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followed the preacher to the Dales’ place on the other side of the ridge where he would continue speaking to all who were interested. They had a good-size house but we were still packed in tightly, eager to hear more from this captivating speaker. Mrs. Dale lit a fire in the big kitchen fireplace, for even in the summer a chill came on in the evening. Outside the sky had darkened to a deep periwinkle with a bright band of pink at the horizon.
    How angry Nevin must’ve been with me—I begged my parents to allow me to hear the preacher, which meant I needed a chaperone, so my father told Nevin he must accompany me. My brother fumed and turned red in the face, but could refuse my father nothing, so he stomped behind me all the way to the Dales’. But Nevin, for all his traditional sensibilities, had a streak of the rebel in him and I had to think he was secretly pleased to witness the rest of the gathering.
    The preacher stood by the kitchen fire and studied us all, a wild grin on his face. This close, I saw that the preacher was less like a man of the cloth than he’d seemed in the big field. He filled up the room with his presence, made the air feel tight and thin, like at the top of a mountain. He started by thanking us for staying with him. For he had saved the greatest secret to share with us now, those who had demonstrated that we were seeking the truth. And that truth was that the church—whatever faith you followed, which in the territory was mostly Congregationalist—was the biggest problem of them all, the most elitist institution, and only served to reinforce the status quo. His last statement drew a sneer of contempt and agreement from Nevin, who prided himself on going to the Catholic service with Mother and not rubbing elbows on Sundays with the town fathers and more privileged families in the meeting hall.
    What we must do is throw off the precepts of the church—the preacher said with that fiery glint in his eyes again, a glint that looked less peaceable up close—and embrace new precepts that were morein keeping with the needs of the common man. First and foremost among these outdated conventions was the institution of marriage, he said.
    In the close room, with thirty bodies nestled snugly, you could hear a pin drop.
    Before us, the preacher stalked his small circle like a wolf. It wasn’t the natural affection between men and women that he objected to, the preacher assured the group. No—it was the legal constraints of marriage, the bondage, that he railed against. It went against our human nature, he protested, gaining confidence as no one had tried to shout him down. We were meant to express our feelings with those with whom we felt a natural affinity. As God’s children, we should practice “spiritual wifery,” he insisted: choosing partners with whom we felt a spiritual bond.
    Partners? a young woman asked, raising her hand. More than one husband? Or wife?
    The preacher’s eyes danced. Yes, we’d heard right—partners, for a man should have as many wives as he felt spiritually drawn to, as a woman should be allowed to have more than one husband. He himself had two wives, he said, and had found spiritual wives in every town he had visited.
    A titter ran through the group and the room became charged with suppressed lust.
    He tucked his thumbs under his coat lapels. He didn’t expect the enlightened here in St. Andrew to take up spiritual wifery right away, on his advice alone. No, he expected we’d have to think about the idea, think about the extent to which we let the law dictate our lives. We’d know in our hearts if he spoke the truth.
    Then he clapped his hands and dropped the serious expression from his face, and his entire demeanor changed as he smiled. But enough of this talk! We’d spent the entire afternoon listening to him and it was time for a little enjoyment! Let’s sing some hymns, lively ones, and get to our feet, and dance! That was a revolutionary changefrom our