydia, is waiting for me. “Miss Paige, please do remove your riding gloves for dinner.” She has a voice like trickling water. It isn’t quite unpleasant, but I don’t care to listen to it all night either. Lydia stands to the side of the dining room entrance, her pink dress matching the light wallpaper of the dining room walls. Farris 40 “Mrs. Wrenne, your consideration for my comfort is admirable. I thank you. However, at the present moment, I should like to keep my gloves in place.” I try to swallow the heat rising to my cheeks. Lydia sticks out her bottom lip. Aunt Tallulah speaks up from behind me. “She’s an unusual creature, Lydia. Refusing to take her gloves off, even in this dreadfully hot weather. I am often puzzled by it myself, but it is best to let her be.” My teeth spike into the flesh of my inner cheek, but I say nothing and sit next to Nancy. The dining room stinks of money. A large oak dining table sits in the middle of the room, bedecked with fine porcelain plates, silver utensils, and crystal chalices. Several household servants bustle into the room and pull out the ruby-upholstered chairs for the remaining standing guests. They fill glasses of water and port wine. The prophet swirls his finger, and a servant man jumps forward with a decanter of golden liquid. I tilt my head at the sight of the whiskey. If I can get a glass of my own, perhaps I’ll survive this night. I drone out the conversation of God and the salvation of the souls among the wicked and perilous world and sip the celery broth from the porcelain bowl in front of me. My ears perk up at the mention of a woman on the edge of the Mississippi River. “I hear a tale of a woman haunting the Mississippi. Dear Henry, is this an apparition of the devil?” Aunt Tallulah asks. The prophet slurps his soup before responding. “I have yet to see this woman myself. But rest assured, if I ever do find her, she shall meet the mighty wrath of God.” Claude Templeton snorts. “She very likely partakes in witchcraft.” Farris 41 Doctor Benson drawls, “I doubt her existence. The children of Rosestead have concocted her myth to scare each other.” The doctor chuckles. “I have half a notion that this lady of the river is actually the midwife, Celia Bellefont.” “She still causing you trouble, Earnest?” asks Claude. “Indeed. She will not leave my patients or the townspeople of Rosestead alone. Her interference is a tragedy. Just last week the Carroway’s son died at her hands.” Claude looks to the prophet, indignation shining behind his small eyes. “There must be something done of her!” The prophet’s brow crinkles. “My only resolution is to bring the Bellefont woman and her pagan father unto the Lord.” “Yes. We must baptize them. Or else they will find torment at the hands of the devil for all eternity.” Uncle Albert’s chest puffs up, as if enthralled to be included in a discussion with the leading men of The Paragons of the Last Days. My eyes narrow. “Uncle, I am not baptized in your church. Do you condemn me to suffer at the hands of the devil as well?” Silence spreads throughout the room. The only sound echoing the walls is that of the servants placing plates of bloodied sliced beef, steamed potatoes, and greens in front of the dinner guests. My family can’t look at me. Nancy covers her reddening face with her hands. Aunt Tallulah sips her glass of port wine and rests her eyes on a large painting of the prophet, covering most of the wall to her left. Uncle Albert’s lips shade into a purplish hue. I glance down at my plate. Blood seeps out from the tender slices of beef and floods the dish before me. Suddenly, I feel the night wind blowing through the window of Father’s room Farris 42 and my nose twitches at a pungent smell. Clenching my fist around the spoon in my hand, I fight to stay present. I look to the prophet and force my breath to even. Encouraged by my glance, the prophet speaks. “Miss Paige, we would be delighted for you to join our ranks. I would be pleased to spend time with you personally and teach you of the visions and revelations I have received from the almighty Lord. The Lord hath confided in me that no other church, no other form of worship, is worthy of Him. He commanded me, as His servant, to establish the one true church on Earth, and those who do not hearken unto Him will not be saved when Christ comes again.” The prophet raises his eyes to those around the table. “I cannot say it any more clearly, we are in the last days. Unseemly and wicked movements occur in society and within the earth. Satan is at hand and will do anything in his power to remove us from the table of the Lord.” I raise my brows. “Mr. Wrenne, I’ve no desire to discuss such a sore subject as God with you. Nor do I wish to be at a table I am unwelcome at.” The prophet smiles, his eyes gentling when they meet my gaze. “I will not rush you, Miss Paige. But surely, I will save your soul yet.” ~.