All Things Bright and Strange

by James Markert

  “Yes, Mr. Newberry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, son. But now it’s time to talk.”

  Raphael wiped his eyes, the green so brilliant it sparkled under the kitchen light. “When we were hiding in the town-hall basement, my mother told me a story. She lost a lot of blood when I was born. Her heart nearly stopped. Then the midwife placed me against her chest, folded her arms around my body. And her heart started beating again.”

  He looked around the table for reactions. “My father just thought his prayers had come through. They had me baptized a week later. When I was three, I found a bird on the ground with a wounded wing. I cupped it in my hands, and a minute later the bird took off flying. My uncle, my mother’s brother, had fallen into using cocaine. My father tied him up in a barn so he couldn’t partake. He screamed out like the devil had took him. My father told me to sit with him, and I did. I held his hand, and my uncle relaxed. I stayed with him until he stopped, and the demons soon left him.”

  Father Timothy leaned back in his chair, motioned the sign of the cross over his forehead, chest, and shoulders. “Raphael—the name refers to the healing power of God. God heals. In Christianity, Judaism, and Mohammadism, Raphael is the archangel who works to heal people’s minds, spirits, and bodies.”

  He sighed into his hands, looked at Reverend Cane, then Rabbi Blumenthal. “I assume you have noticed the artwork in that chapel? The mosaic on the floor? It’s a replica of the Rembrandt painting, The Archangel Raphael Taking Leave of the Tobit Family. The statue depicted there, the one holding a staff and standing on a fish? That’s Raphael. One of the stained-glass windows shows Raphael healing a blind man. In the other he’s driving a demon from a woman I assume to be Sarah—the demon Asmodeus. Part of the mural has Raphael stirring the water at the healing pool of Bethesda. That chapel is like a monument for Raphael.”

  The healing floor.

  Rabbi Blumenthal said, “His presence is supposedly like a burst of fresh air.”

  “Which is exactly what you feel upon entering that place.” Ellsworth stared at Father Timothy. “Is Raphael associated with a certain color?”

  “Ever since I went into that chapel I’ve been studying the artwork in it. The frescoes and reliefs are apocalyptic, the walls bordered by depictions of all the archangels and devils. And yes, Raphael is associated with a certain color. All the archangels are. Raphael’s is green. Look at this boy’s eyes.”

  “Uriel?”

  “Red.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “White . . . coppery light.”

  “And Michael?”

  “Bright blue.” Father Timothy poured more wine, gulped it down, and then poured more. “I won’t pretend to ignore why you’re asking, either.”

  Ellsworth looked to Raphael, who sat stoically but on the verge of tears. “Please continue. You helped heal your uncle. But what about the incident on the plantation?”

  “Mr. Redfield was the plantation owner, and my momma and papa worked for him. He was a decent man until he started drinking, but that was just about every night. Mr. Redfield had a daughter my age, Patrice, and we were secret friends.” He looked up. “Secret because her parents wouldn’t have approved, you understand.

  “There was a creek next to the plantation where she was warned not to go because the water was sometimes swift. We liked to sneak off to that creek, sit on a large rock overlooking the water, and skip pebbles. But one day she lost her balance and went into the water. I climbed down after her and knew she broke a rib.

  “We sneaked in through the old slave entrance to the kitchen. She changed out of her wet clothes and into a nightgown, and I helped her into bed. It was getting dark outside. I knew I should get out of the house and back to my parents, but I couldn’t leave her like that. I told her I thought I could take away her pain. She said I was sweet, but that she would manage. I told her I was serious. Without asking me to explain, she’d agreed to let me do what I could. She said she trusted me.”

  Tears welled up in Raphael’s green eyes as he remembered what came next. “So I climbed atop the bed with her, put my hands on the left side of her chest, and felt warmth. She started crying. I asked if she was okay, and she said she was. Said the pain was already going away and then asked how I’d done it. Told her I didn’t know exactly. That made us both laugh. But then—”

  Ellsworth saw it coming. “Then someone found you.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Her father. He was pretty drunk. But when he walked in and saw me on the bed with Patrice, he went crazy. When he pulled a pistol, I rolled off the bed and hit the floor. He fired but missed. I ran at him and knocked him aside. He stumbled against Patrice’s vanity table, and I escaped down the hall.

