Free The Wishing Star by Marian Wells Page B

guarded it.
    While Ma leaned over the fence and talked, Jenny noted how the apple tree bent under the load of shiny red apples. Her quick eyes took in the row of marigolds along the garden path. With another part of her mind, Jenny was admiring the way Ma was picking her store of facts from the woman, neat and quick— like apples off that tree , Jenny noted.
    The woman said, “Camp meeting? My, but we’ve had them. There’s one scheduled before the end of the month.” She turned to wave her hand. “Over yonder there’s a clearing, just the other side of the meetinghouse. Already they’re fixing up a brush arbor. Don’t know the fella’s name who’s coming. Don’t matter much. People will either come to hear them all or they won’t come to hear a one.”
    She turned back, leaning on her broom. “Me, I like them all. Gives a body something to do. My family’s grown so’s there’s not much to keep me busy.” Jenny saw her eyes move over the bulging black shawl.
    Jenny pushed closer to the fence and said, “I’m goin’ to school this fall; they’re talkin’ at recess time about some of the going’s on. A bunch went to Sodus Bay to see the Shakers. It sounded like a fun time, watchin’ the dancin’ around and such. The big girls were whisperin’ and laughin’, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”
    Ma’s face flushed as they walked toward the shops. “Jen,” she remonstrated as they hurried on, “you don’t go makin’ fun of religion when you don’t know how a body believes.”
    â€œDoes it matter how a body believes?” Jenny asked. “‘Sides, I didn’t know I was makin’ fun. It was just strange. Lettie was talkin’ about some of the other going’s on. She says that last year the schoolteacher, his name’s John Samuel Thompson, had a vision. He told folks he saw Christ and he talked to Him. Another fella said there’s a man over in Amsterdam, New York, who’d talked with God and was told every denomination of Christians is corrupt, and two-thirds of all the people livin’ on the earth are about to be destroyed.”
    Ma shivered, then said firmly, “One thing’s certain. Now that we’re livin’ in a town where there’s a sizable church and the circuit riders get around regular like, we’re goin’ to be gettin’ ourselves into church.” Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper as she said, “Your pa don’t cotton to gettin’ salvation, but he was raised to know better.”
    Jenny was still wondering about “getting salvation” two weeks later as the evening of the first revival meeting approached. It seemed everyone in town was going. They talked about it at school and even Pa and Tom had promised Ma they would go.
    That first evening, the sun was dropping behind the trees when the people started across town to the clearing behind the church. The Timmons joined the crowd, carrying shawls and quilts to pad the rough benches.
    As they took their places, Jenny saw a black-coated man wearing a somber expression. Another man carried a shiny horn. When the man began to play the horn and the people began to sing, Jenny poked her mother and asked, pointing, “What’s that?”
    â€œThe mourners’ bench; now hush and don’t ask questions. You’ll see all soon enough.”
    After the singing, Jenny watched the somber-faced man open the black book, brace his feet, and lean toward the audience. When quietness stretched to the edges of the clearing and the only sound was raspy breathing and the chirping of crickets, the man began to speak.
    He was holding the book high, but he didn’t look at it. The words rolled from his tongue like music. “‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but