sets fire to another cigarette.
The next several days are busy. I am put to work harvesting sorghum, separating the seed heads, fodder for our milk cows, from the stalks, which we press for syrup and molasses. Sorghum is our main source of sweetener. I am accustomed to the earthy flavor, although I much prefer wild honey. Last year Brother Taylor discovered a large beehive in a lightning-blasted cottonwood, and for months afterward we had honey. I always watch now for bees and note the direction they take. I believe there is a hive somewhere on the Spine, but I have yet to find it.
I think of Tobias often. The day after he was placed in the Pit, the Brothers talked of little else. But as the days pass, as Brother Will’s wounds heal, the drama of that violent morning fades from memory. By the time a week has passed, the Brothers act as if Tobias does not exist. Still, I cannot forget that he is there, and I keep thinking about the scars above Brother Von’s dead eyes.
On Manday night I cannot sleep. I once again creep out of Menshome and visit the Praying Pit.
As I near the Tower, I hear a man’s voice. I stop, holding my breath. The voice is coming from inside the Pit. I listen carefully. It sounds like Father Grace, but thinner, without the power he brings to his words. I walk softly to the base of the Tower, get down on my hands and knees, and crawl to the window.
It is definitely Father Grace’s voice, but I sense that it is not Father Grace himself. It is a recording of one of his sermons. I hear another sound as well. Snoring. I press my face against the bars and attempt to look inside, but the darkness is utter and impenetrable.
“Tobias!” I whisper. The snoring continues. I find a small stone and toss it toward the sound. I hear a sudden snort, then sounds of movement. “Tobias!” I say again.
A few seconds later, pale fingers grasp the bars and I can see the smear of his face.
“Jacob?”
I am vastly relieved to hear his voice.
“Yes, it is me. Are you well?”
“I’m okay. . . . No, actually I’m going nuts in here. They make me listen to this stuff all night. I have to stuff cheese in my ears to sleep.”
“Cheese?”
“It’s all I got. And they make me read the Bible all day. How long are they gonna keep me here?”
“Did you repent?”
“I said I was sorry. I don’t think Enos believes me. Also, he smelled the cigarettes and found the butts.”
“You must repent!”
“I tried — I
told
you.”
“You must try harder.”
“Okay . . . Have you seen my mom?”
“She is well. I saw both her and your sister at Evensong.”
“Can you ask her to talk to Enos? Or Father Grace?
I think for a moment. For me to approach Tobias’s mother would be unseemly. In any case, I doubt that her words would sway Brother Enos.
“You must repent in your heart,” I say. “It is the only way.”
“Screw you, then! Did they send you here just to tell me that?”
“No one sent me. I should not be here at all.” I back away from the window and stand up.
“Jacob, wait!”
I walk away.
The next night, I return to the Pit and hear from within a recording of a call-and-response from Babel Hour:
“And he shall kill the bullock before the Lord . . .”
“And the priests shall bring the blood . . .”
I lie on my belly with my face near the bars. “Tobias!” I whisper.
“And he shall flay the burnt offering . . .”
“And cut it into pieces . . .”
Tobias’s hands grasp the bars.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Did you repent?”
“I tried. Like I told you, Enos doesn’t believe me. I think he wants me to memorize the Bible first or something. . . . What is this I’m listening to?”
“It is from Leviticus. A call-and-response from Babel Hour.”
“What’s that?”
I explain to him about Babel Hour.
“That’s how you meet girls here?” he says.
“And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar . . .”
“Yes. It is
The next several days are busy. I am put to work harvesting sorghum, separating the seed heads, fodder for our milk cows, from the stalks, which we press for syrup and molasses. Sorghum is our main source of sweetener. I am accustomed to the earthy flavor, although I much prefer wild honey. Last year Brother Taylor discovered a large beehive in a lightning-blasted cottonwood, and for months afterward we had honey. I always watch now for bees and note the direction they take. I believe there is a hive somewhere on the Spine, but I have yet to find it.
I think of Tobias often. The day after he was placed in the Pit, the Brothers talked of little else. But as the days pass, as Brother Will’s wounds heal, the drama of that violent morning fades from memory. By the time a week has passed, the Brothers act as if Tobias does not exist. Still, I cannot forget that he is there, and I keep thinking about the scars above Brother Von’s dead eyes.
On Manday night I cannot sleep. I once again creep out of Menshome and visit the Praying Pit.
As I near the Tower, I hear a man’s voice. I stop, holding my breath. The voice is coming from inside the Pit. I listen carefully. It sounds like Father Grace, but thinner, without the power he brings to his words. I walk softly to the base of the Tower, get down on my hands and knees, and crawl to the window.
It is definitely Father Grace’s voice, but I sense that it is not Father Grace himself. It is a recording of one of his sermons. I hear another sound as well. Snoring. I press my face against the bars and attempt to look inside, but the darkness is utter and impenetrable.
“Tobias!” I whisper. The snoring continues. I find a small stone and toss it toward the sound. I hear a sudden snort, then sounds of movement. “Tobias!” I say again.
A few seconds later, pale fingers grasp the bars and I can see the smear of his face.
“Jacob?”
I am vastly relieved to hear his voice.
“Yes, it is me. Are you well?”
“I’m okay. . . . No, actually I’m going nuts in here. They make me listen to this stuff all night. I have to stuff cheese in my ears to sleep.”
“Cheese?”
“It’s all I got. And they make me read the Bible all day. How long are they gonna keep me here?”
“Did you repent?”
“I said I was sorry. I don’t think Enos believes me. Also, he smelled the cigarettes and found the butts.”
“You must repent!”
“I tried — I
told
you.”
“You must try harder.”
“Okay . . . Have you seen my mom?”
“She is well. I saw both her and your sister at Evensong.”
“Can you ask her to talk to Enos? Or Father Grace?
I think for a moment. For me to approach Tobias’s mother would be unseemly. In any case, I doubt that her words would sway Brother Enos.
“You must repent in your heart,” I say. “It is the only way.”
“Screw you, then! Did they send you here just to tell me that?”
“No one sent me. I should not be here at all.” I back away from the window and stand up.
“Jacob, wait!”
I walk away.
The next night, I return to the Pit and hear from within a recording of a call-and-response from Babel Hour:
“And he shall kill the bullock before the Lord . . .”
“And the priests shall bring the blood . . .”
I lie on my belly with my face near the bars. “Tobias!” I whisper.
“And he shall flay the burnt offering . . .”
“And cut it into pieces . . .”
Tobias’s hands grasp the bars.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Did you repent?”
“I tried. Like I told you, Enos doesn’t believe me. I think he wants me to memorize the Bible first or something. . . . What is this I’m listening to?”
“It is from Leviticus. A call-and-response from Babel Hour.”
“What’s that?”
I explain to him about Babel Hour.
“That’s how you meet girls here?” he says.
“And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar . . .”
“Yes. It is
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