  “I found my parents and told them what happened, and we knew we had to get away. We didn’t even pack up, just ran off through the woods with Mr. Redfield and his buddies after us.” Raphael bit his lip, gathered courage. “They shot my father in the back as we ran—just shot him dead right there—but Momma and I got away. Question was, where could we run? We didn’t know what to do, so we just kept going. But then we heard a voice calling to us from behind a tree, a lady’s voice telling us she had a wagon. We could hide under the tarp and she’d take us away from there.”

  He looked at Ellsworth, his green eyes tender. “Guess you know who that lady was.”

  Ellsworth wiped his eyes. “Eliza was young when her mother died. There was a flood, and she went in after a little girl who’d somehow fallen into the river. Saved the child’s life, but then she got swept away in the high waters. Eliza saw the whole thing.”

  “What a terrible experience for a young girl.” Father Timothy’s voice was kind. Ellsworth could only nod.

  “Eliza spent her entire life helping others like that. She insisted that’s what she was born for, and she often spoke of that day when she watched her mother go. One night we were rocking on the porch, Eliza said something peculiar. She said that right before her mother jumped in the river, she called out that little girl’s name. ‘Like she knew her, Ellsworth.’ That’s what she said to me. ‘Like she’d been watching over her like . . .’ Then she’d trailed away, you see, just like that. And when I asked Eliza what she was about to say, she locked up and didn’t speak the rest of the night.”

  He looked at Raphael. “I’m only now beginning to piece things together. But how did she know about you?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Newberry. She just said she’d been watching over me for years.”

  Uriel said, “Mr. Redfield called his Klan friends and gathered up some men to hunt the boy and his mother down. Shakes and me went with them. But I knew as soon as I got to Bellhaven that something was wrong. I saw the cardinal birds and told Shakes and the Kleagle that we were making a mistake. That we should turn around and go.

  “I tried to stop the violence that occurred, I promise you all, but then things got out of hand. That day has haunted me ever since. But I understand why I’m here now. Why I was drawn here in the first place.”

  “Why we all were,” said Gabriel.

  Rabbi Blumenthal stood and pointed toward the other room. “It’s the same reason why people flock up the hillside and tent in the cotton field. Same reason why the town is choosing sides.”

  He grabbed his wine from the table, finished it, and then pointed the glass at Uriel. “The Archangel Uriel warned Noah of the great flood. Now you warn us of a looming battle. We’re going to war, and you’re the brains here. Gabriel is the strength, Raphael the healing.” He pointed to Ellsworth. “And now the limping leader. The Archangel Michael, the first angel created by God. The source of protection and truth, strength and courage.”

  He stood and leaned on the table. “I assume you’ve known from birth as well, Ellsworth. So tell us why. Why do you no longer go by Michael?”

  They looked to Ellsworth.

  But before he couldn’t answer, the earth started shaking again.

  CHAPTER 22

  The house
shook for five seconds.

  Wine spilled across the table. Two glasses walked off the cabinet shelf and crashed against the icebox.

  Ellsworth braced himself against the counter, surveyed the room. “Everyone okay?”

  Rabbi Blumenthal emerged from under the table. Father Timothy and Reverend Cane wiped ceiling dust from their hands. Gabriel hunkered protectively over Raphael.

  Tanner stood from the floor. “Another foreshock.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t the main quake?”

  “Same way my wife could tell when the cake was done.”

  Alfred’s head perked to the sound of static. He felt his way toward the sound in the other room. Ellsworth followed.

  Alfred’s painting had fallen from the easel. Plaster dust had settled like snow flurries atop the piano. The center light fixture swayed from the ceiling. And the busted radio on the windowsill hissed and calmed.

  A woman’s voice burst through the static. “. . . they come up from the magma . . .”

  “America Ma,” Tanner whispered, and the room nodded in agreement.

  Then Eddington’s voice burst through. “. . . and what do I do when I’m done dancing? . . .”

