A Season of Whispers Read online

  “Mr. Sutton is certainly upset about the hog’s loss, however. Accident or intentional, the result is the same. An evil has been done.”

  One of the great mysteries of Bonaventure, Lyman had discovered during his time there, was that while its members agreed upon a course of newfound communal living both for personal reward and as an example to the rest of the planet, they certainly disagreed on the precise shape and form of that idealized existence. Modeling the men and women of tomorrow demanded countless questions be asked today.

  Take the merely practical, for example. If clothes betrayed wealth and rank in the greater world, should the farm members perhaps dress identically in simple smocks? If gout was the malady of kings and plutocrats, should their diets abstain from meat? These simple day-to-day unknowns invariably led to more heady queries. Should the members restrict their attentions to themselves or strive toward effecting change in the greater world? How could their experiment be regarded successful if in their self-concern they ignored the plight of the bonded slave or the diseased orphan? And so on flowed the questions to Lyman’s eternal boredom, the uncertainties of the utopians ascending ever higher in great spirals until finally the wax of their wings melted and they fell one by one into an unanswerable Aegean.

  When these discussions erupted, Lyman was always careful to refrain from comment or, if invited to speak, to offer the briefest of opinions. Yet it was common during their walks, after having shared farm gossip and commented upon the weather, for their discussions to likewise range into hypothesizing and intellectualism. Minerva never hesitated to speak her mind in a crowd; but the intimacy of the forest and their companionship encouraged Lyman to be less laconic in matters philosophical.

  “I believe,” he said, “it’s an error to judge an action good or evil without knowing the purpose behind it. Rather the intentions of the actors are what should be scrutinized and weighed.”

  “So if a letter of yours was misplaced—completely without malice—by someone at Bonaventure, you would not begrudge the guilty party?”

  “How could I?”

  “But we have not discussed the content of the letter,” said Minerva. “What if the letter contained information regarding an imminent invasion, addressed to the authorities? Or some other news that, if delayed, would cause harm.”

  “Then I would say the carelessness of the one who misplaced the letter is to blame.”

  “Even though he had no intent to do evil? And yet evil resulted nonetheless.” She waved her hand. “It wasn’t so long ago that such a thing was imaginable, the entire coastline of the state burned and ravaged by soldiers in crimson.”

  The routes for Lyman and Minerva’s walks being rarely twice repeated, they had, while they talked, entered a new part of the forest. The path dipped between blocks of trap rock, the leaves barely carpeting the cobbles winding between them. The trees, many of them by this time stripped of their robes and shawls, perched atop the walls like naked crones.

  Lyman replied with slowness as if considering each word. “The fault of the invasion lies with the invaders.”

  “That’s beside the point. We’re confining our interest to the mishandler. We suppose that if the letter had reached the authorities, the invasion would have been prevented. He had no intent to do evil and yet evil occurred nonetheless.”

  “Carelessness could be considered an evil.”

  “But that’s not possible. No one intends to be careless with the post.”

  It was not for nothing that Lyman preferred tight lips; these roads led only to rhetorical snares and logical bear traps. “Then he committed no evil,” Lyman said firmly. “Whatever occurred afterward is the fault of others. They’re the ones with evil intent, not him.”

  Minerva was silent a moment. “I find that poor reasoning, Mr. Lyman.”

  “And how would you reason it, Miss Grosvenor?” He tried to keep the cold out of his voice, to pretend it didn’t bother him. “I assume you value the result instead.”

  “No,” she said. “I believe evil has nothing to do with either intent or result. Evil is merely the absence of good. The mishandling of your letter, for example, cannot be considered good, therefore it is evil.”

  Lyman considered. “What then is the source of good? In your worldview.”

  “Simply the desire to do good consciously in regard to every action, no matter how small. To do anything else is,” she searched for the correct word, “careless.”

