Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  Harley nodded to himself. Congregational meetings had to be announced for two consecutive Sundays before they could be held.

  The meeting ended a few minutes later. Underwood and Carson went to request Al Green’s resignation. Bert Dotson left right away. Chauncey Monroe took a couple minutes, looking very smug.

  Harley kicked back in his chair. “Okey, you should know that Brother Green met with me this morning, so I knew what was up.”

  “Me, too,” Lincoln admitted. He grinned. “It’s a good thing Hale Myers couldn’t make it. He’s not very good at keeping a straight face.”

  “I’m sorry, guys,” Okey said. “I didn’t want to vote Brother Green out. But I think it’s the right thing to do for the Baptist church. Just maybe not for us at First Baptist.”

  “Brother Green explained what you were thinking,” Harley said. “I don’t know whether I agree with you—but I’ll grant that you’ve been doing some serious thinking about it. More’n I have.”

  “But now things are going to be a mess.”

  Harley looked at Reynolds. “Lincoln, we both knew this was coming.”

  “Yeah, we did,” Lincoln agreed. “Didn’t want to admit it.”

  “Okey, it was just a matter of time before Underwood caught both Hale and I out of town at the same time. Brother Green was going to lose three to two at some point. And they seem to have leaned on Bert Dotson. So don’t go blaming yourself.”

  “Everyone will hear, probably by the end of tomorrow.”

  “What about the down-timers?” Lincoln sounded urgent.

  “Brother Green called on some of them this afternoon,” Harley told him. “He wanted them to hear it from him, especially the ones in the Bibelgesellschaft.”

  Sunday, December 23, 1635

  Albert Underwood got up on Sunday morning and announced that the deacons had voted to request the pastor’s resignation, but he had refused. So he was announcing a congregational meeting to take place on January 6, 1636. Meanwhile the pastor was suspended from preaching.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and Tuesday is Christmas.” Dr. Sims’ voice carried very well. “Who is going to preach those services?”

  Attendance remained down over the holidays.

  Sunday, January 6, 1636

  But on the date of the congregational meeting, the church was packed. Underwood preached from the book of James. After the service was over, Al and Claudette Green went downstairs to the fellowship hall along with those who weren’t members—including the Anabaptists arriving early for the afternoon service.

  Harley saw an usher trying to shoo Nona Dobbs out of the sanctuary.

  “I’m not going to vote,” she said. “I’m not even going to talk. I wrote Mom and Dad that I’d tell them what happened.”

  “Let her stay,” Harley told the usher. “I told my mother the exact same thing.”

  Nona gave him a grateful smile.

  It was a long and heated meeting. A number of people spoke from both sides. The vote was called, and paper ballots were distributed, marked, collected, and counted.

  “Brother Carson, Brother Thomas, would you please go get Brother Green and his wife?”

  Willard and Harley came back with Al and Claudette and their kids along with a couple down-timers.

  “I brought a couple Anabaptists who can report back to the others,” Harley stated. “There are more people downstairs than up here. Thought at least a couple of ’em should be present.”

  Underwood obviously didn’t like it, but nodded curtly.

  After everyone was seated, he said, “We have the results of the vote. The congregation of First Baptist Church has voted to dismiss Brother Green as pastor by a vote of sixty-two to forty-nine.”

  Harley was watching the Greens. Al shrugged, stood up, and helped Claudette with her coat. They filed out of the pew—and were quickly mobbed by slightly less than half of the voting congregation. Harley caught Press Richards’ eye, and the two lawmen subtly but efficiently opened a path through the crowd.

  “What are you going to do now, Brother Green?”

  “Well, you know Joe Jenkins turned his farm over to me to get a Bible school up and running. So I’ll be setting up Mountain Top Baptist Bible Institute.”

  A different voice asked, “So who’s going to preach Sundays?”

  “That’s up to y’all.”

  Underwood spoke into the microphone. “The deacons will take turns. We’ll preach every eight weeks.”