~ Alice Shaw Taylor The purple mark across my right jawline flowers out and up toward my swollen bottom lip. How I am to sing in front of the crowd at the Recreation Hall tonight, I do not know. I lean forward until my forehead kisses the cool reflection in the looking glass. My knees shake, as I think of how Jonathan erupted within the space of a breath. I’m still not sure what I had done to incite this storm of his. He left for a job in Warsaw immediately after, guilt swimming in his eyes Farris 43 as he glanced back at me crouched on the floor. It’s been three nights and he still has not returned. At least the swelling has gone down enough for me to chew again. We weren’t always like this. Jonathan once approached me with the attentive expertise of a tropical bird catcher. I once read about tropical bird catchers in The Alluring and Exotic Species of Asia. I found the book in a circulating private library that had graced my old employer's home, when I worked in Washington D.C.. I was younger then and so mesmerized that I had almost stolen the book. The diagrams and illustrations of the wild animals heightened my imagination. The book detailed how the bird hunters would lay intricate traps, spilling bird seed and fruit over leaves, and then they would bide their time—waiting until the creature hopped over and was captured by a snare. Jonathan did the same with me. We met when I was a servant, and he was passing through the city to advise my employer on stonemasonry. Jonathan used to claim that I stole his heart from the moment he laid eyes on me. We married two summers ago, and he whisked me away to his home in Rosestead. It was a hot ceremony, but I smiled so hard that my cheeks hurt. I can’t remember the first time a storm erupted from him, but as time rushed forward, he changed. I lost two children in my womb and the disappointment of it settled into his skin, pricking at his nerves like an evasive tick. Jonathan now mutters that I am a wicked woman and that he should have never married me. Holy and righteous women of God bring children into the world. Only did the depraved and sinful fail in their natural duties of motherhood. I glance back at my bed. Bloodied spots appear in my vision. Like poppies pushing up through sheets of snow, these marks refuse to let me forget about my dead babies. The poor souls didn’t fare long in this world. A failure on my part, I’m sure. If it weren’t for Celia and Hannah, I would have died on that dreaded bed. Celia’s skills as a midwife are unmatched by the town’s Farris 44 doctor and the presence of Hannah, praying over my ripping body, comforted me more than I care to reveal. I place a palm over the flat expanse of my stomach. Jonathan does not know about this new one. No one knows. And I keep this secret, burying it deep within the confines of my bones. I can’t say it aloud. I can’t raise my hopes, like an unruly wave on the ocean—only for them to crash down into the rocky shoreline cliff, taking my body and sucking it down under the sea. A knock wraps against the downstairs door, and I turn to open it. We are lucky to live in a two-story home. Though, we have far too much room with just the two of us. Despite Jonathan making a decent living as a stonemason, we keep no servants. I prefer it this way. I can’t bear it if someone were to witness one of his storms. I cover my jaw with my palm and open the door. Celia and Hannah rush into the foyer, as if the wind shoves them from behind. My two friends can’t be any more different. Where Celia is wild, with dirt smudged on her nose, Hannah is prim—always wearing her corset and holding her shoulders back as a proper lady. Celia is a pagan, practicing her rituals secretly in the forest around her farm. And there is no other woman more devoted to The Paragons of the Last Days than Hannah. We three would never have grouped together without the influence of The Midnight Quilting Society of Rosestead. Even now, their attire offers stark contrasts to each other. Celia wears her usual wide-brimmed straw hat that fails to tame her frizzy yellow hair. Her round brown eyes and high eyebrows remind me of the golden Tomé owl that haunted the tree outside my employer’s home. She is short with a round figure and her dress and overcoat are simple shades of brown. Hannah stands almost as an angel next to the muted colors of Celia’s attire. An angel with a wolf’s face. Being a renowned local beauty and devoted believer, she is fiercely loyal and contains a steely Farris 45 nerve that I covet. Tonight, her dark brown hair is pinned around her crown with baby’s-breath flower buds. She wears a white dress. The lace collar is intricate but beginning to gray. A wool black cape covers her shoulders, pulling out the winter ice blue of her eyes. They are what remind me of a wolf the most. I smile faintly at my friends and suddenly Hannah reaches out. She yanks my hand away from my face. Her icy gaze widens. “Goodness! Alice, how are you to face the town with such a miserable mark?” “It’s nothing. I tripped over a branch and fell against a rock.” Celia’s eyes darken. “Oh, be quiet. Do not mistake us for fools.” Hannah snaps. She walks up the stairs, as if this were her own house and Celia and I follow. We are always following Hannah. Hannah moves to my wardrobe and begins to rifle through scraps of fabric. “We shall tie a head shawl under your chin and hope that no one will discover it.” A huff of breath escapes Celia’s lips. “I doubt that will hide what the bastard did.” Hannah gasps, “Goodness, Celia! That language does not befit a lady.” My gaze falls to the ground. “I tripped over a rock and fell.” Hannah