  The pair slowed to a stop; their path, if not their walk, had concluded. The thin canopy overhead opened onto slate clouds, mirroring a barren rock field below. Slabs zigzagged from the forest floor as if punched from the earth by a subterranean fist, its sterile loneliness further pocked by boulders and the odd tuft of grass. On all sides the field lay surrounded by black branches and red leaves, like Beefeaters standing at attention around some significant ruin, an almost perfect circle of erratic crag and stone sequestered among the trees. The isolation of it underscored the lifelessness of their strolls, the complete lack of squirrel or doe or fox, and Minerva imagined the far side of the moon could not be half as forsaken as this spot.

  They mutually decided to turn back rather than risk a twisted ankle, so the day at least ended on an agreeable note.

  •••

  During Lyman’s absence from the farm’s activities the sweet corn had been collected; but now remained the work of husking it. The corn meal returned from the miller would serve as the basis for much of the farm’s comestibles over the winter months, while the proceeds from the corn sold at market would be folded into Bonaventure to purchase the things they could not themselves produce—which were many.

  After breakfast on the chosen day, every resident gathered in the yard beside the Consulate, took his or her seat, and went to work on the mountains of green corn dumped on the ground. If a mound shrank too greatly, then some of the men would visit the corn crib, returning with full barrows to replenish the stock. The husked corn was tossed into a wagon bed for eventual return to the crib, and quickly a side sport developed of fancy tosses and over-the-shoulder hooks, rewarded with cheers or catcalls depending on the athlete’s aplomb.

  It was a long and tedious chore. Fortunately, to make the time pass faster Grosvenor had engaged the services of a schoolteacher from New London to present a lecture while the Bonaventurists worked. This wasn’t unique; Lyman was told that visits by lecturers and scholars was a common occurrence in the bleak weeks of January snow and February ice, and likewise Grosvenor or some of the others were occasionally invited to share their views at lyceums and parlors in the neighboring burghs. The theme of the teacher’s talk—whose name was either Hoyt or Howson or maybe Hewlitt, no one could say exactly afterwards which—made it obvious why he had been chosen, dovetailing as it did with Grosvenor’s personal sensibilities.

  He spoke on the inherent conservatism of society. “How often it is, friends,” he said, “that we keep old customs close to our bosoms for no other reason than they have long lodged there. Like letters from some youthful lover who has since married and moved elsewhere, we maintain these customs yellowed and careworn in our breast pockets, representative of something that was meaningful to us once and yet has no modern purpose today.”

  “Much like our useless attachment to clothes,” said Mr. Presley.

  “Yes! I mean—what? No. It’s not the same at all,” said Hoyson, “but regardless these customs and conventions lie all around us, so much so that we ignore them until we are blind to their presence. As an example, look here! Since I have arrived at your fair farm, I have noticed these.”

  He strode over to the side of the Consulate and, kneeling, parted the long grass to point at symbols carved into the foundation blocks of the house. The symbols were round, like wheels, with segments of other circles carved off-center within so that the overlapping ovals created a petal effect, sometimes five petals, sometimes six.

  Lyman, who had never seen the carving
s before, looked quickly at Minerva. She sat absorbed, her husking forgotten.

  “These are called daisy wheels,” said the man. “They are wards intended to keep evil at bay. They were very popular in previous centuries in rural England, where the superstitious farmers would carve them into foundations or beams and lintels to keep devilish spirits out of their houses. The idea was that evil would become lost in the marks’ twists and turns like a walker in a maze, and thus couldn’t penetrate beyond. Doubtless these marks were carved by the original settlers of this farm.”

  “I had thought they were sand dollars,” said Minerva, “carved as some reminder of a day at the beach.”

  “Indeed! I see how you could believe that. The resemblance is similar. Nevertheless,” said the man, rising to his feet, “they are nothing quite as lovely. Instead they serve as reminders of how ignorant and irrational our forefathers could be. And yet by clinging to these outdated beliefs, we are little different from those who would burn old ladies at the stake because of a lazy eye or a mole on the cheek.”