  Harley Thomas worked his way back to the front of the sanctuary. Quietly he said, “Seven, Albert. I’m an officer of the court. It’s important that everyone see that we treat everyone equally. So I’m not going to stay.”

  Underwood bristled. “We’re not treating anyone differently.”

  “I know you believe that, Albert. But it looks different from Bamberg.”

  “Brother Thomas!”

  “You got what you wanted, Albert.” Harley turned around and followed the Greens out the door.

  Press Richards waved him over. “I thought we lost you in the crowd.”

  “Nah, when Underwood said the eight deacons would rotate the preaching, I had to inform him his numbers were off.”

  Al Green blinked and said, “I’m not asking anybody to leave.”

  “Like I told him, it’s a perception thing. See, people here in Grantville know Press is a good cop. But lots of people in Bamberg and Reuss and Altenburg don’t know me, and I can’t afford to show up as ‘that guy who attends the church where everyone has to be like the up-timers.’”

  “Nona Dobbs! You get back here!”

  Nona darted through the crowd and hurried over to the Greens. “Dr. Green, when is church next Sunday? For that matter, where is church next Sunday?”

  “I, uh, I, uh, wasn’t planning to preach.”

  Carole Ann Hardy stalked up. “Nona Frances Dobbs, you come over here at once!”

  “I think,” Harley Thomas told Al Green, “that if Okey’s plan is going to work, you should probably start thinking about your first sermon to this diaspora.”

  Larry Ray Dotson

  Sunday, February 3, 1636

  Larry Ray Dotson spent as much time as he could with his wife. Betty had been in the Pritchard Extended Care Center since 1632. Type II diabetes was a life-threatening condition here and now.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it today.”

  “Shh. There’s no use pushing it when you’re not feeling up to it.”

  “How was church?”

  “Kinda sparse,” Bert admitted. “Okey Rush preached. He said he wasn’t sure how many sermons he has in him, but he had at least one.”

  “What was it on?”

  “Missions, but he never actually said it that way. He talked about how since we’re here in the seventeenth century, some of us don’t actually need to go anywhere. Others have gone all over. It was pretty good, actually. Here’s the tape.”

  “Well, if it was ‘pretty good,’ I’ll have to listen to it. Brother Willard and Brother Chauncey’s sermons weren’t ‘pretty good.’”

  Larry shrugged. “They’ll get better with practice.”

  Betty laughed. “They’re about to get a lot of it. Bert’s next, isn’t he?”

  “Sure is. Harley Thomas left right away. Lincoln came to church the next week, but the other deacons voted to request his resignation and Hale Myers’. So now the Reynolds and the Myers families have left, including Desiree.”

  Betty patted his arm. “Your sister will be okay. She’s standing up for her husband, and that’s just the right thing to do.”

  “Bert’s pretty upset with her.”

  “Have they talked about it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Larry answered. “I suppose I should make sure that happens, shouldn’t I?”

  “You said attendance was sparse,” Betty prompted.

  “Well, there’s no more afternoon service. The deacons voted for English services only. There are a few down-timers com
ing to the morning service now, but most of ’em left—some of ’em to the two Anabaptist congregations who already left, some to the Mennonites who took over for the Nazarenes, but most of ’em with Brother Green. The Stevensons and the Eckerlins left.”

  “They’re in-laws with the Reynoldses.”

  “I haven’t seen the Bledsoes or the Dorrmans or the Simses. I haven’t heard what any of them have decided. I feel bad for the kids. Spring Reynolds liked First Baptist, and she’s just not able to understand why her family isn’t going back. Plus she’s living at Bowers and some of the folks up there are being catty about it. And then there’s Nona Dobbs, who’d like to leave, but Carole Ann Hardy won’t let her.”

  “She’s the one who had the tape,” Betty remembered.

