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| Photo prompt from Magpie Tales |
“Missed you in church yesterday,”
Pastor Tuttle said.
“Had to get the hay off the ground.”
Isaac patted his faithful gray mare on the neck and then swung
himself up onto his wagon. Taking up the reins, he flipped them
gently onto the horse's back and rode away from the minister without
so much as a glance in his direction.
“Sunday is the Lord's day,” Tuttle
called after him. “I'll expect to see you where you belong next
week.”
Back at his farm, Isaac unhitched the
mare and released her into the corral next to the barn. He unloaded
the supplies he had just purchased into the house and stowed the
wagon in the shed. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day when a
dip in the pond seemed like a good idea. Whistling to his dog, Isaac
and the shaggy, nameless mutt, set out across the fields in the
direction of the swimming hole that was nestled in a grove of poplar
trees at the north edge of his property. He'd been swimming there
since he was a kid and it remained one of the few indulgences that he
permitted himself as an adult.
Used to be that Tuttle would join Isaac.
Before he took to the pulpit as the town's self-appointed saviour,
Cole Tuttle was Isaac's best friend. They grew up together, playing
as children in the fields that surrounded their family farms.
Inseparable and dedicated, they supported each other through the
thick and thin of becoming men. Through first drinks, first loves
and first fights, Isaac and Cole were a team, learning the ropes and
catching each other when one of them stumbled or fell on the path of
life.
When Reverend Archer died, Cole
announced – quite out of the blue – that he was going to replace
the old man. Isaac had been stunned. After all the years of Sunday
service antics they had dreamed up and acted out in defiance of
having to sit in those hard pews every week, Isaac had not expected
this twist in their relationship. Over night, it seemed, Cole had
changed from a fun-loving friend into a zealot of biblical
proportions. Gone, instantly, were the wild nights in the saloon, the
high-stepping evenings at the community barn dances, the passionate
and clumsy attempts to woo the local girls, the fishing escapes and
the camp-outs out on Marble Ridge. Gone, it seemed, was youth
itself.
At first, Isaac had thought it was a
lark, that Cole was just making fun of the town and that he was
planning some spectacular coup. He actually looked forward to Cole's
first sermon, thinking – believing – that it would go down in
history as one of the most shockingly hilarious events that ever took
place under the church roof. He donned his Sunday best and
positioned himself in the second pew next to the aisle where he could
get a good view without looking like an accomplice. His beliefs were
quickly dashed, however, when Cole stood up and, in a thunderous
voice, accused every town member of being a wicked sinner bound for
hell.
About half way through this terrifying
oration, Isaac stood up and walked out of the church. When he
reached the nave, Cole paused in his address and pointed an
accusatory finger at his life-long friend. “And you, Isaac Porter,
are the worst of the lot!”
If anyone else had been planning on
leaving, they didn't dare move after that!
Isaac closed the door behind himself
and walked away from the one person in the world he had loved the
most.
The years passed and Isaac inherited
his family's farm. He married Sue-Ann Nivens, who died a year later
giving birth to a son. The boy died as well and Isaac lost all hope
of ever finding happiness again. He simply ran his farm to the best
of his ability and kept to himself. Tuttle had forced the saloon to
close and had banned all dances anyway. Socializing of any kind was
prohibited unless it was a church function. Tuttle would go out of
his way to humiliate anyone who didn't follow his strict
interpretation of how God expected them to behave. A bitter core of
hatred and resentment formed in the hearts of the town folk. But
none were brave enough to speak up or take action against Cole
Tuttle.
That afternoon Isaac found the pond
just as he expected to: deserted. Tuttle had declared swimming yet
another sin. If boys had time to swim, they had time to help their
fathers in the fields. He stripped off his clothes and waded in to
his thighs before diving in. While the dog chased squirrels, Isaac
luxuriated in the cleansing and refreshing water. He swam a few laps
and then turned onto his back to float on the smooth surface, dappled
with spots of golden sunlight beaming down through the trees. He
reflected, as he often did, on his joyous youth and lamented the loss
of his friend, his wife and his son. The bitterness he felt over the
way things had turned out felt like a lead weight in his belly. He
could feel it pulling him under, dragging him down and he suddenly
felt like surrendering to it.
