The New Inheritors Read online

  Also by Kent Wascom

  The Blood of Heaven

  Secessia

  The New

  Inheritors

  Kent Wascom

  Copyright © 2018 by Kent Wascom

  Cover design by Kelly Winton

  Cover artwork © David Pollack/Corbis via Getty Images

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  FIRST EDITION

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: July 2018

  This book was set in 12.5 pt Garamond Premier Pro by

  Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2817-1

  eISBN 978-0-8021-6569-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Alise, always

  Of all that was done in the past, you eat the fruit, either rotten or ripe.

  —T. S. Eliot

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Kent Wascom

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: What You Do Not Know Is the Only Thing You Know

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two: The Light that Came from Beside the Sea

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Three: Daughter of the Sun

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Four: False Blue Sky

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Five: Rule

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Six: Prisoners

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Seven: Este viajero que ves, es tu hermano errante

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Eight: The Fugitive Quality

  Acknowledgments

  Back Cover

  PART 1

  What You Do Not Know

  Is the Only Thing You Know

  1890 – 1895

  One

  He was born filled with animals.

  Before he could see and before the gift of speech, before his hand could grasp the tools to channel them, to let them leap out onto canvas or page, the animals were there. They owned his proportions and made themselves known in his cries and movements and they prowled in the wet, dark Eden of his heart.

  When their chorused noises woke his mother in the night, she, little more than a girl herself, would lay her ear to his chest and hear hoofbeats on grass and the seventeen-year whirr of locusts, the wingbeats of egrets rising from a field. The sounds of her girlhood in the piney woods of Mississippi, the place she had abandoned for the city of New Orleans and a man who was killed in a brawl not three months after she’d fallen pregnant by him. The man had barely acknowledged her pregnancy except to say what he wanted the child called if it happened to be a son, but he was dead and so she’d granted herself the privilege. She named him Isaac.

  She lay awake in the small bed of her tenement room and listened as her baby gathered air and shot a wail from his lungs that shook her skull as though she were the one newborn, the cry echoing through the thin ceiling to the room above, where a woman lived who loved her.

  When the time of the birth had come it was the woman from upstairs who rushed to the girl’s bedside. The woman’s name was Neda, an immigrant from the Balkans by way of Cyprus, where she’d grown up with the sharpest edges of the crescent and the cross pressed to the throat of her life. For the past year she’d worked alongside the pregnant girl in a row of forty others at the Indian Queen Cigar Co., off Decatur Street, rolling leaves until her knuckles locked and her wrists swole double. Neda had little English, but the girl learned to anticipate the woman’s glances and the way she smiled when they stood before the basin scrubbing their yellowed hands at the end of a ten-hour shift. Learned that whenever she said the woman’s name, Neda’s throat would hitch and the brown pits of her eyes would shimmer with a slick of want.

  The girl was not in love, never had been, as far as she knew, but just the same she could sense the force of the upstairs woman’s desire, and she came to love the power that knowledge gave, to hold another’s heart like hair snatched in her fist. And, besides, she was glad to not be alone. Glad for a body in bed beside her whose radiant need seemed to channel off the fear she had for that other body, the one inside her, growing and unknown. Then the night of the birth came and she was more than glad Neda was there, talking in her riven English, wiping vomit from the girl’s chin, and pulling her upright into a squat when the birth went long. Laying hands on her hips, rubbing with the waves of pain.

  Neda had known children to be born in silence, but this was a loud country and a loud birth. When it was over and the girl, spent and voiceless, tried to tell her what to do with the cord and the sac, where to bury them and how, Neda could only half make out what she said before the girl pitched back exhausted with the baby on her chest and would say no more. So Neda cleaned the chipped shears she’d used and carried out the afterbirth in her apron and emptied it into the canal a block away. What water meant for anyone’s fate, Neda didn’t know. Back in the room, the girl thought with fugitive sadness how, if the flesh of his first home and the cord that kept him there weren’t buried in the earth, the child that lay between her breasts was fated to wander far and die young.

  Though the girl understood this as certain truth, at times Neda would raise the baby to the lamplight and examine him for contrary signs. Cupping head and rump, she would look him up and down from bright blue temple veins to the black knot at his belly, the baby’s eyes resisting the light, pinched face refusing everything but the breast that does not want him, and, prying open the child’s hands, Neda would see written in the lines of his palms a bird’s vision of the rivers and creeks that fanned across the region of his birth, the upper reaches of the coastal rim which spreads south in peninsular wings that shatter into island chains, enclosing the Gulf of Mexico. A place that is drowning or is already gone. The country under the country you may know.