  “That’s got to be tough on her,” Larry mused. “I’d hate to have bad feelings in our family. What do you think about inviting all of them over to the house next Sunday for dinner? We could hire a couple ladies to do the cooking. I’ll grill.”

  “In February?”

  “I’ll put the grill just inside the garage with the door up and set the fans pointing outside.”

  “Larry, it could be zero degrees next Sunday.”

  “Won’t matter. Bert and Lincoln will both come out and stand around the grill. For long enough, anyway.”

  “If you say so.”

  Sunday, February 10, 1636

  The mid-winter cookout had cut into their monthly budget but Larry figured he could live on leftovers for a few days. Plus Desiree Reynolds and Winona Dotson both insisted on bringing a side dish. So that helped.

  “Gotta hand it to you, Larry,” Lincoln said. “I wouldn’t have thought a February cook-out could work.”

  It wasn’t zero, but it was definitely cold out. The grill was just inside the garage door. If you stepped past it, you were outside in a biting wind. But inside it was tolerable for long enough to cook burgers and sausages.

  “It’s a shame there aren’t more winter sports yet,” Bert said. “I did go see the high school basketball game.”

  “Oh? How’d that go?” Larry asked.

  “Calvert High versus the Jesuit collegium. Calvert High crushed them pretty badly, of course, but they’re coming along. I heard they’re trying to talk the Tech College into having a team.”

  Once the weather and sports were exhausted, there were a few minutes of silence as they huddled around the grill.

  Now or never, Larry thought. “I’ve been thinking about the situation at church. I got something to say.”

  “Figured you might,” his brother Bert said.

  “I don’t doubt you’ll both be trying to persuade me to see things your way. But think about this first. I work retail. Sure, it’s just stocking shelves, but I’ve gotten a feel for when the store’s doing well and when it ain’t. Now I’ve never seen the church books but I do know that First Baptist’s finances vary from ‘we’re gettin’ by but not by much’ to ‘giving’s gettin’ behind.’”

  “Can’t disagree with that,” Lincoln stated.

  “Most of the down-timers and a lot of professionals have left. Some of ’em went with Brother Green, and others are working out of town. But I think it’s safe to say giving is down.”

  “Oh, it’s safe to say that, all right,” Bert confirmed.

  “It seems to me that if you split a church that’s barely getting by, then neither half will be getting by anymore. One half needs to find a building, and good luck doing that in Grantville right now. The other half has a building that’s gonna be hard to pay the upkeep on.”

  “Keep going, Larry. You’re making sense,” Lincoln encouraged.

  “I don’t think either group can survive on its own forever. Maybe for a few years. But five, ten years down the road? What are both sides going to do?” He waited a minute then added, “Somebody’s gonna have to put it back together or else there aren’t gonna be any Baptists left in Grantville.”

  “I don’t know how we’d do that, Larry,” Bert said. “Both sides are pretty riled up.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “Me, either.”

  “It’s okay to disagree,” Larry stated. “But we do have a testimony to the rest of Grantville. We ought to at least keep the lines of communications open so that if there’s an opportunity to get back together, we still can. Or maybe we never will, but we’ll find ways to work together on stuff.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Lincoln agreed.

  “All right,” Bert said.

  “So I’m expecting both of you and your families back here for a cookout every couple months. We can make sure we’re still willing to talk about it.”

  “’Preciate it, Larry,” Lincoln said. “But how ’bout we rotate whose house it’s at? It’d be tough for you and Betty to host every time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You or me next, Bert?”

  Bert grinned. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

  Joe Engelsberg

  Sunday, February 17, 1636

  “In Titus 2:13 we have two personal, singular nouns connected by und and only the first is preceded by des. According to Sharp’s Rule, they refer to the same person. Thus, our great God is our Savior. ‘Savior’ is further clarified as ‘Jesus Christ,’ so the grammar explicitly identifies Jesus as God. You can check the Greek and the English. They have the same pattern.