If I just let go, the thought, I won't
ever have to look at Tuttle again. I won't ever have to hear his
condemning voice or see the fear on the faces of the people in town.
I won't ever have to think about Sue-Ann or our boy. I won't hurt
anymore.
He watched as the water closed around
his face and the dappled sunlight shimmered above him. He let
himself sink down, down, down... his lungs burning, his mind
screaming for air.
Just as he was about to suck in a chest
full of water, something grabbed his arm and he felt himself being
hurled back up toward the surface of the pond. Without ceremony,
Isaac found himself being flung onto the shore. He rolled over,
coughing up water and gasping for breath. Looking around for whoever
had pulled him out of the pond, all Isaac could see was his dog
looking back at him with his head cocked sideways in surprise and
confusion.
“Who's there?” he hacked. But no
one answered.
Shaken and a little fearful, Isaac
redressed and went home. He kept looking for signs of someone
nearby, someone who must have pulled him out of the pond, but he saw
no one. I need a good, stiff drink, he thought and looked forward to
the contraband whiskey he kept hidden at the house.
Night fell slowly, as it does in the
summer months. Equally slowly, the whiskey burned away the cold fear
that had gripped Isaac's heart that afternoon. By the time darkness
had ended the day, he had convinced himself that it must have all
been a dream. And now, with a whole day wasted, he took himself to
bed with the drunken promise to make up for it the next day.
And so he did. The week, hot and
teeming with mosquitoes, was more productive than usual.
Isaac put up the rest of the hay, mended the fence in the north
pasture, harvested the first potatoes of the season and got a good
start on his winter wood supply. But something kept drawing him back
to the pond and every evening he would wonder over to it and sit on
the huge rock that jutted in from the shore line. His ruminations
were as deep as his resentments. He kept thinking about Tuttle and
the fear-mongering hold he had on the town. Whatever had happened in
this pond that afternoon, Isaac was convinced that it had happened
for a reason. There was a purpose behind his salvation from drowning
and whoever – or whatever – had stopped him from dying was trying
to tell him something. If only he could figure out what it was...
On Saturday night, just as the last of
the light was fading, something in the pond caught Isaac's eye. It glittered for a second, then disappeared.
Isaac peered into the water, but he couldn't see it. He laid down on
his stomach on the rock, getting his face as close to the surface as
he could. There is was again. A quick glint of gold.
Isaac reached down into the pond and
felt around the sandy bottom. It took a minute, but finally his big
hand closed around an object that he hadn't seen in many years. He
pulled it out and held it up, marveling at the sight of it. It was
the gold chain and cross that he had given to Sue-Ann on their
wedding day. She had lost it only a few months later while they were
swimming one hot July evening, much like this one. She had cried
inconsolably over the loss. Not even his promise to buy her a new
one would comfort her. He had tried so hard to find it, returning to
the pond every chance he got that summer to look for it, but
eventually he had given up. After she died, he had forgotten about
it completely.
Walking back to the house, Isaac's
thoughts turned to Sue-Ann. How she loved to dance and sing. Her
voice was the sweetest he'd ever heard and her laughter... Oh, how
she loved to laugh!
He thought about all the fun they had
had in their short time together. He thought about all the fun he'd
had before that. Life had been a continuous celebration of
everything good: friendship, love, hope!
Instead of going home, Isaac found
himself on the road to town. Few lights glowed in the windows of the
homes that lined the streets. Most of the people were already in bed
– resting up for church in the morning. That didn't stop Isaac
from banging on the first door he came to at the home of Joshua
Slater and his family. Groggy and concerned, Joshua opened the door
and stared at Isaac.
“Bring your fiddle to church
tomorrow,” Isaac instructed. When Joshua opened his mouth to
protest, Isaac hushed him. “Just do it!”
From there, Isaac went door to door,
giving instructions at each home to bring some food or an instrument
or some decorations to church. The people were stunned, but none of
them openly objected. They were confused, yet intrigued. What on
earth was Isaac up to?