  Static.

  Eddington’s voice was replaced by a young woman’s voice. An English accent. “. . . there’s people out there in the woods, Harvey. Can you . . .”

  A man’s voice, English as well. “. . . I just don’t see ’em . . .”

  “. . . here. Look closer . . .”

  Static. Children’s laughter.

  “. . . Father . . . help us, Father . . .”

  Alfred said, “Turn it off.”

  The children’s laughter grew louder.

  A woman’s voice. “. . . Get off those walls . . .”

  “I said turn it off.”

  More static.

  Another man’s voice, Italian accent. “. . . I cast you out . . . I cast you out in the name of the Father and of the . . .”

  Static.

  America Ma. “. . . please . . . don’t . . . we wasn’t tryin’ to ’scape, massa . . . We was fixin’ to . . .”

  A woman’s voice. “. . . Alfred . . .”

  Alfred went rigid. “Linda May?”

  Alfred held the radio to his ear, turned the knob, but could only find static, ebbing and flowing, bursts of loud and soft.

  Then finally a voice. America Ma again. “. . . massa don’ understand what he seein’. And now they’s slave blood on those walls, all over that floor to mask up the Injun blood ’fo’ it . . . all under them tiles . . . killin’ floor . . .”

  Alfred shook the radio. “Where’d she go?” Louder, more panicked. “Where’d she go? Linda May! Where’d she go, Ellsworth? Why doesn’t she come home? Where’d she go!?”

  Ellsworth touched his arm. “It’s not real, Alfred. Linda May is up there on that hill, in Eddington’s house. It’s not—”

  “. . . they been comin’ up since the Good Lord cast ’em down . . .”

  And then a static that seemed finite. Alfred held the radio at arm’s length. Reverend Cane and Father Timothy were now in the room, along with Gabriel and Raphael. Tears streamed down Alfred’s face. He sat in Ellsworth’s chair and cradled the radio as if it were a baby.

  Ellsworth put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

  “Go away.” He listened to the static. “Leave me be.”

  “Better check on what’s going on outside,” said Gabriel. “We’ve been in here awhile.”

  Ellsworth opened the front door to commotion up and down the street. Many town people had gathered in the twilight to discuss the second quake. Max Lehane’s fire truck was parked in front of the jailhouse. The town ambulance had made it as far as the avenue of oaks, which was now gridlocked with cars as more people walked up the hillside toward the yellow house.

  On the veranda, Ellsworth stepped into a cloud of vanilla-scented pipe smoke. Omar sat in one of the rockers with a shotgun across his lap, puffing through his mask slit. Six men from his Muslim congregation stood in the front yard with shotguns.

  “We standin’ guard, Sheriff.”

  “From what exactly?”

  “Dem what’s gathered.” Omar’s dark eyes flicked toward Eddington’s house. Tents had been set up in the cotton field. Dozens of men walked the premises with torches, several wearing white cloaks and hoods.

  “They’re Klan.”

  Ellsworth turned to find Uriel behind him. “They back for Raphael?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Keep an eye on him.”

  Uriel returned inside.

  One of Omar’s men had a book and pen out, writing.

  “What’s he doing?”

  Omar exhaled thick smoke. “Ali recordin’ all dis goin’s-on.”

  A midnight-blue Model T puttered down the road, slowly navigating the thin opening under the avenue of oaks, and stopped in front of the town hall. The lot was full of haphazardly parked cars that must have arrived during their meeting in the kitchen.

  A mustached man got out of the car with a hobo bindle over his shoulder.

  Omar’s men pointed their rifles.

  The man stopped. “Don’t shoot.”

  Omar stood from the rocker, gnawed on his pipe stem. “Why you here, palooka?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “How dat yeller house make you feel drivin’ pas’?”

  “Made my skin crawl,” said the man. “Can you aim that bean-shooter elsewhere?”

  Omar lowered his rifle and nodded toward the town hall across the road, where candlelight flickered behind the broken windows. “Stay in der wit’ da rest of dem. You on da right side.”

