Author's Note: Just a heads-up that while you read this story, you may scratch your head and wonder where I got certain elements in later chapters from. Essentially, it's just There Will Be Blood from Mary Sunday's point of view but, in truth, it's a little bit more. I had four sources that I pulled material from and expanded on. The first, of course, is the final film product you have seen. The second, of course, was the deleted scenes from the DVD. The third was from an official script of TWBB which I was lucky enough to come across so there are even more scenes that hadn't been filmed but which I included in this story. Lastly, the fourth was the book Oil! by Upton Sinclair, which inspired the film. It is from Oil! where I developed and fleshed out Paul Sunday, previously a minimalist character in the final film product, and a majority of the conclusion to this particular fan fiction. It's taken a long while and loads of cross referencing and double-checking, but I finally feel confident that it's at last ready to read. This story has been a labour of love of mine ever since the movie was released in the cinemas so I hope that you enjoy the fruits of my labour. Oil black or Bible black: which will you prefer?
"When it comes to little girls, God the father has nothing on father the God."
-Frank Pittman
I. The Angel of Signal Hill
A life full of pastoral redundancy on the family ranch was unbearable for seven-year-old Mary Sunday. Time was marked by the movements of the sun and the moon with nothing new to look forward to, alleviated by intervals of peacefull sleep, the time when she dreamt of life anywhere else but Little Boston. The mundane repetition drove her mad: waking before sunrise to set the table, taking special care to mutter grace before a meagre breakfast to avoid a lashing, then rounding up the flock of goats with one of her older siblings – usually either one of her brothers Paul or Eli – and tending to them while they grazed in the hills untill the sun slept in its horizon bed. Every day mother packed identical bundles of sliced raw potatoes, goat's milk and cheese for them to eat while they were out performing their shepherding tasks. The same rocks were kicked, the same goats were petted, the same tree was sat under. Returning for supper meant only a larger portion of the same food they consumed for lunch with the exception that the potatoes were boiled this time. She had eaten so much of the same stuff that when she tried to eat more she fought back retching. It was too much banality for the bored child.
No real enjoyments could be had for a child of any age, but boys were permitted more liberties than girls. They were the future pillars of the community, the workers and breadwinners, the rulers and leaders and thereby were allowed their inquisitiveness and experimentation. Not so with the girls, who were confined mostly to the household, preparing for feckless domiciliary lives as maids and baby factories. With her dull chore of tending the flock she was one of the luckier ones envied by her peers for this uncommonness. The rigid way of life in this good Christian community was set in stone: a woman's place was at the hearth and in the bed, nowhere else. Even at her tender age, Mary understood that this was repressive unfairness. On days when Paul accompanied her to the pasture some of the monotony and inequality was broken by discussion of various themes, as Paul was about the only male around who did not think women were incapable of education.
Despite their identical appearance, Paul and Eli could not have been more disparate: the former a cynical dilettante, the latter an obsessed evangelist. Eli's Heaven was a righteous version of Hell while Paul's was a quiet library. She adored Paul. Sweet as treacle, he was quixotic and carried books wherever he went. Deprived of any escape in reality, books were his sanctuary from the horrors at home. But because the Sundays were destitute, he had to borrow them from a friend or the single bookcase that acted as a library in the school. On rare special occasions he was lucky enough to receive them as gifts. Those that suited his tastes were received from his friends but the ones given by his parents were Christian-themed and accepted with fettered disappointment. Among his eclectic interests were literature, politics, business and, his favourite, an idea termed socialism. The topics he discussed with her were broad and ranged from arithmetic to sociology, all of which she absorbed with the earnest desire of a student. From those few decent books he read to her, teaching her what he learnt, even though she didn't understand because the scope of her young mind was not yet mature enough. She tried and that was the important thing, comforted in how Paul attributed her struggle to comprehend to her age rather than her sex.
Nor was time spent solely on educational purposes. After the taboo lessons, they disported in childish pursuits including hide and seek, tag, chase bevies of quail or whatever else she felt like playing or inventing. Those times were ones when Paul was at her mercy and he relished every carefree minute of it, as did she because it was the only time she could be herself instead of the wallflower everyone else expected her to be. Children and women were meant to be seen and not heard and she had the double misfortune of being included in both categories. Often as the blistering sun reached an insufferable peak, each slow, lackadaisical hour was spent lounging on their backs beneath a gnarled tree, staring at the unrelenting clear blue Californian sky. At long lengths they canvassed their aspirations of escaping the dreary, isolated life of similitude because, according to Paul, it was not meant for them. They were meant for other things, bigger things, important things. In a place where happiness and prosperity were scarce, Mary wondered what all of those things entailed.
