The Taker by Alma Katsu Page A

through the underbrush and onto the path, running back to the congregation hall as parishioners were spilling out into the sunlight. There would be hell to pay with Father this time, but I calculated it was worth it; Magda was the custodian of the mysteries of life and I sensed that whatever it took to continue learning at her knee was worth it.

SIX

    O ne summer afternoon in my fifteenth year, the entire town gathered in the McDougals’ pasture to hear a traveling preacher speak. I can still see my neighbors making their way to the golden field, tall grass glinting in the sun, plumes of dust rising from the winding trail. By foot, horseback, and wagon nearly everyone in St. Andrew made their way to the McDougals’ that day, though not from any excess feelings of piety, I assure you. Even itinerant preachers were a rarity in our neck of the woods; we would take what entertainment we could get to fill the dreariness of a long summer day in that desolate place.
    This particular preacher had come from out of nowhere, apparently, and in a few short years had built a following, as well as a reputation for fiery speech and rebellious talk. There were rumors he’d divided churchgoers in the nearest town—Fort Kent, a day’s ride to the north—setting traditional Congregationalists against a new wave of reformists. There was also talk of Maine becoming a state and freeing itself from Massachusetts’s proprietorship, so therewas a frisson in the air—religious and political—pointing to possible revolt against the religion the settlers had brought with them from Massachusetts.
    It was my mother who’d convinced my father to come, though she would brook no notion of converting from Catholicism: she’d only wanted an afternoon out of the kitchen. She spread a blanket on the ground and waited for the preaching to commence. My father took the spot next to her, hanging his head with a suspicious air, glancing about to see who else might be there. My sisters remained close to my mother, tucking their skirts primly under their legs, while Nevin had taken off almost as soon as the wagon came to a halt, eager to find the boys who lived on the farms neighboring ours.
    I stood, shielding my eyes against the strong sunlight with one hand, surveying the crowd. Everyone in town was there, some with blankets, like my mother, some with dinner packed in baskets. I was looking for Jonathan, as usual, but he didn’t seem to be there. His absence was no surprise; his mother was probably the most hardened Congregationalist in town, and Ruth Bennet St. Andrew’s family would have no part of this reformist nonsense.
    But then I spied a shimmer of black hide between the trees—yes, Jonathan, skirting the edge of the field on his distinctive stallion. I wasn’t the only one to see him; a palpable ripple went through parts of the crowd. What must it be like to know dozens of people are watching you raptly, eyes following the line of your long leg against the horse’s flank, your strong hands holding the reins. So much suppressed lust smoldering in the bosom of many a female in that dry field that day, it’s a wonder the grass didn’t catch on fire.
    He rode up to me, and kicking free of the stirrups, vaulted from the saddle. He smelled of leather and sun-baked earth and I longed to touch him. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking off his hat and running a sleeve along his brow.
    “You don’t know? A visiting preacher’s come to town. You haven’t come to listen?”
    Jonathan looked over my head, assessing the crowd. “No. I’ve been out surveying the next plot we’re to harvest. Old Charles doesn’t trust the new surveyor. Thinks he drinks too much.” He squinted, all the better to see which girls were looking his way. “Is my family here?”
    “No, and I doubt your mother would approve of your being here, either. The preacher has a terrible reputation. You could go to hell just for listening to him.”
    Jonathan grinned at me.