I absorbed this, and brewed up a thousand fresh queries with which to pepper these nice women. It was only fair to warn them. “I have so many questions—a million, at least.”
Dr. Floyd signaled the hostess for our check, which she said she’d bill to the camp meeting. “Everyone in every faith has more questions than answers. Including us.”
“If you really want to learn about the church,” Mabel said, “you must attend the week’s seminars and sermons. You’ll learn some aspects of Spirit more deeply than others, but I’m confident you’ll fill in the gaps soon enough. You’re bright and eager, with a brain like a sponge.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I’ve spent fully an hour in your company, that’s how.”
• • •
SO you can see why I’m absolutely in love with them both, and in love with this place.
I am in love with the friendly people who wave and tip hats on the sidewalks during the day, coming to and from the community hall. I’m in love with the two small lakes—one named simply Spirit and the other named after our founder, Colby—and their long-legged birds and tall grasses, and the boys from Lake Helen and DeLand who come fishing there.
I’m in love, I’m in love—with the winter blossoms that smell like oranges and jasmine, and the brilliant green trees with all their leaves, and the snow-white paths of sand that go up and down the rolling hills. I’m in love with all seven hills, small, nubby things though they may be.
(I’m told they’re positively mountainous for Florida, and highly unusual. They’re molehills, but I don’t care. I love them.)
I love the men and women who come to speak, well dressed, with arms raised and hearts open, down by the lakes, in the amphitheater, the pavilion, whatever you’d call it. The church. It is open to the warm, humid air, and I love it—even with the bugs and uneven stairs, and the soft sand that eats my feet and lingers in my shoes. I love the whoosh of the ladies’ fans, and the murmurs of people agreeing, and the little sobs of happiness when Spirit speaks to a soul who needs to hear it.
Most of all, I love this awakening. I am finally surrounded by supportive people who wish me well, and wish for me to learn and grow and find my footing in a world that has always either ignored me or told me to hush up, for my own good.
I am finding hope. I am finding faith. I am finding Spirit.
I am finding my way to a Higher Good that has room for me in it, and would not set me on fire given half a chance.
• • •
LAST night, Mr. Colby invited me to come down front at the vespers meeting. It wasn’t an introduction or a prayer call. It was an opportunity to serve. I was flattered and terrified in equal measure, but Mr. Colby is such a patient, loving gentleman that it’s difficult to tell him no, regardless of how petrified I was by the prospect.
But as he explained to me at great length, this is an important part of participating in the church at Cassadaga.
“We are here to help those who seek us out for comfort or consultation,” he said gravely. “We must not hide our lights under a bushel, whether those lights are clairvoyance or mediumship—we must let them shine. We must contribute to the good of the world, Miss Dartle. If we cannot do that, then we do not deserve to be here.”
“You mean . . . the church? Cassadaga?”
“All of it, dear. All of us.”
• • •
IN time, I will become more comfortable and confident in my abilities, and in my audience. That’s what he told me before I left his flat in the big three-story house across the way from Harmony Hall. I hope he’s right. I hope it’s not much time at all.
It’s one frightening thing to read objects in front of half a dozen wizened witnesses, and another thing to speak for the spirits in front of the whole congregation—and all its seasonal visitors, who greatly swell the ranks.
• • •
WAIT. I should explain.
As I recorded above, I’m learning a great deal about the church, and some of the most exciting day-to-day bits (or week-to-week bits) are the open readings that occur as part of the vespers ceremonies. I’m told that during the slow season, when attendance is down, these happen only once per week, on Friday or Saturday nights. But in the busy season, when the camp is crawling with out-of-towners, they’re held more frequently.
In the week and a half since I arrived, I’ve seen only two open readings for myself.
(I missed a third, as I was taking a trip to town with Mabel. I needed some things. I did not collect any rum, though I was sorely tempted—even though it’s not my preference.)