The only person who enjoyed this laggard existence was Eli and that was no surprise. With his devout status as a healer, he was an exalted deity to the poor lost souls populating his congregation and few men could resist being as equally worshipped as the God he claimed to serve. This never escaped Paul's critical eye and he spoke about it frequently when alone with her.
"Karl Marx said that 'Religion is the opium of the masses'," Paul quoted sagely. "Those people need Eli like we need to get away. We shouldn't judge them. We should pity them. They have nothing else to live for. Not like we do."
Mary considered this, ignorant as to who Karl Marx was or what his words meant. She did understand the rightness of Paul's thoughts about the necessity of escape and that if he repeated Marx's words then they were significant. They needed desperately to get away because even blue skies were mundane and intolerable if they were all you ever saw.
Nightfall brought the only other difference in her life. The sky did not merely transition from blue to black, it darkened to Bible black as everyone, including her and Paul, were forced by father to pay homage to Eli's God. Disobedience incurred the wrathfull reification of that God by way of Abel Sunday's belt or occasional bare hand. Spare the rod and spoil the child! he recited the terrible mantra of parental despots. During the prayer before supper the young girl pantomimed with a bowed head and closed eyes, not daring to do as little as glance at Paul to check if he imitated her or if he was rebellious enough to refuse to take part in the attrition. After eating, the night's entertainment was the usual religious scripture, read by either father or Eli, an event that merely embellished the sanctimonious stranglehold of the father/son pair rather than uplifting the kind God they allegedly spoke on behalf of.
It wasn't that she didn't believe in any God at all because she did and she knew for certain that Paul did too. Therefore, regardless of the Bible teaching that there were no other Gods, Mary concluded that in fact two Gods did exist because the one Eli and father spoke of was different from her idea of God. She refused to accept that their fearsome and condemning deity was the same as the benevolent and loving one she put her faith in. So she supposed that the one father and Eli worshipped was a reflection of who they were inside themselves, or how else could they invent such a monstrosity?
Midweek, Mary found Eli's preaching particularly mind-numbing and, as she nodded conformity along with the rest of the family, she silently begged God, her God, to deliver her and Paul from this righteous tyranny. Eventually it would happen, she knew, because her God loved her and she trusted Him. Faith in that kept her alive. A mental slap to her face brought her to her senses and, recalling where she was, fear chased all daydreams from her as a mouse gets chased out of a scorpion's den. If father's God was omniscient like He was said to be then He would know what she was thinking and strike her dead with a lightning bolt.
Whether or not Paul mimicked the pious gestures was answered the next night when father unexpectedly stopped reading mid-passage and attacked his son in a tornado of rage, spit and Scripture. A horrified Mary watched while her sweet brother was strangulated and slapped hard across the face, wanting desperately to rush to his aid or to at least kick the passive Eli who only observed with a smug smile. Mother ushered her and older sister Ruth from the room but Mary could not be prevented from watching the ghastly sight from over her shoulder, even after mother advised not to involve herself in men's business. Torn between the desire to leap between Paul and father and the need to flee for her own self-preservation, she followed mother's orders, a rush of adrenaline making her body shudder with upset.
Bed was the prompt destination for the girls, where Mary enumerated her routine bedtime prayers with diligence loud enough to drown out the yelling and sound of flesh pummelling flesh from the other room. When finished, she slipped beneath the bed clothes and waited for mother to exit the room before cracking open her eyes and listening intently. The first terrible moments of the assault were finished and all there was to hear now were angry, muffled voices, indicating that at least the violence had stopped. She prayed wilfully that Paul was safe then again pled for an angel to deliver them from father's heavy hand and quick temper.
So intense were her prayers that she expected to find that angel when she was roused later in the night. Alas, the lambent radiance that met her eyes emanated not from a being forged out of fire and light but from the flame of a candle clutched in Paul's wobbly hand. Alarmed by the sight of his battered and puffy face, she gasped and sat bolt straight as if from a nightmare, immediately silenced by his hand over her mouth.
"I have to leave now," he told her quietly.
Brushing his hand away, she was overwrought by panicked heartache.
"I don't want you to go!" she whimpered, tears flowing down her freckled cheeks.
"But I must, Mary! You have to keep this secret. Do I have your word?"
"I don't want you to go!"
"Shh!"
"I want to go with you then!"
"You can't! You're too young to take this journey with me. But I know what you want. Give me time and you will have it, I promise. You will have a better life and everything will be fine."
"Not without you!"
