Chapter Thirty-Two
Bishop David Smith and Bishop John Wells caught Hiram coming out of church the next Sunday.
Despite the heat, Bishop Smith wore his suit, and a shining band of sweat rose from his soaked collar to his Van Dyck beard. Wells wore a loose summer shirt, a short tie, and brown slacks. Both the men’s shoes were polished to a high shine; Hiram’s own shoes had been polished a glossy black that morning, but after a few hours of exposure to Lehi’s dust, they were now powdered a yellowish gray.
Women in dresses chatted in clusters, just as the men gathered together; their children played tag in the dirt parking lot full of cars and trucks. Not a cloud marred the pale blue of the sky.
“Hiram.” Bishop Smith exhaled bitterly, through both nostrils simultaneously. “Brother Woolley, what are we going to do with you? You do know we’ll have to talk about your dealings in Moab.”
“An official inquiry?” Hiram asked.
Bishop Wells slipped his round spectacles off and polished them with a white handkerchief. “According to Grand County Sheriff Jack Del Rose, you were never a suspect for any of the murders.” Wells spoke with an English accent, which wasn’t all that unusual. Utah still attracted many immigrants, gathering to Zion.
“But there were murders,” Smith said. “And again, you and you were son were there. This doesn’t reflect well on you, or on us. We’re supposed to be upstanding members of society. You don’t see James Anderson getting into such mischief.”
Was that a threat? It was at least a reminder of a threat. James Anderson was Hiram’s banker, and Bishop Smith had once suggested he could pressure Anderson to call in Hiram’s loan if Hiram kept practicing his craft.
Anderson. Had his ancestors come from Iceland? Was he involved in his own form of the Blót? Surely at some point in the past, his ancestors had been pagans, and apparently, that might not even have been in a past that was all that distant. Something like the Tithe might explain James Anderson’s prosperity.
Or maybe it was simply that he was with a bank that was weathering the storms of the Depression well. Maybe he was a good honest banker, who had also had a little good luck, or been a little blessed.
Hiram shrugged. “I didn’t commit any murders. And I wasn’t even there on any official errand. I just got asked to help…place a well.”
Bishop Smith harrumphed and coughed loudly, as if trying to drown out and ignore Hiram’s plain statement that he had been invited down to Moab to dowse for water. “You’re getting quite a reputation,” he said. “Bishop Cannon is not pleased.” Cannon was the third and most senior member of the Presiding Bishopric. “If it comes to an official inquiry, we may not be able to shelter you from the consequences.”
Hiram touched the bloodstone in his pants pocket. It was a useful item: it brought rain, stanched blood flow, helped with poison, and could ferret out the truth. Fame was also a part of the package, and Hiram didn’t want that. Yet like most things in life, the bad came with the good, entwined. The maggots might keep you alive at the same time as they feasted on your flesh.
“If I can serve God,” Hiram said, “then I guess I can accept the consequences of doing so.”
“Even if it means being excommunicated?” Smith peered at Hiram closely.
Hiram raised his hands in what he hoped was a peaceful, embracing gesture. “I know the difference between God and the church. If I have to choose between them, it’s not a difficult choice.”
The three men looked at each other, Smith fiercely, Wells benignly, and Hiram trying not to have any expression on his face at all.
“Did it go well down there?” Bishop Wells finally asked.
Hiram nodded. “All things considered.” He reached out a hand.
Wells took it.
Reluctantly, Smith did the same. “Brother Woolley, if not for your sake, then for mine…can you be more careful?”
Another nod, and a grin, and then Hiram walked to the Double-A.
When he got home, Michael was at the kitchen table, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief, hunched over the two astrology books he’d gotten during their time in Moab: one from Diana, the other from Mahonri. He had his hand in his hair, in his reading position, scratching at his temples. He didn’t glance up. “How was church, Pap?”
“You weren’t there, so no one wanted to go ahead. We cancelled the whole thing.” Hiram got a glass of buttermilk and sat down at the table.
Michael didn’t look up from his reading. “Mmm hmmm,” he said. “Next Sunday, I’ll be there. I promise.”
Hiram believed him.
* * *
That night, Hiram woke with a start, climbing out of a dream. He’d dreamed he was at the Provo Train station, the same place where he’d helped Adelaide Preece Tunstall and her family escape the Hoof. There had been a café there, in the dream, and the restaurant was full of flickering candlelight, ebbing with a darkness he felt more than saw.
He was sweating out of fear, clutching his chi-rho amulet, when he crossed the threshold. The tables were full of wolf-shaped men and men-shaped wolves, all shaggy with fur, eyes red and spit dripping from yellow fangs. Their claws scratched at the wooden floor and tables.