  —What are you looking for?
the girl would say, leaning up in bed.

  —Where he’s going, who he’ll be.

  Two

  Three days after giving birth the girl returned to work on the factory floor, baby tied to her back with a shawl, her loins swaddled with rags to catch the bleeding. The girl persisted in this for almost a year, Neda never far from her, always ready to take the baby, until one day the girl fell in with the roving congregation of a man who knew when the world would end and how. The answer was soon and in flames, and as she listened to this man and his followers shouting prophecy through megaphones and rolled up newspapers in the street below, she felt a tug at her soul. Her bent fingers were stayed for a moment by these high rhythmic voices of the inland South, hilltop echoes drowning out the regular drone of the lector who read to the workers from a boring novel about an orphan made good. Voices that called to the part of her that knew the truth of miracles.

  Taken for dead at the age of seven, she’d been thrown into a quicklimed pit with other victims of that year’s fever, awakening to the blank white sky of her burial shroud pattered with the rain of dirt that sifted down through the tangled bodies of her family. At the sound of her screams the cousins who’d been tasked with digging the grave dove in and hauled her up through mother, sisters, brother, father, grandma, and cut her free. She was the last of the Golemans, a family rumored to be Jews or Indians depending on your source, and as it happens with lone survivors she was hard-pressed to see beyond herself and whatever calamity was coming next. Now she was caught in one of those upwells of religious fervor that mark the end of centuries. And so in the spring of 1891 she packed herself and her child off with some seventeen others (girls, maiden aunts, and widows) for a former convalescent home in the panhandle of Florida, just south of Tallahassee, where they would wait in the damp and the heat for the fire to fall.

  Love-wracked Neda, who neither believed nor disbelieved, followed. She bought a ticket with her last week’s pay and rode at the back of the congregation in the third-class car they took across the coast, feeling the culminate ends of her actions with all the resignation and mystery of something undertaken in a dream. She did it for the same reason she held the child when its mother wouldn’t, because it was all she could do. But she never doubted the rightness of it. Like the god the girl believed in, love has its own conscience. When you hear the voice that speaks and commands, even against all sense and self-interest, you will either wither slow and die in denial of it or without guilt burn everything behind you and go. At such times love shouts louder than reason.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The place they called Rising Souls lay on the western bank of the Wakulla River in an area of slash pine and sawgrass and temperamental karst given to sinks that swallowed houses whole and to mineral springs. At the center of its dozen acres, a pair of screen-windowed bunkhouses framed one such spring, into whose waters the tuberculars and rheumatics had been urged several times a day in the camp’s previous life. Farther toward the river was the cottage that had once housed the superintendent and his wife, and now became the home of the Teacher, as he was known, and whosoever at the moment was in need of his pastoral care. Farther still, a hundred yards into the woods, in a patch that caught the sun and moonlight well, lay the graves of those patients who the waters had failed.

  On the day of their arrival most were too dazed and weary to do much more than knock the rust and cobwebs from the bedsprings in the bunkhouse, beat out mattresses that had curled stiff like the silverfish and centipedes that rained out of them with each blow. Meanwhile, the Teacher took a place beside the water at the heart of the place and waited until everything was unloaded and the wagons and drivers they’d hired out of Tallahassee had headed out, far past earshot, to call his followers together.

  He was a tall man, the Teacher, heavy, and with a smooth, round face whose chief feature was a red mouth that pursed frequently into satisfied smiles. He claimed to be from California and to have visited Jerusalem some years ago. The core of his teaching was that in order to hasten the joyous end and secure their place among the chosen, his followers must return to the state of what he called natural grace.