gives me a stinging look. “I thought it was a branch you tripped over.” Pulling a lace edged head shawl out, she wraps it around my head and ties a decisive knot under my chin. “Never mind that. Celia, how does this look?” I fidget as Celia’s brown gaze sweeps over my jawline. “It will have to do. I suggest you decline invitations to dance tonight. Nor should you stand close to anyone.” Nodding, it occurs to me that Celia is advising this for more than simply hiding the bruise along my face. I never dance at these outings anyways. Every three weeks the town throws a Farris 46 celebration for the Lord in the local Recreation Hall. I was once forbidden by Jonathan from attending town events, other than our weekly Sunday meetings, until others in our community begged him to allow me to sing at these celebrations. It is well known that Jonathan does not take kindly to anyone—any man—paying special attention to me. And so, these outings are limited. I am to attend, sing for the crowd, refuse any offers to dance, and return directly home. Hannah straightens the single braid I have draped over my shoulder and Celia stares at my jawline. Humiliation burns at the edges of my vision. Before I can back out from the event, Celia grabs my elbow and pulls me outside. She whispers, “I’ll bring an ointment to you in the morning.” Our footsteps crunch against the graveled road beneath our weight, as we walk along the path toward the Recreation Hall. Jonathan and I don’t live far. Our home is on the border of Old Town and Main Street—the only street bedecked in merchant shops. It is very different from Washington D.C., but I am now used to the silence of it all. The wind whips at our clothing and loosens strands of hair from our caps. I don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to this dreaded wind. Hannah struggles as she pulls at the brass handles of one of the two oak doors at the front of the Recreation Hall. Once the door opens, a flurry of heat rushes across my face and we dash in to escape the harassment of the Illinois wind. The hall is already crowded with Saints, even though the dance has yet to begin. Many of the rich huddle together, marked by their colorful hoop skirts and top hats. The penniless are marked in fraying gray aprons and loose parchment-yellow shirts, but they are smiling and laughing. My lips twitch along with theirs, as if recalling the movements of a laugh. A large thread-worn rug covers most of the oak floor and an iron candlelit chandelier Farris 47 lights the hall from above. The Hall almost looks like a medieval illustration I once saw in a history book. I watch as Hannah’s gaze flies to the long refreshment table pressed against the back wall of the Hall. Frustration flutters through me. In my haste to hide what Jonathan had done, I forgot to check on my friend. It was customary for the Paragon women to donate a dish ladened with food to the event, but Hannah’s hands are empty. Celia, however, has a basket of healing herbs. Not quite a dish, but Celia tries to promote her midwifery wherever she goes. I brought a small loaf of sweet bread. The only thing I am decent at baking. We follow the scent of food to the back of the Hall. I keep my head low and tilted. Celia empties her basket of herbs directly onto the white linen tablecloth, the rust-colored dirt staining the cloth. She then begins filling her basket with loose rolls and apples from the table. Anything she can easily take goes into the basket. She winks at me, indicating that she is to slip away during the evening and place the items in Hannah’s bare cupboards. It is a game of ours. We take turns stashing food in Hannah’s home. This often falls onto Celia when I can’t get away from Jonathan. We both know Hannah is no fool, but she never comments on the food that mysteriously appears in her cupboards. “Miss Bellefont,” whispers a round-faced girl stepping toward Celia. Celia smiles, dimples appearing on both cheeks. “Good evening, Emma. And how do you fare?” Miss Emma Cook, a young girl around the age of fifteen, blinks her hollow eyes. Her family lives near Hannah’s and had lost everything when they travelled to join the Saints in Farris 48 Rosestead. A weariness trickles through her expression and she looks around. “May we… May I speak with you in private?” Celia’s expression hardens. She slips an arm into the crook of the girl’s elbow and steers her to the front doors. “She never does stay long at these celebrations.” Remarks Hannah, who nibbles delicately on the corner of a roll. “Unfortunately, she is the town pariah.” “True. And yet, they still seek her out.” Doctor Benson, the distinguished town doctor, refuses to see many of the townspeople of Rosestead. I was among that number both times I lost my babies. Celia on the other hand, rushed over the minute she heard the news, prepared with herbs and salves. Many other women in town secretly seek Celia out for various reasons. I worry about her meddling with the town doctor. He’s a powerful man that may one day decide he has had enough of my midwife friend. Hannah finishes her roll and, though I know she wishes to eat the entire table, she turns to me. “Shall we make our presence known?” We stride toward the affluent ladies, in their bright hoop skirts. The