The open readings are a simple affair, conducted without much ceremony. The vespers service begins, Dr. Floyd (or a guest speaker) will offer a few words, a hymn or two is sung . . . and then whichever mediums are called and willing go down front beside the pulpit and begin to share messages from the other side.
• • •
BABY steps. Good practice. A kind and receptive audience.
I kept these promises in mind while I waited for the hymn to wind down. I held the hymnal and moved my lips along in a vaguely melodic mumble, not because I cannot sing (I can sing quite nicely, I’d like for the record to reflect), but because I was fiercely anxious. It was almost as bad as my test on that first day.
And here I’d thought nothing could ever rival that event.
The book in my hands was red and stamped on the front with gold leaf. It was a Presbyterian hymnal, if the copyright page could be believed. Maybe all of the songbooks were Presbyterian hymnals. Maybe a Presbyterian had donated them. Maybe there’d been a big sale.
The final bars of “He’s Able” tinkled out from the piano down to the left of the pulpit, and everyone sat down. For a few seconds, the fumble of heavy songbooks being slotted into pews made a silly rumble. Ever so briefly, it drowned out the chirp and chatter of fauna that always rose from the lake just beyond the pavilion—even though the din was rising as the sun was setting.
Dr. Floyd thanked everyone for the music. “It’s raised the energy in a most delightful fashion, wouldn’t you say?”
The audience mumbled appreciation and agreement in return. So did I, but it mostly came out in a series of feeble squeaks.
“Before we get to the open readings, I see a number of new faces in the crowd. Last night’s train brought a fresh group of the faithful, I see.” She smiled across the audience, and the audience smiled back. “So I wanted to mention the potluck. Immediately following the open session, we’ll close the service with hymn number 314—and then we’ll withdraw to the fellowship hall behind the library and bookshop for supper. There’s plenty of food for everyone, and there’s no need to bring anything if you’ve only just arrived. Please, make yourselves at home and know that you are all welcome, to the last man, woman, and child.”
She was torturing me on purpose; I was sure of it—dragging out my debut for as long as she could, just to get me all worked up and flustered.
It was too warm already. Too warm for January in anyplace reasonable, despite the waning light of day. My thighs were getting sticky. Probably, when I stood up, everyone would see a thin seam of sweat running from my behind to my knees. I should’ve worn a darker dress. I should’ve worn a thicker slip.
Oh God.
“Now I’d like to introduce you all to one of our newest residents, Miss Alice Dartle, from Virginia. This evening’s open reading belongs to her, and it will be her very first. I trust you will all treat her with respect and patience. Alice? Would you please come down and join me?”
I rose to my feet. My legs stuck together even though I was wearing a garter and very high stockings that were supposed to keep things from sticking together. I think they might have made the problem worse, because adding a layer of fabric to anything in January in Florida is a terrible idea.
“Thank you
, Dr. Floyd,” I said. I was still holding my hymnal. I put it down on the seat on the damp spot where my rear end had been.
The congregation had gone quiet, except for a soft fussing noise from a nursing infant somewhere off to my left, and the snuffling of a runny nose from an old man down on my right. I felt the whole world watching me, even if it was only a hundred people or so. Or closer to two hundred, now that I had time to look around and do a little math. Math was never my strong suit, but as I walked down the sandy floor of the aisle, I counted the rows of pews and I counted the people sitting on them, and the pavilion was rather full, so perhaps there were a hundred and seventy people. That is my best and final guess.
I thought of the gallows, and the stake.
I knew it was stupid. I knew these earnest, eager listeners would treat me nicely despite any flubs or foibles on my part. But oh, I did not want to disappoint them.
At the bottom of it all, I think that’s the thing that scared me most. What if I could not help? What if I did not connect to anything, or anyone—flesh and blood or spirit?
What if I did not deserve to be here?