  So once the women had gathered in a weary sweaty huddle at the spring, the Teacher drew off his every article of clothing (a condition in which some of the widows hadn’t even seen their husbands) and, easing down the steps until the water was at his waist, bid them do the same. Neda stood dumbstruck beside the girl, who, passing her child to Neda and without hesitation, let her dress fall to her feet and went to the man in the spring. Neda, holding the child who bowed his back and tried to shove away, a compass needle pointing ever motherward, bore slack-jawed and horrified witness to what followed: The others went down, one by one, taking the Teacher’s outstretched arm and letting themselves be led into the water. The soft mystery of algae furred the stone steps beneath their bare feet, whose soles had been hardened in truck patches and cottonfields; and some of the women slipped and caught and held each other in balance, their long braids snaking behind them in the water through the bright green skim of plant life, and then they were bobbing, buoyed. They struggled for balance as the spaces between them filled with lilies the size of dimes and ticking waterbugs and whirlers, more practiced dancers than themselves here in the wet. Not far from the pool, in the shade of a red maple, the smaller children watched their mothers and older sisters rise and fall. Neda went and sat among them, holding the bucking boy, the sweat in her eyes burning the vision of gleaming pale shoulders, darkened hair slicked with green as the Teacher put his hand to each of their heads. In Neda’s lap, the boy was nudging, reaching out with the sustained urgency of children, for what he could not have, and it was like a part of her soul lay there squirming. Enough to hold herself together, much less this. Now the women and girls in the water sang together, a close, wordless harmony, floating, weightless for the first time in their lives.

  It was, for most of them, a design wrought in faith and hope, two qualities which rarely bring their bearers to good ends. But for the remainder of the year the people at Rising Souls lived tolerably well on their pooled savings, plus those of the Teacher and what charity he’d acquired on the way. It was a treasury meant to last until the end of days.

  It was in these flush times and on the grounds of Rising Souls that Isaac Patterson learned to walk, toddling on bowlegs back and forth between the clapping hands of sunburnt girls not much older than himself who were given charge of the small ones, learned to speak and sing and to lie still and flat on the ground long enough for the world to forget about him and resume its being. Learned to find good paths in the footprints of the older children when they went to cut rushes at the river’s edge, dragging back the stalks for the women to weave the tall wicker seat where the Teacher would sit.

  In another time the Teacher might have overseen a sheetmetal arena full of worshippers, might have seen his face mirrored in glowing screens tall as houses, but as it stood he towered from his chair on the porch overlooking the pool, reflected in the awed faces of the women and in the growing bellies of more than a few.

  Among whom, it so happened, Isaac’s mother was soon to be found.

  Neda had seen the Teacher whispering to her before nightly lesson, and after dinner the girl had disappeared with him. In that moment, Neda hid herself from the idiot smiles of the other women, their muted cheer that the girl had been “chosen.” That night Neda lay awake, waiting for the girl to come back, which she did not, having been taken into the Teacher’s house officially, so Neda discovered the next morning at dawn prayer.

  For weeks afterwards Neda couldn’t catch the girl alone. She was always in the presence of the Teacher or the core group of other women, the chosen of the chosen. Even when Neda brought Isaac to her, hoping the child might stir something in her, the girl would only give the dreamy smile she, like all the rest but Neda, increasingly wore. Greeted the boy as you might a well-meaning stranger.

  So Neda was startled and felt more than a small
surge of hope when the girl came to her at the clothesline one dim evening between ablutions and dinner and said she was afraid. Neda let the sheet fall and took the girl’s hands and asked her, softly, why. Hoping that whatever she said would be the beginning of their leaving here. But the hope died as soon as the girl opened her mouth.

  She was afraid, the girl said, that the time of the birth would fall past the date of the end of the world. Maybe, she wondered, the child wouldn’t even be one of the chosen and the girl would be bolted up to heaven in a beam of light only to find herself standing empty before God. (When she said this Neda imagined the light to be the color of the girl’s eyes. An otherworldly green.) But then again, the girl went on, how wonderful a child born in Heaven would be. A child who never knew this world and all its hurts.

  As she listened, hating herself, hating love, Neda realized that this whole time the girl’s hands had never closed around her own.

  As a girl on the island of her youth Neda would accompany her father into the groves of olive and carob where he strung belled nets to catch the flocks of turtledove and chaffinch that stopped there on their way across the sea, the island a lighting place for refugees as is ever the case.

  If the moon was right you could round a bend in the path and suddenly see miles of hillsides in the shadow of the three-fingered mountain glittering with the eyes of the trapped. The birds would be cooked in enormous copper pans nested with garlic and raisins, their tender bones and the strong dark meat of their thumb-sized breasts said to grant virility to men who ate them. And as she grew older Neda wondered if the birds were to blame for the thoughts and wants that thrilled and troubled her. Those moments, when she would bite her lip and turn from the damp dressfront of a young wife washing clothes in the plaza fountain or while walking to the market fall behind to watch the sway of a cousin’s hips, came unbidden and with mounting urgency. Eventually she stopped searching for an answer, her mind more occupied with survival. What being of such a nature taught you was that the world would never forgive you for it.