  “Thank you.” The man hurried across the road and entered the town hall.

  Shadows moved behind windows.

  Ellsworth eyed the full parking lot. “Omar, how many people are inside that building?”

  Omar removed the pipe and spat into the grass. “Two dozen, give or take. One dem come from far as Florida. Say he ready to fight.”

  Ellsworth removed his hat, wiped his brow. “Fight for what?”

  Omar shrugged casually, then puffed on his pipe. “Dey be a hole in dem woods, Ellsworth. Dat quake in ’86 make it worse. Dat where dem bad stuff, it come up t’rough. All da way up from da magma.”

  “How do you know this?” Tanner had been listening at the doorway.

  Omar looked over his shoulder. “America Ma, she been tellin’ me it.”

  “You know her?” asked Ellsworth.

  “Great-great slave kin. Tol’ me dem war was comin’. She tol’ me in dat chapel.”

  “She say why it was built?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. She tell me she foun’ it der, right der in dem woods. She an’ dose fellow slaves try and fill up dem hole so no more bad stuff get t’rough. But massa found ’em, t’ink dey tryin’ to ’scape. Den Massa Bellhaven turn it into da killin’ floor.”

  “Omar?”

  “Make it his own dem personal torture chamber. Fit with all dem kind of evil gadget what even da Missus Bellhaven know nothin’ ’bout. Kep’ torturin’ slave kin for years.”

  “Omar, ask her more. Ask her when the chapel was built. How old is it?” Ellsworth stepped closer. “She mentioned Indian blood, Omar. Does it go back as far as the Indians?”

  “Not goin’ back in der to fin’ out, Ellsworth. Dead not only dem what talk.” He exhaled, sat in the smoke cloud. “Demons in dem woods—dat who we should be fighting. But no.” He looked up the hill toward the Eddington house. “Everybody dem choose sides ’gainst other folk.”

  Father Timothy hurried out the door and down the porch steps.

  “Father, where are you going?” asked Ellsworth.

  “Where do you think I’m going?”

  Father Timothy was drunk and heading into the woods for a quick fix. Reverend Cane and Rabbi Blumenthal emerged from the house next, following in Father Timothy’s footsteps. The rabbi said, “You still owe us answers
, Ellsworth. Just something we have to do first.”

  Gabriel stepped out beside Ellsworth. “Let’m go.”

  They weren’t the only ones going into the woods for an evening visit. Dozens of people entered, including the new arrivals. They returned in awe, some crying, some talking about the peace they’d felt inside those walls, the dead loved ones to which they’d spoken.

  “They’re giving it strength,” said Ellsworth. Gabriel looked at him. “The chapel. It’s using us for fuel.”

  Gabriel agreed. “When I carried you out the other day, the clearing was larger. But not with beauty or color.”

  “Fool’s gold,” said Ellsworth. “I saw it too. On the fringes the trees were dying. Green leaves curling brown. Moss blackened like candlewicks.”

  “Like boll weevils munching through cotton.”

  “And we let it out.”

  “We didn’t let it out,” she said. “We’ve just been letting it in. Into us. And we—”

  A scream sounded from the kitchen. They were through the door in a flash.

  They ran past Alfred, who stood with the radio above his head as if fixing to smash it. “Static,” he told them frantically as they rushed by. “Static and static!”

  They stopped short in the kitchen. The backdoor gaped open. Anna Belle stood across the room with Raphael in her grasp and a sharp peeling knife at his throat. Her eyes were wild, red, with heavy bags underneath. She still wore the polka-dot dress she’d had on inside Eddington’s house earlier in the day. Her hair was uncombed and jutting in bunches.

  Uriel lay on the floor bleeding, a steak knife protruding from the middle of his back. Whatever Uriel was, he bled like the rest of them. His color was fading.

  “It’s a test.” Anna Belle pressed the tip of the knife against Raphael’s throat. “It’s a test. He said it’s a test. Bring the boy back, and I pass. It’s a test. He said it’s a test.”

  Ellsworth took a slow step into the kitchen, found Raphael’s green eyes. Relax now. Raphael closed his eyes and did just that.