Read Online Dancing Dead by Deborah Woodworth - Free Book Online Page B

tightened, and Rose knew she’d won a point. Though Mairin had drawn nothing lately, she had in the past used crayons to translate elaborate images from her dreams. They had impressed Wilhelm, at least for a while.
    â€œIt seems the spirits have abandoned her, however,” he said. “Perhaps they don’t find her a worthy instrument.”
    â€œPerhaps she is again serving as an instrument, and we just aren’t listening. The child is drawn to this apparition. Maybe it will speak only through her.”
    Wilhelm thrust out a stubborn chin but said nothing, which told Rose that she had earned some time. The period in Shaker history to which Wilhelm most wished to return was the Era of Manifestations, or the years of Mother Ann’s Work, beginning in the 1830s. Then, the gifts of the spirit—the dances and songs and drawings, the trances, the speaking in tongues—had first been sent through young girls. Rose was torn. She believed in the presence of spirits, but she couldn’t help feeling that they were inclined to communicate more quietly nowadays.
    But who knows, perhaps Mairin truly is an instrument .
    Maybe Holy Mother Wisdom, in her compassion, had chosen to speak through a troubled child. Anything was possible.
    â€œMairin may indeed show herself to be an instrument,” Wilhelm said, turning back to the door, “and perhaps she will not. We cannot afford to wait much longer to find out. See that she reveals herself soon.”
    Â 
    After Wilhelm’s warning, Rose gathered up Mairin and the two of them made straight for Agatha’s retiring room. When they heard the quiet command to enter, it was Mairin who pushed first through the door. Without waiting to be prompted, she dragged a small chair from the desk over to the rocker where Agatha sat. Mairin settled her small body against the wooden back slats and gazed at Agatha with intensity.
    â€œAre you sick?” she asked.
    â€œNay, child, I am recovered from my chill. How kind of you to ask.”
    Mairin said nothing, just continued to stare as if assessing Agatha’s strength for herself. Rose quietly lifted a ladder-back chair from its pegs and sat some distance from the two.
    â€œAre you mad at me, like everybody else?” Mairin asked. Her voice was matter-of-fact, without hint of a childlike whine.
    Agatha leaned forward and touched Mairin’s arm. Her thin hand was pallid against the girl’s warm, fawn-brown skin.
    â€œI was frightened,” Agatha said, “like everyone else.”
    Mairin’s gaze darted over to Rose, then dropped to her lap. “Gennie said I was scaring people.” She raised her impassive face to Agatha. “I’m sorry,” she said. She did not promise never again to put everyone in such a state, and neither Rose nor Agatha demanded she do so.
    â€œMy poor memory has grown old,” Agatha said. “Tell me again, Mairin, when is your birthday?”
    For once, Mairin looked startled. “I don’t know,” she said. “Nobody told me for sure, just that it was in the spring sometime.”
    â€œRose? Have you any information?” Agatha asked.
    â€œNay, I haven’t. We tried to hunt down Mairin’s birth certificate in Indianapolis, but we could find nothing.”
    â€œWell, then,” Agatha said, “what is to stop us from creating a birthday? Today is April 23, isn’t it? And it is Saturday. Tomorrow is the Sabbath. How about April 25 for your birthday, Mairin? We always celebrate each child’s birthday, you know. The Kitchen sisters can bake you a cake—I’m sure Sister Gertrude would be delighted to do it herself—and right after school Sister Charlotte will gather all the children together for a party. Would you like that, Mairin?”
    Mairin nodded with more vigor than usual. “Would you and Rose come, too?”
    Rose opened her mouth to remind Mairin of Agatha’s frailty, but the