  Everyone soon settled into the drudgery of the work and the droning of the lecturer faded into the noises of tearing husks and twisting stems. Eventually the lecturer’s throat ran dry and he vanished into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Meantime the others joked and teased and made contests of their husking; and when that failed to amuse, they sang songs. Lyman knew few of the words.

  One thing broke the repetitiveness of the day. Minerva had noted that of all their company, there was only a single absence: that of Mr. Sutton. The vacancy was made the stranger by Mr. Presley’s admission that he’d not laid eyes on his cabin mate since late the previous afternoon.

  Then, during lunch, Grosvenor came hurrying around the corner of the house with a letter in hand. He announced it had been tacked to the front door and was addressed to the members of Bonaventure. Everyone left off their meal and crowded around Grosvenor while he read it to the company.

  It was, as supposed, from Sutton himself, and amounted to an apology and explanation of sorts in which Mr. Sutton announced that he found the labor of the farm too much for his constitution and had decided to retreat to his brokering in New York. He further added that the shame of his weakness prevented him from saying his good-byes in person, and therefore he had skulked away under cover of night. There was no use chasing after him on the road or writing to him in the city, Sutton insisted; his mind was resolute, and he wished nothing more than to put his adventure at Bonaventure forever behind him.

  There was a great murmuring at this as everyone agreed this action was most unlike Mr. Sutton’s character, for while he could sometimes make himself boorish on the subject of abolitionism, all concurred it was the very same fiber and tenacity that had made him a leading figure at the farm. Several of the ladies wept into their napkins, upset at their friend’s departure without a face-to-face adieu. Grosvenor did not know what to make of it, shocked by the erraticism of a man he considered steady as stone, and after concluding his oratory, he sat humbled in his seat, refusing to touch his coffee.

  Minerva herself found her mood weighted by leaden ballast. Only days before she had discussed with Sutton the vanished John Tyler and been impressed by his devotion to Bonaventure’s future.

  The feeling persisted throughout the day, distracting her thoughts as she performed her chores rotely. Sutton’s departure was both odd and yet completely understandable; so contrary to his manner and yet logical in light of his view of the farm’s tenuousness. Here was a new enigma, then: what would Dupin think? Come late afternoon, as she stood in the kitchen with the other women preparing supper, Minerva happened to glance out the window to see the menfolk retiring from the husking, the denuded corn returned to the crib. On an impulse she threw down her paring knife and headed toward the cabins.

  Mr. Presley—having just returned home and still fully clothed—was unsure how to react to Minerva’s presence in his cabin; she was, in fact, the first female to ever cross its threshold. She prowled, in his estimation, about the single room, scrutinizing and studying; picking up a redware mug and setting it back down, or fingering through the shirts left on their hooks over Sutton’s bedstead. Truthfully Minerva did not know what to search for either. Meantime Presley watched her, not knowing whether to sit or stand or what to do with his hands.

  In addition to his clothes, Sutton had also left several bundles of letters tied with string in the drawer of the cabin’s desk. Minerva hesitated a moment whether to examine them, but then realized they were fair game by reason of their abandonment.

  “It is a favorite pastime of Mr. Sutton’s,” said Presley, “or was I should say, to write and read letters at day’s end. I prefer to read educational and uplifting books, myself.”

  “I see the letters are bundled by sender,” said Minerva. There were more than a dozen packets.

  “Yes. He kept a voluminous correspondence, though I don’t know all of the recipients entirely. I know he has a sister in Pennsylvania toward whom he feels great attachment. Also a good friend he worked with at the Exchange Board in New York.”

  The letters, of course, consisted exclusively of missives sent to Sutton. Minerva pushed around the drawer for a diary or unsent epistle but found no sample of the man’s writing, no clue or explanation beyond what her father had read aloud at lunch.

  Presley stroked his beard. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Sutton had received a letter in the post just yesterday, from his friend in New York—I saw the return address clearly. We had quit our labors. He sat to read it over a cup of coffee before dinner when suddenly he leapt up in some agitation. Then he grabbed his coat and stormed out the door, the letter in hand. I assumed it was bad news, and he had gone for a walk to cool his head. That’s the last I saw of him.”