Frustrated by her stubbornness but in clear understanding of it, he asked, "If I tell you where I'm going would it make you feel better? Then would you swear not to tell?"
She hesitated for a moment then nodded vigorously, her heart a wild animal pounding at its cage of ribs.
"Swear it, Mary, I mean it."
"I swear I won't tell."
Her unsteady voice threatened to falter and break with sobs.
"I'm going to get someone to come and help you. Someone who will make things better."
Glitter of fresh hope brimmed in her wet eyes.
"You're going to get my angel?" she inquired joyfully, the volume of her voice louder than intended.
"Shh!" Paul lowered his tone to a whisper softer than before when Ruth stirred in the bed beside Mary's. When she settled, he continued, "Yes, I'm going to get an angel. I heard there was one in Signal Hill and I have to go there to find him. When he comes he will take away all the bad things. But I must leave before he escapes to a place I can't reach."
Mary was speechless. Churning with mixed emotions, her thoughts jumbled. Unexpectedly, she threw her arms around Paul, locking him in a secure embrace.
"Go then!" she whispered, choking with urgency. "Hurry! Go and bring my angel back with you! Then everything will change for the better and we can be happy!"
Her big brother smiled sweetly despite the soreness of his swollen face, tucked her back into bed, then kissed her forehead with the solemn dual responsibility of a protective older sibling and devoted shepherd caring for a member of his flock. The flame of the candle was snuffed and Mary was blinded again by darkness. For the first time in her life, she finally saw the light of the Promised Land, far away at the edge of the gloom.
Paul's whereabouts went unnoticed untill the day after when mother asked about him during breakfast. Nobody else but Mary knew. Her large brown eyes fixated on the bare floor, her tongue stationary, as it was better to stay quiet and avoid trouble, even in slightest modicum. Besides: she promised. By nightfall when the family still heard nothing from Paul, a unanimous assumption culminated that he ran off because of father's brutal attack the night previous. Who was to say that they were wrong? Little Mary didn't know for certain either but she placed no blame if he did.
Wild hope made things brighter and tolerable over the first week but beyond that, terror sank in. How long did it take to travel to Signal Hill? Or to have a letter couriered from there? Caustic days inched by but news from Paul never arrived and his delinquency harrowed her. He neither returned nor sent a covert message to her while she worked in the hills. First her anticipation dulled to disappointment which subsequently turned into a cutting melancholy, for it was assured that Paul betrayed her and left his baby sister behind to deal with the sanctimonious Sunday men on her own. He had to be there by now. Right? A part of her refused to wholly believe that, in spite of the mounting proof of its legitimacy, marked by lapsed time. Something in her heart, perhaps fierce sibling devotion, was convinced that Paul would do no such thing to her. He would not leave her without relief from the promised angel forthcoming, not if he gave her his word.
Then where is my angel? Where is Paul? she wondered on a daily basis.
Day in, day out she trooped onward, doing her best to keep Paul's locality sub rosa, crying untill her eyes ached far into the nights. Out on the pasture in particular was where he was most missed. Tending the flock had never been fun with Eli but the tense, joyless work was wildly exacerbated by her secret. His looks at her were armed with suspicion that she vaulted away unshared information. Although she was afraid of him, promise of her angel's eminent arrival bolstered her spirit, keeping her determined to stay unbroken and not give him power over her. Thus, she cloaked the fear with defiant indifference toward his nearness and Paul's non-attendance. Every day, every hour that crawled by while she was alone with him in the remote pasture was stressed and white-knuckled. The second brother made it a wretched chore, always inculcating her to learn a new Bible verse every day then demanding that she recite it to him on the next. Worse, he wanted her to practise the given longueur the whole day so that it was committed to her memory as intrinsic nature.
Living without Paul magnified boredom into a worse malaise than it ever had been and she longed for his return. Eli himself was too insufferable to bear alone with the addition of father. Together they were an unbearable force to be reckoned with, strengthened by their strict God. She and Paul loved the Lord, the one they knew who existed in their hearts, not the same one Eli promoted in such a crazed, perfervid way. Paul and Mary had practical ideals: the last thing either of them wanted was to be morally raped by someone else's distortion of God. Already committed faithfully to the Lord, it was unnecessary to coerce them in doing extravagant feats such as memorising the Bible. Erudite and wise Paul said that their amount of faith was enough and that as wonderfull as The Word was, there was more in life, things beyond religion and the Almighty. Mary believed him entirely.