But it was too late to change my mind. I halfway prayed for a broken ankle as I went down the grade, interrupted by steps made from railroad ties. The heels of my shoes were not too high and rather square; they made the clop-clop sound of a horse’s hooves, and this noise echoed through the space, or I imagined it did. What would it echo from? The tent canvas ceiling, which draped over our heads like a bed’s canopy? The stout columns that held the whole thing up? The lake beyond?
No broken ankle rose to save me, and Dr. Floyd put out her arm to gesture me onto the stage. I followed her lead.
“Everyone, please welcome Miss Dartle.”
A soft pattering of applause filled the air, and when it stopped I heard only the Florida evening buzzing, humming, splashing, and croaking. Gaslamps came on as I appeared, lighting the space as the sun dropped low behind the trees, lending the whole thing an air of spectacle I hadn’t quite anticipated.
But like Mabel told me the other day, Spirit is drawn to Light.
The lamps gave the stage an eerie glow and probably made my skin look nice. There’s something about candlelight and gaslight; they’re good for a girl’s complexion. I took comfort from that. I might be lost and bumbling, but my cheeks were surely as smooth as alabaster.
I cleared my throat and stood up straight.
“Hello, everyone. It’s a pleasure to be here, and thank you so much, Dr. Floyd—and Mr. Colby.” I scanned the crowd, but I did not see him. “Wherever he is. Um. Yes, thank you all.”
Dr. Floyd withdrew to a seat on a bench behind the pulpit while I wished this was a proper stage and that I could not see the audience for the lights in my face. No, the lights were off to the side—giving everyone a great view of everyone else. No blessed blindness for me, only paralyzing clarity.
Breathe, just breathe . . . that’s what Mabel had told me to do. She said to breathe, and listen, and keep my heart and mind clear, so that any interested spirits might make use of me. So I closed my eyes, since it seemed like the thing to do. One can always listen better when one’s eyes are closed—it’s a scientific fact. I’m sure of it.
And yes, once I’d blocked out the rest of the world, somewhere in the back of my head I sensed a tug of light. I can’t think of a better way to describe it, but this tug of light came with a whisper, and a nudge. I heard a name, but I couldn’t catch it.
Here he was. My first spirit, at my first open reading.
“I see a man,” I began in the most vague and incontrovertible fashion possible. “He’s an older man with great muttonchops, vigorous muttonchops,” I emphasized. “He’s very near.” I heard the name again, but barely. “His name is several syllables, and it begins with an ‘N,’ I think.” I felt a hand on my arm and blinked myself aware, looking back over my shoulder at Dr. Floyd. She was the only one onstage with me, and she was still seated ten feet behind me.
I left my eyes open now. I could see the man in my head and feel him beside me. “He’s here for someone in particular. Does he . . . does he sound familiar to anyone?”
“My father, perhaps?” Someone spoke from the crowd. “He passed when I was very small, back during the war.”
I found her and fixed on her face. She was Dr. Floyd’s age, give or take, so that meant she was speaking of the War Between the States. Or as my aunt Phyllis always put it, “The Late Unpleasantness.”
In my mind, I asked this spirit to speak up. I needed his name, and I didn’t want the woman to provide it. I needed to prove myself. Nathaniel, he whispered louder this time, and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was the clearest word I’d ever been blessed with—my first direct response that didn’t take the form of an image or a feeling. This spirit had spoken directly! To me!
“His name is Nathaniel,” I said, more triumphantly than was probably polite.
“That’s true!” called the woman in the crowd. She didn’t nod back and forth to her neighbors on the pew. “It’s him. He’s here to talk to me.”
• • •
THIS was not a performance. This was not a stage show, conducted by mirrors and mischief. This was family and truth, life and death, and everything that comes before and after. The weight of it humbled me and squeezed my chest.
• • •
NOW he gave me images: the too-loud percussions of cannons; the shouts of men; the smell of blood and soot; the flap of a tent, opening and closing. “Did he die in the war? In battle, I mean?”
“Yes.”