Sitting among them was Diana Artemis, in lacy night clothes, revealing more skin than he was comfortable with, even in his dream. Both her legs were of natural flesh and blood. She pointed to the clock, and the hands showed him 10:45 a.m. “If you have a dime for the dance, Hiram. But only if you have a dime for the dance.”
When she smiled, she too had yellow fangs.
Hiram managed to get back to sleep, but only after he whispered his sleeping charm, over and over. “In the name of the Father, up and down, the Son and the Spirit upon your crown, the cross of Christ upon your breast, sweetest lady send me rest.”
In the morning, he told Michael he had an errand to run. It wasn’t a lie, but he wanted his son to forget Diana Artemis as soon as possible. He also didn’t want the boy jumping to wrong conclusions about the widow and his father.
At the Provo train station, Hiram found parking next to a Cadillac Roadster and then stepped onto the train platform. There was no café, no candles, just people standing or sitting and waiting for the next train.
It was a little after 10:30 a.m., but there sat Diana Artemis on a little bench, wearing a black dress with a black hat perched on her black hair. This wasn’t the hat she’d left at Lloyd’s cabin; it looked decidedly more modern, something like a fedora that had been shrunk down, made more form-fitting, and given very feminine swoops and curves. It had to be pinned to her head, to stay fixed in place when she moved.
Hiram swept off his own hat and walked over. He’d fiddle with it while he talked with her. Somehow, this seemed important. Maybe it was his own pride, or maybe he wanted to make sure she wasn’t a witch. Best case, she was just a fallen woman, a widow, who had grifted them, and then stolen money. A lot of money. She had helped Michael rescue him, though, and she had given them back the Double-A.
When Diana saw him, she raised a hand. “Mr. Woolley, so interesting to see you here. Would you like to join me? I can’t offer you breakfast, but we can chat.” Her green eyes were bright, amused. She didn’t seem at all taken aback that he was there. On her right hand was a thick emerald ring. Louisa Parker’s ring, which she had stolen as deftly as she’d stolen the wallet out of Michael’s coat.
He sat down across from her, hunched over, feeling at the brim of his worn fedora. “I just wanted to compare notes.”
“How did you know I was here?” Did her smile dim? Did her eyes turn furtive for a second? It was hard to tell, since her beauty made everything about her a little hazy.
“I dreamed it.” He raised his hand to show her his Saturn ring.
“Ah, Saturn gave me away. You’d think devouring his own children would have been enough to satisfy him, but I guess not.”
Hiram wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “You’re not a witch, are you?”
“I prefer the term occultist,” she said, a little laughter in her eyes at him. “I’m not that, either. Nor am I one of your cunning women. The show I put on for you, with my crystal ball? I had a wire connected to the drapes. A little sigh from me made the candles flicker. And Michael, dear, sweet Michael, he thought he saw something in my sphere of the spirits.”
“He feels bad that you robbed him,” Hiram said.
Diana smiled warmly at him. “I thought for sure he’d feel me lift the wallet. But the night was tense, and he was in a state. Out of all my magic tricks, that one was the most real…I learned to do it in Baltimore.” She paused. “That’s all you and I have, are tricks and flimflam.”
“I knew you’d be here. I dreamed it last night. How is that flimflam?”
“Well, now, you’re only showing your flimflam is better than mine. World class flimflam, Hiram Woolley. Will you enlighten me?” She seemed genuinely interested, but that was her game, appearing genuine. How could she show no regret, no remorse? “Will you make me pay a dreadful price for the information?”
She narrowed her eyes at him; he supposed it was a seductive look, and he found it had no effect on him at all. He had answers for her, though he doubted she’d believe any of them. “God made the planet Saturn, which governs dreams. God made me and I made this ring, of Saturn-metal and bearing Saturn-signs, after the pattern my Grandma Hettie showed me, which channels true knowledge from Saturn in my dreams. In the end, though, it’s God’s will.”
“No, some person made that ring, and you came across me today by complete luck.”
“You don’t believe in any magic at all,” Hiram said. “You believe in nothing supernatural. You don’t believe in God.”
“If there is a God, then He has neither the time nor the patience for a woman like me. That was made clear a long time ago. If there is a heaven, I’ll find a way in. St. Peter might be a saint, but he’s still a man. I don’t believe I’d be the first woman to work her way through the Pearly Gates by offering a service in trade.”
Hiram didn’t reveal his shock. “You don’t fear hell?”
Her chuckle came out bitter. “I’ve been in hell before. There’s always a way out. And you’ll pray for me, won’t you Hiram? You’ll pray your little farmerly heart out. I will count heavily on you when the time comes. You are a good man, Hiram Woolley. I should know. I’ve met more than my fair share of bad.”
Hiram’s own laughter was real and it felt good. “I will pray for you, Diana. You can be redeemed and perfected like anyone else.”