Hope was dashed away forever after three weeks passed and still nothing out of the ordinary happened. Not a single visitor had sojourned to the ranch in more than a month and every day it appeared less likely that any would. Mary surrendered defeat, contemplating that since Paul would definitely not abandon his sister in such a dire circumstance then something unfortunate was delaying him. A raging, uncontrollable wildfire of discontent burnt her. Maybe he was detained by injury or worse and never reached her angel in time. Too many days had passed without word from him and thinking of terrible possibilities was now a necessity to brace for the worst outcome.
Each day the sun sank in its horizon bed and her confidence went with it. At night she cursed both God and Paul for leaving her alone. An unknown horror happened to her beloved brother whose only sin was his want of improvement in their quality of life. How could God let this happen? He was only trying to make life better. Resentment was cast from her eyes every time they were laid upon father or Eli. Paul's grave situation was their fault and she wondered how their conscience let them sleep at night. As she wept for her lost brother and his desertion of her, whether intentional or not, she professed an oath that faith would never again be allowed to enter her heart. And at sunrise there it was, accumulated inside her overnight through dreams, pulling her back to square one, squashing the hope to avoid future disappointment. Trapped with nowhere else to go, she was an animal stuck in tar with no way out. She wanted to run, to escape into the hills and the desert like Paul had done and never look back. Whatever was out there beyond the hills and wild grass had to be better than what was at home. It just had to be.
Frustrated and at her wits end, the tormenting thought lingered: This is it for me! I will never be free!
The dreary acedia trudged forward, a slug carrying on its back the only new event that transpired: an earthquake during the fifth week of Paul's hiatus. At mid-day while she and Eli watched the flock, the Earth's hungry underground stomach rumbled beneath their feet. The young kid she'd been romping with bleated as she clung to its neck, terrified and begging for Eli to help her, her dread of him temporarily superseded by her need for comfort. But the self-professed man of God cowered beneath the tree with a confused and equally petrified countenance, frozen as if encased in ice. All trust that he was under his God's protection was vanquished from his person.
Finished as swiftly as it began, the seismic activity's brevity was no compensation for how terrifying the ordeal had been. A mild earthquake, it left only minor damage to the goat corral and the windmill. Eli testified with vehemence that it was an omen of something unholy approaching Little Boston. Mary's unspoken thoughts disagreed with her brother as they often did. To her, it was a herald for the wicked that something almighty was coming to cleanse the impurities. Hope was refreshed: it was her angel, she just knew it.
Six full weeks had come to pass since Paul's departure and a few days after the earthquake the girl suffered the dreariest day of Eli's illiberal, harried scripture lessons yet. Father must have suspected that she was linked to Paul's disappearance and sent her to the pasture with Eli rather than Ruth either as punishment or to see if she would crack under the pressure and spill her guts to his household ally. In the meantime, it began to seem like the earthquake was prevenient to nothing. Neither Paul nor the angel made appearances, revitalising her anguish and sorrow. The day was waited out patiently but eagerly in expectation that she would see her brother and the Heavenly host pop up over the hills. By the time the scorching sun fell in the west and Eli decisively judged it time to head back home, the child's endurance had reached its finish line. Enabled to tolerate only so much by virtue of her youth and experience, abuse produced a person within her who was wise beyond her years. Unlike most children, she understood that she had limitations and Eli, companioned with her loss of Paul, pushed her to the brink.
Then, with the unexpectedness of a flash flood, the hebetude of ranch life broke. Corralling the goats for the evening, she peered longingly at the hills where in the distance an invisible siren lured her with promises if she could just dare to place one foot in front of the other. Entranced, the first foot moved forward without her knowing it but when a second step was about to be taken, she discovered an unbelievable miracle progressing from the evening dusk. Were they real or a mirage generated by desert and desire? Afraid to blink, she feared that they would vanish, but after the theory was tested they were still there when her eyes opened again. Two figures, one her size and the other a tall, gangly adult, were moving closer toward the Sunday property; she instantly supposed the big one was Paul and the smaller one was her angel. Her angel! At long last! Her brother was finally returned with their saviour! Simmering deep in her heart, moments of doubt notwithstanding, she had always fostered the belief that the earthquake foretold their coming! Admittedly, she was taken aback by the small stature of the long-awaited angel. Nevertheless, a child-sized angel would still wield all the power of Christ behind him to save her! But as the man and angel advanced she realised that both were total strangers. In fact, the one her size wasn't an angel at all, but a boy approximately her age.
Pulse racing madly, she bolted inside and informed father of the impending company. He thanked her and strode out with long, hurried paces to greet their guests while Mary, Ruth and mother slipped around the rear to watch. She heard the man introduce himself and the little boy to father.
"My name's Daniel Plainview. This is my son, H.W."