On the hill, he said, his voice the rustle of autumn leaves. His eyes were very green, very bright when he looked at me now. They were intense, intelligent eyes. Don’t leave the paths, they say. You’ll break an ankle.
I’d only just been hoping for a broken ankle. It must’ve been a coincidence, not that I understood what he meant, or why he’d say that. “On the hill? Don’t leave the paths?” I repeated it out loud, in case I’d misheard—or in case the words meant something to his daughter.
“We know he died at Chickamauga,” she answered, a catch in her throat. “But on the hill? Did he die on a hill? Is that where they buried him?”
The spirit nodded. On the horseshoe.
“A horseshoe?”
A man blurted out, “Snodgrass Hill. It’s shaped like a horseshoe. My uncle fought there, too, at Chickamauga,” he explained, seeming suddenly bashful about having spoken.
“Oh thank God.” I was so relieved at the confirmation that I forgave myself the lapse in manners. “I mean . . . thank you, spirit. Is that right? Snodgrass Hill?”
He nodded.
“And you’re buried there?” Another nod, so I said, “Yes, he says that’s where he’s buried.” I am sorry I broke my promise. “He says he’s sorry he broke his promise.” Her children are beautiful, and she raised them well. I am proud of her. I am proud of them all. “Your children are beautiful, and he’s very proud of them—and you.”
Tears moistened her face, and probably mine, too. She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth and nose.
The spirit shifted to stand in front of me, between me and the nice people in the hard pews in the soft sand. I could see through him, or rather, I could see past him—but I only wanted to look at him, so that’s what I did. I’d never seen a dead man so clearly before. He was not gaunt or frightening. He was ordinary except for the magnificent facial hair. He wore a blue uniform and a sad smile.
Do not tell her this, for she’ll find out soon enough: Her mother is with me now. It will not be a surprise, but it will be a blow.
“All right, I won’t. If you don’t . . . if you’d rather I didn’t.”
Tell her instead that I am here, and all of my love is here, too. Tell her that she is never alone.
So I did as he asked, and the woman openly wept. I wasn
’t sure if I’d helped or only made something worse. “I’m sorry, ma’am, please don’t cry.”
She shook her head and sniffled, and said something like, “No, no. It’s beautiful,” through the handkerchief. “It’s so beautiful, thank you. I’m so glad I came.”
I was pinking again, but I wasn’t so upset as usual. This time, I was flushing because I was trying not to cry, too, and not doing such a good job of it. I didn’t have a handkerchief handy, and I couldn’t imagine asking to ruin somebody else’s, so I couldn’t afford to burst into tears; that was all.
The spirit of Nathaniel disappeared as quickly and thoroughly as if he’d never been there, and in his place I heard another faint tug of light—or I felt the faint tug of light, however it works—and then I was joined by a woman named Anna who had died in childbirth. Her husband was in the audience with the child in question, a little boy of half a dozen years and ears that stuck out like the open doors of a roadster. He wanted to talk to his momma, and I frankly lost all semblance of decency. Dr. Floyd arrived just in time with a handkerchief and I destroyed it in less than a minute.
When I’d finished passing along the absent mother’s love, I turned to the good doctor and said, “It’s never been so clear before. They’ve never been so . . . present.”
“It’s the music,” she said with her ever-present reassurance. “And the fellowship, and this place. Cassadaga raises the energy and brings them nearer. You’re doing very well, Alice. Don’t fall apart now.”
“Too late,” I confessed, even as I turned back to face the audience again.
Every face watched me, just as before—with that same mix of nervous anticipation and hope. Now a few of them were damp faced like me and Nathaniel’s daughter and Anna’s husband, and a few others looked worried, and a few more had their mouths hanging open as if I’d done something magical. One or two in the back shook their heads like they did not believe this trickery, but Mabel and Dr. Floyd had warned me that there were often a few of those in the crowd. Several children grew restless. I wasn’t talking with their mothers, and they were getting hungry. One old lady had fallen asleep, her head on her husband’s shoulder.