  “Therefore we say with Paul in 1 Timothy 3:16 that ‘God was manifested in the flesh.’ Let us pray.”

  Joe Engelsberg made it a short prayer. His throat was really, really dry. He hoped he hadn’t rushed his delivery too much there at the end.

  Brother Green dismissed the congregation.

  “Come on, Joe. You preached—they’re going to want to shake your hand and tell you how you did.”

  Joe groaned. “I have no idea how I did.”

  “Oh, I do. You nailed it. A little lecture-y, but not bad considering you crammed what are normally two seminary classes into one sermon.”

  “Dank.”

  They reached the door, and Joe blushed his way through a bunch of compliments. As the last people in line reached him, someone pressed a cup of water into his hand.

  “You did great,” Kat Meisnerin told him. “I liked your sermon.”

  Joe grinned. “You should. You wrote a lot of it.”

  “Did not. I did research. You wrote it and delivered it.”

  “Editor.”

  “You guys are cute.”

  Joe looked over, startled. Nona Dobbs was standing there next to Johannes Huber. She had a mischievous grin on her face.

  “Now don’t start,” Kat told her.

  “I’ll leave that to Alicia,” Nona agreed. She held up a tape recorder. “We both taped it.”

  Joe frowned. “Why both?”

  Johannes answered. “Miss Nona lent me her tape recorder to record your sermon for our friend Brother Oran. I don’t think he will disagree with any of it.”

  “And I borrowed Alicia’s tape recorder because there are some kids at school who want to hear your sermon, Joe, but their parents wouldn’t let them come. I know what that’s like,” Nona explained.

  “After Brother Oran has listened to your sermon, I will try to get Zecharias Spangler to listen to it. He has been listening to some street preachers and is all mixed up.”

  “Street preachers?” Al Green asked sharply. “The ones who follow a guy named Caspar?”

  “Ja,” Huber confirmed.

  “Tell me about him, if you would.” Green pulled Huber aside.

  “Nona,” Joe said, “I did not hear the whole story. How is it that you are allowed to come to church here now?”

  She grinned. “I wrote to my parents. They sent three copies of the same letter to Aunt Carole Ann and Uncle Donald, to Uncle John and Aunt Leota, and to Brandon and me. Brandon and I are allowed to pick between First Baptist and…Mountain Top…Second Baptist…whatever this is. I’m still not allowed to go to the Celtic services, but Alicia said she’ll go tape one fo
r me every month or so.”

  “Are you practicing your smuggling for when you become missionaries?” Kat asked.

  “Gotta start somewhere, right? And Alicia is going to get an after-school job at one of the day cares. She remembered what Marta said about the orphanages in Halle and Savannah.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll probably go to State Tech and learn a skill that’ll be useful to have as a missionary.” Nona turned the question around. “What are you guys going to do?”

  “According to the elders just now, work on my next sermon.” Joe shook his head. “I have no idea how Brother Green did this every week.”

  “What’s it going to be about?”

  “The Trinity,” Kat said. “This is going to be fun.”

  Fallen Apple

  Robert E. Waters

  September 1636

  Grantville High School

  Arnulf Langenberg waited impatiently outside Rachel Hill’s classroom. The science teacher was grading papers, and somewhere in that pile was Arnie’s extra credit. He was proud of it and had done a lot of work and research to make it the best one yet. Projects that required study of important up-time persons were his favorite. It was almost like reading fiction, for the history hadn’t happened yet in his world, but it had happened…or, it would happen eventually. Or, maybe not. It was a marvelous conundrum, almost as intriguing as the dog-eared Chandler novel peeking out of his back pocket. Phillip Marlowe was in a real pickle in The Long Goodbye, and so too was Arnie, sitting there sweating nervously and waiting for Frau Hill to call him in. I should just leave, he thought, clutching the copied project papers in his hand. I should just—

  “Herr Langenberg.” The teacher’s voice echoed into the hallway. “Come in. Come in.”