“I’m Cassandra Seer now. Though I think your God won’t be fooled by my entrepreneurial use of names. He’ll know who I am. Except that the only god I believe in is Cold Hard Cash. Your great Satanic Truth has gotten me this far in life, and I expect it to see me through to the end.”
Hiram sobered. “You believe in more than just money.”
She touched her chest. “Do I?”
“You helped Michael that night. Yes, you drove away, but the Lord Divine aided us, and He did it through you. I saw the lights. I heard the horn. It drew me to Michael. You could have picked Michael’s pocket before that, or simply taken the money at gunpoint, and you didn’t. You stole the money, yes, but first you helped.”
For the first time, Diana, or whatever her real name was, showed him a true expression. It was hurt, a little less confident, and she hid it as soon as she realized her mask had slipped. “If there is a God, Hiram, He’s the best con artist of all.”
He stood. “Good day to you, Cassandra Seer.”
“Good day to you, Hiram Woolley.”
He started to leave, but turned back. “I’d like your books…for Michael. You don’t mind if I write Edna?”
“She will be happy to help.” The smile on her lips seemed real. “If I need them, I know where to find you. Perhaps I shall darken your doorstep again.”
“And if you do, I’ll try to lighten that darkness.” He put on his hat and tipped the brim at her.
He left her on the bench, surrounded by strangers.
* * *
That evening, with sheltering clouds in the sky, Hiram took Michael out to the south forty, a Mosaical Rod in his hand. Carved into the length of wood were the usual crosses and the Tetragrammaton. He handed the rod to Michael. “Do you remember what to say?”
Michael nodded, licked his lips, and gripped the rod. “‘Whoso shall hide up treasures in the earth shall find them again no more, because of the great curse of the land, save he be a righteous man and shall hide it up unto the Lord.’” He swung the rod from side to side, and began to go whither it led.
They followed the rod out to the middle of the field, the beets growing around them, watered by the divine hand, a little rain, and a lot of water brought down from the mountains in irrigation ditches. It was different from the hard winter dirt that he’d had to contend with the last time he’d unearthed the chest.
Hiram was ready with a shovel when Michael indicated the spot. He dug, a little shaky and weak after a day of fasting. He removed the box from the hole, a box made of flat stones cemented together. On those stones he’d scratched every warding symbol he knew.
“So a spirit moves the box around?” Michael asked.
“That’s right. I never know where it’s going to be, and neither does anyone else. I like it that way.” He thought of Diana, visiting them again, and prayed she wouldn’t. In the same moment, he prayed that she’d find peace and God’s mercy.
Some progress along her own path to perfection.
“You know what magic and science have in common?” Michael asked. “Things don’t work the way you’d think they would.”
Hiram lifted the lid of the stone box. “Sometimes I think the spirit is Grandma Hettie. Sometimes I think it’s my mother. I don’t really know. It might be someone we don’t know at all.”
“An angel?”
“Something like that.”
Michael shivered. “I can feel it. I can feel something, something bad in there.” His eyes were fixed on the objects inside—a skull with horns, a glass bauble, a black candle, and a brown rock with a line of quartz running through the middle. Teancum Kimball’s peep-stone.
Hiram placed the Jupiter knives inside. Gudmund Gudmundson’s knife was in its sheath, and Lloyd Preece’s knife, without a sheath, was wrapped in a length of white cloth.
“Wait, Pap. Those daggers are powerful. We should keep them.”
“Both these knives have shed the blood of men,” Hiram said. “They’re powerful, and we don’t know for sure how they work.”
“But we can learn how they work,” Michael suggested.
“Good.” Hiram shut the lid. “That’s why we’re keeping them. So your job is to learn more about them.”
“But not by using them,” Michael said.
Hiram nodded. “You’ll be spending some time in the library. That’s good. You can prove to Mahonri that I haven’t gotten you killed on one of my fool errands.”
“Yet.”
Hiram laughed, even though that one syllable was more frightening than funny. He glanced up at his son, a young man now, and on his way to becoming a cunning man. But hopefully, Hiram thought, not only a cunning man.
The world was changing. The time of the Fang and Hoof, and of similar cults the world over, was ending. The idea comforted Hiram, but at the same time, it troubled him. The Blót had taken lives, but it had also brought prosperity to a community in the wilderness. And if the Blót fell, what other mysteries would now find themselves on the hangman’s scaffold? If all mystery disappeared, if all the old ways vanished, what would be left? Science and logic only? Could they explain a man’s life, give him comfort in his time of need, nourishment for his soul? Hiram wasn’t sure.
When they had buried the chest, Michael surprised Hiram with a strong hug.
He stepped back. “Thanks, Pap. Thanks for making the world a big, interesting place, full of mystery.”
“I didn’t make it.” Hiram chuckled. “But thank you for seeing the mystery with me.”