  •••

  Early on a breezy Wednesday in October, the members of Bonaventure pulled the wagon out of the barn, hitched Bessie the ox to the tongue, and piled as many as they could into the box. David Grosvenor climbed into the seat, his wife alongside him. He tapped Bessie’s shoulders with the lightest brush of the whip and slowly the wagon started down the road to Saltonstall, its cargo laughing and chattering too loud. Meanwhile a bunch of the men, Lyman included, released the mature hogs from their pen. Under Mr. Presley’s direction—the swines’ master, Mr. Sutton, having abdicated his position to his lieutenant—the men formed a phalanx around the hogs and, goading them along with switches, followed the wagon to town. It was the day of the Saltonstall Agricultural Show.

  It was a merry parade, the women facing backwards with their legs dangling off the open tail board, pointing and advising as the men and pigs followed them like the children of Hamelin. The hogs required constant attention, as very often one or another would attempt to penetrate the cordon walling them in while others, exhausted from what was doubtless the most strenuous exercise of their lives, would occasionally decide to halt and lay down in the middle of the road. Fifteen minutes into it, Lyman thought it was the most arduous walk of his life, and thirty minutes into it he decided it was also the most absurd.

  Once, when the pigs had picked their pace to arrive close to the wagon, Minerva leaned over the rail and wiggled her fingers at Lyman striding next to the spoked wheel. “Kiss my hand!” The women beside her tittered.

  “I daren’t,” he said, “not with your father and mother riding up front.”

  “If you’re too prudish to give me a kiss, I’ll steal it from you.” Minerva grasped the rail and pivoted over the side, pecking Lyman on the cheek. The girls cheered, the men howled, and for their part Mr. and Mrs. Grosvenor pretended deaf and dumbness. Lyman’s ears burned.

  The show had erected a large canvas tent in a field just beyond the town center, with a number of smaller tents and gypsy carts orbiting it. The utopians disembarked from their wagon and the pigs, sensing the excitement and hurrying faster, were corralled into a waiting pen. Their labors for the most part complete, the Bonaventurists dispersed t
o their own amusements.

  Lyman and Minerva immediately found each other and headed for the main tent, cramming onto the rough plank benches inside to watch the many acts. Not all were equal to the others. There were several contests wherein blue ribbons were dispensed to the fattest hog or finest ear of corn. Lyman was just about to excuse himself to go buy a bag of roasted chestnuts when boys appeared rolling giant orange pumpkins like boulders before them, and even Lyman’s cynicism was abated when they began weighing them. More exciting still was a plowing competition in which a number of men lined up at one end of the tent behind their plows and nags, and at the blow of a horn raced down the length, leaving deep furrows in their wakes. Minerva clapped and cheered while Lyman wondered who would repair the field once the show departed.

  After the contests, the crowd spilled out into the little avenues formed by the carts and stalls where a gray and chilly afternoon had descended. Straw had been thrown onto the churned mud, lit by lamps and tall smoking tapers. Minerva snuggled close to Lyman, the air damp without the sun.

  “Here is our perfect city,” said Minerva. “Boulevards of grass under rooftops of boughs. No vermin, no beggars. See how easy it is to achieve? The only question is why we don’t pull down our cities of stone and brick tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” said Lyman, “but this neighborhood is ephemeral. It isn’t made to stand more than two days. Should all our cities be so?”

  “I see no need of cities lasting for more than two sunrises. The buildings and taverns would come together, trade would be conducted, and then the whole would dissolve into mist. What business is so consuming that it requires more time than that?”

  “The council to decide what to call each town would alone last a week.”

  Minerva suddenly pointed. Just ahead, a tent, smaller than the main, had been staked into the grass. A sign over its flaps read Menagerie.

  Immediately she pulled Lyman in its direction, breathless in her demands that he pay the penny admission. “Do you think they have an Ourang-Outang?”