The next day, Isaac got up early to
feed the stock and get ready for church. He put on his best suit and
hat, then hitched up the mare to the wagon and trotted her into town.
Tuttle was standing on the church steps
greeting people as they arrived. He seemed a little out
of sorts, seeing the smiles and hearing the good-natured well-wishes
from this congregation. When he saw Isaac pull up and tether his
horse among the other wagons, his eyebrows shot up in mild shock and
the vain belief that he had finally won. He smuggly waited for Isaac
to approach.
“Well, it's about time you showed up
here, Porter,” he said, offering his hand in a gesture of feigned
welcome.
Isaac looked at the offered hand, but
brushed passed it without acknowledgment and went inside to find a
seat. The church was full to capacity, but Joshua Slater made room
for him with his family.
“What are you up to, Isaac?” Joshua
whispered.
Isaac just smiled. “Did you bring
it?” he whispered back.
“It's in the wagon. I wouldn't dare
bring it in here. Tuttle would probably smash it to smithereens.”
“As long as it's easy to get at.
When you get my signal, lead everyone out into the church yard and
get that fiddle.”
“What signal?”
“Oh, you'll know.”
The service began with Tuttle's usual
admonition to the congregation to dig deep into their pockets and
give until it hurts. God's work isn't cheap and if he's blessed you,
you better bless him back. A typical fire and brimstone sermon
followed the order to pony up in the name of the Lord – lest ye be
condemned to the fires of hell! It was almost more than Isaac could
stand. He gritted his teeth so hard, they ached.
At last, Tuttle called for prayer
requests. A few people stood up and asked their fellow worshipers to
pray for ailng relatives, children and cattle. They were all brief
and mumbled pleas for divine assistance under the disapproving gaze
of their pastor.
“Once again,” Tuttle sneered after the
last request was muttered, “you all seem to miss the point. Why do
you insist on asking for things for yourselves? Why can't you see
that the Lord works in mysterious ways and He decides what He gives
and what He takes?”
Isaac had had enough. “I have a
request,” he said, standing up and stepping into the aisle.
“Indeed!” Tuttle said. “A
request for forgiveness, I should hope.”
“Something like that,” Isaac said
and started walking toward the pulpit.
A collective gasp rose from the
congregation.
“Please stay in your seat, Isaac. We
can hear you from there.” Tuttle was clearly unsure of Isaac's
intentions. And quite discomfited by his approach.
“I'm sure you can,” Isaac said,
“but then these good people would miss this...”
Isaac drew his arm back and punched
Tuttle squarely in the nose!
Another gasp preceded an enormous cheer
from the crowd. “Follow me!” Joshua Slater shouted over the din
and then led the people outside where they gathered their
instruments, passed around food and hung flowers and ribbons from
every available surface. Music and laughter filled the air, while
Tuttle rolled on the floor in agony.
“My nose!” he wheezed. “You
broke my fucking nose!”
“Oh, you'll live. You've survived
worse.” Isaac looked down at the writhing pastor. “Remember how
you told me you expected me to be where I belonged today?”
Tuttle glared at Isaac.
“Well, that's where I'm going right
now.” He pointed outside toward the church yard full of revelers.
“If you care to join us, I'll make sure no one else punches you in
the face.”
With that, Isaac left the church and
joined the party that lasted well into the night. He danced with
several pretty girls. He even sang a couple of songs for the crowd.
And he laughed. Oh, how he laughed.
As for Tuttle... Well, he actually saw
the light – so to speak. He intended to scuttle away unseen, but
Joshua Slater's wife, Mabel saw him and helped him clean up some of
the blood from his broken nose. She gave him a huge piece of fried
chicken and a chunk of cherry pie and a hug. His shame was deep, no
doubt about it, but he accepted the forgiveness the town so willingly
gave him.
Eventually, the saloon was reopened and
the community barn dances started up again. Tuttle was offered a
position as bartender, but declined in favour of working for Isaac on
the farm where they renewed their friendship and swam in the pond on
hot summer days.
A new pastor was found for the church.
His name was Jacob Joyce and he played a pretty mean fiddle himself!