Mary was stung with boundless elation. Paul sent not one angel but two!
Father's response: "Are you hunting?"
Bulky camping gear burdened the backs of both strangers and Mary understood it as subtle attestation of their ethereal strength. How else could they carry such a hulking load over untold miles through sweltering heat? She also noticed with a heavy, flummoxed heart that the adult favoured his left leg. Angels should not have trouble walking. Should they? Did God really send a lame angel and a pint-sized cherub to protect her?
"Hunting for quail," Daniel answered with a strong, stentorian voice that carried the characteristic tincture authority of a great angel, sending shivers of exhilaration down the young girl's spine and curing her doubt. "We're told there might be a good place to camp up near the Sunday ranch."
Mary was robbed of her breath. He was purposely and specifically looking for her home!
"This is the Sunday ranch," father notified. "You can camp here."
It was them! It was them! There was no question that this man was Paul's promised angel from Signal Hill, the avatar he ventured off to meet. The coincidence was far too great. Her brother and her God had not failed her! This meant her God was the greater one and she wanted to sing jubilant hosannas at the top of her lungs, if for nothing more than to irritate Eli. As the angel and the boy closed the gap between themselves and the ramshackle Sunday homestead, she got a clearer view of his face. Weathered and ruggedly handsome, lantern-jawed and leonine in visage, he was a man in the middle stages of his autumn years, tall as a tree and lanky yet commanding in a seismic way that made the earth move beneath his feet. It was no wonder the earthquake preceded him, corresponding with his arrival in glorious announcement. The trio stopped a few feet from the house as they discussed provisions and the very earthquake. Mary's breath stopped in sheer fascination of his veritable presence, her eyes unable to tear from his imposing form.
"Now," Daniel said, briefly removing his hat as he gathered himself in the cooling evening heat. "If we set our tent away over there, we'd be out of your way over there."
He gestured to the spot he meant, a small plot that was a respectable distance from the house.
"That's fine," father replied. "Ruth, help these men and bring them some water!"
But the angel was having none of them wait on him as he called for the cherub H.W. to perform the task instead. Her spirit soared with reverence for this proud creature who came to serve but refused to be served. Heaven helped those who helped themselves, she knew. H.W. raced off to gather the water as Mary squinted to better her view of the angel's striking features.
Startling her from her stupor, father called her name and ordered, "Mary! Bring them some milk!"
Furious that she was expected to leave his glorious presence if for but a moment or two, Mary charged back into the house to promptly do as told. While busy readying the bottle of cold goat's milk for the newcomers, she strained to eavesdrop on the conversation between him and father. Alas, the words were spoken in a lower tone that she could not hear well, all except the angel's unmistakable demanding shout to hurry up. Whether it was directed at her or H.W. she knew not, but nonetheless it was the crack of a whip in getting her to obey. If he came to help her then the very least she could do was expediently provide him with fresh milk. She wanted to make a good first impression, to prove herself worthy of his help.
Flustered because she desired to appease the Angel Plainview to the best of her ability as remittance for his services, Mary groaned when she accidentally tipped over one of the milk bottles. Retrieving a threadbare hand towel, she mopped up the lacteal mess, overhearing Daniel mention a fire.
Angels are made of fire and light! Perhaps he was issuing a subtle warning to her terrible patriarch. Don't ever touch Mary again or I will smite thee in a blast of heavenly fire! Angels had the capability, she knew. He may explain himself to father as a hunter of quail but she knew in the fibre of her being that his arrival signified underlying retribution. Let them touch her now!
A second towel was needed to finish mopping the spilt milk then she placed both saturated towels into the wash basin to prevent further muddle from the dripping white mess. The task complete, she filled the rest of the bottle without spilling another drop, sealed it and trotted back outside.
Daniel was already leading his son off in the direction he'd pointed out to father and she sped after them, the glass bottle clutched in her grasp like her life depended on its safe delivery. Reaching out, she handed it to them. It was H.W. who accepted but Daniel peered at her and she froze, a frightened fawn trapped in his gaze. His eyes, small and fair with a network of crow's feet given to him from age and long hours of squinting in the sun, possessed the steely gaze distinctive of a fierce archangel. Yet another thing altogether lay behind those disarming eyes, something beyond the power and dignity that the child could not place and it enthralled her. It was an odd, ambivalent brew of warmth and severity that created a similar strange mélange within her, concurrently repelling and attracting her.
"Thank you, young lady," he stated graciously, a merry expression on his attractive moustachioed face before focusing forward again, never slowing his pace.
Despite the diversion of his sight from her, she could not resist gawking at him, even as she forced herself to turn and walk away.