The plane ride had been quiet. Neither one of them spoke to me but kept their conversation to themselves. I could tell Papa Rich was disappointed in me by how he avoided eye contact, and Scarecrow was smug, as if he knew he’d been right all along, and now he was helping clean up the mess.
The silence was far greater a punishment than if he would have just yelled. I burned down his town, and for that, I feel guilty. I know why Christopher and I did it, but that doesn’t take away the fact that it was our home. And now, because of me, Papa Rich is homeless.
“I have to hand it to you,” Papa Rich says, winded. “You picked a location that is secure. No sane man would make this climb to find us.”
Scarecrow huffs, somehow seeming to make his way up the mountain easier than both Papa Rich and me, and considering he only has one leg and crutches, the feat is definitely impressive.
As we reach the top of the mountain, Scarecrow uses his crutch to point at a dilapidated—but still standing—church on the edge of a cliff. “There it is, Ember,” he says. “Your new home.”
I brush off my hands and pick out the thorns that are embedded in my palms. “It’s so high up here,” I say more to myself than anyone else. The lower clouds surround us, filling my taxed lungs with moisture.
“They were smart back in the day. The folks built this church on this here ridge to keep a look out for Indians. You can look below and see for miles, and as you just saw from our hike, it’s not easy getting here. Gave them the upper hand against invaders, just like it will do the same for us.”
“People lived here?” I see an old church, an outhouse, and there do seem to be signs of houses from a long time ago, though the structures are not standing and are nothing but a pile of debris.
It reminds me of Hallelujah Junction simply in the fact that there are signs of the past, of a civilization once here, and whispers of the ghosts of settlers. But unlike Hallelujah Junction, there is not a full town remaining. If there ever was one, Mother Nature destroyed it.
“They built a mighty fine church,” Scarecrow says, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And it makes a good homestead for me and my wives.”
Wives? Scarecrow wasn’t married when I lived in Hallelujah Junction. And he said wives, as in plural. I still remember how he wanted to marry me. He wanted Papa Rich to find him a wife as well. Had he actually found two?
“Come on, let’s get settled in before nightfall,” Papa Rich finally says, his breathing getting back to normal quickly.
We follow Scarecrow as he hobbles his way to the white chapel that reminds me of the schoolhouse I spent most of my life in with my cat in Hallelujah Junction. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, at the same time, it seems as if time has stood still. I’m back to where I started. I’m in an old settlers’ town. I’m with Papa Rich and Scarecrow. And I am hiding from the rest of the world once again.
“It ain’t much,” Scarecrow says as we approach the door of the chapel, “but my wives are fixing it up mighty nice.”
He opens the chipped white door, and two wide-eyed women turn to face us. They cower, and I can’t tell if it’s because they think we’re invaders, or if that’s simply how they respond to seeing Scarecrow return home.
I can’t say I’d blame them for either.
I scan the room as we enter. So much of this chapel reminds me of the old schoolhouse I once loved. The musky smell, the chill in the air, and the feeling of old. I can almost hear the whispers of the ghosts that still lurk in the shadows, and it brings me to a place I didn’t realize I actually missed.
The old pews are missing, and in their place is an old wooden table, four hardy chairs to go with it, and a rocking chair nearby. In the far corner of the room, where the altar would have been, is a camp cooktop hooked up to a small propane tank. There is also a hole that has been created in the ceiling; beneath it is a fire pit that has a cast iron pot hanging over it. A green tarp is being used to try to shield some of the wind coming in through the hole, but not too much, as the hole was clearly created for ventilation for the fire.
There are parts of the open church that are sectioned off by hanging, tattered curtains. I’m assuming they’re the wives’ rooms. Maybe Scarecrow has a private space? I have no idea how the sleeping arrangements work with having multiple wives, and I can’t see behind the curtains to know how many beds there are—if there are any.
There is also a clothing line running from one end of the room to a post where other dresses, some undergarments, and some blue jeans for Scarecrow hang. The women have obviously tried their hardest to keep the place organized and as homey as possible, considering. It even appears as if the beginnings of a chimney of sorts is being worked on. I see a pile of stone and a bucket of mud near the hole. It’s a wise move, considering winter is coming, and having a fairly large hole in the chapel will make for a chilly living space.
“This here is Wife Number One, and Wife Number Two,” Scarecrow says to me.
I notice Papa Rich is taking off his jacket, putting down his bags, and paying no attention to the introductions. He obviously already knows who these women are, or he doesn’t care.
“Wives, this here is Ember. She’s going to become Wife Number Three.”
My heart stops, and I make eye contact with Papa Rich, who looks up at me when he hears Scarecrow’s statement. His eyes say it all. He agrees with me marrying him. He gave me the opportunity to marry someone else, and we know how that ended.
But I don’t want to marry Scarecrow.
I’m married to Christopher!
Even though I’m not physically with Christopher, surely our wedding vows mean something. How can Papa Rich want me to go against my vows said under God? If that’s not a sin, then I don’t know what is. And even if he wants to deny that Christopher and I are truly married—just as Louisa did—how can he possibly think Scarecrow is a good match for me? Especially since he already has two wives!
But I also know this is not the time to argue. I’m not sure if I can ever truly speak freely to Papa Rich again, but I know now is too soon. I can’t read his anger yet. All I see is disappointment and even sadness in his features, but something tells me he is on the very edge of what could turn into pure rage if pushed the right way.
I redirect my attention to the two women who Scarecrow hasn’t called by name yet. Both women have stringy brown hair that is braided loosely down their backs. They are dressed in worn and faded flower dresses that go to their ankles and remind me of dresses I once wore back in Hallelujah Junction. They are also both barefoot, and suddenly my shoes feel very foreign, out of place, and extremely restricting on my feet.
“Where’s supper?” Scarecrow asks.
Wife Number One looks at Wife Number Two, and this time there is no denying the fear in their eyes.
“We didn’t know you were coming back today,” Wife Number One says softly.
“We would have had supper ready, but we were trying to ration out the food until your return,” Wife Number Two adds, wringing her hands in front of her as she refuses to look Scarecrow in the eye.
The wives look close in age and appearance. Sisters maybe? Regardless of their relation, they both respond to Scarecrow the same way. It makes me want to step in and offer assistance somehow. Maybe I can suggest that I make supper and deflect some of the tension in the room. But before I can say or do anything, Scarecrow grabs Wife Number Two by the arm and leads her to the table and chairs.