ladies cheer and fan themselves when they see Hannah’s dress, though they don’t remark on what I wear. Hannah is a popular woman in many social circles of the Paragons. Once, many of the ladies detested her before her marriage to William. Now that she is locked safely away in matrimony, they exude their love for her at every chance. Being Hannah’s close acquaintance has not done much for my social standing. And the longer I am with Jonathan the less I care to connect with others. Mrs. Marksmith, a plump rouge-cheeked woman, pats Hannah’s elbow. “My dear, Mrs. Caldwell. You are quite pretty today. Did you hear the latest news?” Farris 49 “What news?” “A new young woman has travelled into town from Boston last week. She is staying with Albert and Tallulah Paige. I believe she is Nancy’s older sister. I hear she is quite peculiar in her dress and manners. She actually inquired at the Rosestead Gazette for a writing position.” Mrs. Smith cuts in. “She wants nothing to do with God and refuses to attend church. How wicked.” Miss Williams steps in front of me, pressing me out of their tight circle. “Have you seen Clarice’s hem? The lace is quite repulsive!” I take this as my cue and turn away from the gossiping ladies to search for the event planner. Mrs. Lankshire is a thin woman, who has dressed in black since the death of her husband seven years ago. In her mourning, she has thrown herself into serving the Paragons and the town of Rosestead with the fervor of an army general. “Ah. Mrs. Taylor. There you are.” Mrs. Lankshire’s brisk walk echoes along the walls of the Hall. She stops moving at the sight of my face. Her gray eyes soften. “My dear, do you plan to perform tonight?” Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Yes, Mrs. Lankshire. At what time will you need me?” “Very well. Tonight, is a special celebration, for our dear prophet and his dinner guests will be joining us after their meal is finished. We shall begin the night with dancing and then move onward to the performances. The prophet has long praised your voice in the church choir, so I shall collect you after he and his guests have arrived.” My sore lip spreads into a smile. The prophet praised my voice? Vines of nerves twist around each other deep in my stomach. I must tell Hannah. Farris 50 Hannah is still deep in conversation with the brightly dressed ladies, but I catch her eye and she excuses herself. Musical instruments ring throughout the Hall and the townspeople of Rosestead begin to dance. “Goodness. I thought I would never escape them.” “Hannah, Mrs. Lankshire just informed me that the prophet is to attend the festivities tonight. And I am to sing for him upon his arrival.” A strange light flickers across Hannah’s features. “What a wonderful honor, Alice.” A man steps forward and asks Hannah to dance. Despite being married, she is always sought out at these events. As she holds out a hand to accept the invitation, I glimpse a tremor run through her fingers. Several dances into the celebration, the prayers and holy invocations begin. A man, always a man, stands at the front of the Hall and prays to the Lord, asking for blessings to shower down upon the righteous and chosen Saints. I keep my head low and press my palms together, invoking a prayer of my own. As if the great man himself timed it perfectly, immediately after the prayer ends the doors to the Recreation Hall fly open. The prophet glides into the room, arms wide. “My good people, why aren’t we dancing?” The crowd laughs. The musicians take up their instruments and begin to play once more. I keep my eye on the prophet and his entourage. The next to enter the Hall is Claude Templeton. He smirks at a few young ladies as he walks past. My lips twist into a painful frown, as Doctor Benson enters after Claude. He escorts the prophet’s wife, Lydia Wrenne, on his elbow. She is dressed in pink and is unsmiling. Behind them, Albert and Tallulah Paige, and their niece, Nancy enter. Farris 51 Before I tear my eyes away from the Hall’s entrance, a woman in a slim plum coat and billowing mauve skirts enters. Her figure is tall and lanky. If I stand directly in front of her, the top of my head would reach her collarbones. She is almost as tall as Jonathan. She wears a smart cap, fitted closely to the dark brown curls covering the crown of her head. Almost from the moment she enters the Hall, a man rushes to her side. He raises his hand, asking her to dance. She shakes her head. Lifting a gloved palm to ward him off, the woman glances around the Recreation Hall. And her gaze falls onto mine. The deep emerald of her eyes quickens my pulse. I think of another illustration from The Alluring and Exotic Species of Asia. One of a jungle cat, prowling under the shades of large tropical trees. Its green eyes had seemed to stare through me, itching for a chance to escape the flat expanse of its paper and ink cage. This woman’s eyes are like the cat’s. Feral and intelligent. Deep wells of words and emotions that I wish to decipher. I can’t rip my eyes from hers. She holds my gaze, a seriousness spreading throughout her features. My stomach swirls. Mrs. Lankshire is at my side. “Come, Mrs. Taylor. The prophet is ready.” I tear my eyes from the gloved woman and follow Mrs. Lankshire.