Revelator: A Novel

by Daryl Gregory

  Somewhere in the dark, a clattering of pebbles. “Please,” she said. “Come on out.”

  He was not in the anteroom. Somehow he’d found his way deeper into the cave.

  She shuffled forward, gripping the Winchester. Then she heard the rumble. That deep, deep sound as if the mountain itself was speaking to her.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  She threw herself forward, into pitch dark. For a dozen steps her body remembered the way. Her outstretched hand found the opening of the narrow passage that led up to the stone table. She turned sideways to keep the shotgun in front of her, moving as quick as she could, that bass vibrating her skull.

  When the Winchester’s barrel struck rock she knew she was at the hairpin turn. She followed it around, and suddenly the thrumming stopped. The change in the air told her she’d reached the table room.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay. It’s Stella.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the disciple or to the Ghostdaddy. She shuffled forward, and her shoes struck something. Not a stone.

  She crouched. Extended a hand. Found flesh. An arm? No, a leg.

  * * *

  —

  she half carried, half dragged the body to the bottom of the stairs and called for Rickie and Paul. They looked at each other, unwilling to step into the hole, and Stella thought, Yes, you sons of bitches, now you’re nervous.

  She circled her arms around his chest, backed up one step. Heaved. His head lolled to the side. She could smell his aftershave. She stepped backward again, yanked him up with a grunt. One heel caught the edge of a step, and the shoe popped off like a bottle cap.

  Again.

  Finally she got high enough that Brother Paul and Rickie could reach down to him, and they hauled the body into the electric light.

  “Oh dear Lord,” Brother Paul said. He knelt over his friend. “Oh dear Lord.”

  Rickie’s eyes were wild. “What did you do to him?”

  “I told you,” Stella said. Her voice shook. She was sweating, breathing hard. “You wouldn’t fucking listen.”

  She went back down the hole and retrieved the shotgun.

  Brother Paul carried the dead man over the threshold like a bride. The sunlight hit like a hammer. The skinny man was crying.

  “Stay the fuck out of the cave,” Stella said.

  She stood in front of the chapel and watched them carry the dead man down the hill. Her body quaked as if she stood waist deep in freezing water.

  It’s alive, she thought. It’s fucking alive.

  She felt someone watching her, in the trees. There was no one there.

  * * *

  —

  stella climbed up, to the high ridge. She followed the narrow trail west and came down again, into the clearing—and there stood Abby, throwing broken wood into a high fire. It was the spot where he used to cook mash.

  “Abby—where’s Sunny?”

  He tilted his head. She realized she still clutched the shotgun. She pointed it at the ground.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “A bunch of Hendrick’s friends busted through your floor,” she said. “They went at it like the God damn Seven Dwarves. I tried to scare them off.”

  “You shot at them?” Abby said.

  “I discharged in their direction. But one of them ran for the hole.”

  “Did—they didn’t go in?”

  That question told her he knew more about the church than he let on.

  “I tried to stop him.”

  “God damn.” He rubbed his jaw. All around him lay lumber, old sheets, wooden crates—every piece of junk from his house that could burn. He was preparing to leave.

  She said, “Did you know they were planning this?”

  “Stella! Of course not!”

  “Hendrick had it in mind the whole time. Played me like a fish.”

  “I never wanted Sunny to go with him, you know that.”

  “Yet you let him come up here and woo her like a God damn girlfriend.”

  “It’s not my place. I try to steer clear.”

  “You were always part of it. You were there with Lena. With me.”

  “I was just trying to take care of you girls.”

  “Playing the good shepherd.”

  He winced. “I tried.”

  And like a good shepherd, Stella thought, you kept us fat and happy until it was time to turn us over for the slaughter. No wonder he stayed drunk half the time.

  “Where is she?” Stella said.

  * * *

  —

  abby said he knew where she liked to play. He led her to the crick that used to feed his old still. The water was low this time of year, maybe a foot deep, winding through rocks. They walked alongside the water for a few minutes, and then Abby pointed to a wide spot in the creek, where the opposite bank was five or six feet high. Sunny stood in the creek bed, her bare feet planted on a rock, facing that high bank. Terraces had been cut into the clay, and dozens of small objects rested there. Sunny was talking to them.

  “What’s she doing?” Stella asked.

  “She calls it her church.”

  Of course. Church was all the girl knew.

  “Sunny!” Stella called. “Can you come up here?”

  The girl didn’t turn around. Stella called her name, and the girl ignored her again. Stella handed Abby the Winchester and stepped down into pebbly mud at the edge of the stream. She plotted a path of stones, and stepped onto the first of them. The cold radiated off the water. She moved to the next stone. When she got within ten feet of the girl, Sunny nonchalantly skipped to another rock, farther away.

  “Sunny, please.”

  The girl ignored her.

  Stella hopped to another rock, and her foot slipped into the water with a splash, soaking her pants to the knee. The girl laughed without turning around, jumped ahead.

  Stella looked back at Abby, still onshore. “Little help?”

  “Sunny,” Abby said. “Come on now.”

  She paused, twirled on one bare foot to face Stella. The cold didn’t seem to bother her. The skin of her legs was like these half-wet river rocks, a swirl of pale and dark.

  Stella moved carefully, finally reached the site of the “church.” The objects in the terrace were stick dolls—twigs bound up in yarn, with fuzzy heads. One of them had fallen over, and Stella reached for it.

  “Don’t touch them,” Sunny said.

  “Sorry. These your babies?”

  “Your hands are bloody.”

  Shit. Yes. Stella crouched carefully and dipped her palms into the frigid water. Dried her hands on her pants.

  “Uncle Hendrick said you ran back to Mar-ee-ville.” Exaggerating it like a Yankee. “What’d you come back for?”

  “For you,” Stella said. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Naw.” Then: “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re in danger.”

  “Don’t seem like it.”

  “Can we talk on land?”

  “Nope.”

  Jesus Christ, Stella thought.

  She stepped into the water, tried to ignore the shock of cold that ran up her leg. Thought of Esther, and her coat full of rocks.

  “Uncle Hendrick’s been lying to you,” Stella said. Took another step. The rocks were slick beneath her shoes. “He said he’s taking you to Georgia, but he wants you to do something that’ll be bad for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” A trace of a smile on her face. “What’s that?”

  Did she know about Rickie and Paul breaking open the cave?

  “We don’t have time,” Stella said. “I need you to come with me, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Tell me now.”

  It was probably good the girl was te
n feet away or Stella would’ve strangled her.

  If she told Sunny that they’d opened the cave, she might want to run down there and jump in. Hendrick and Motty had no doubt filled her head with Destiny, just like they’d done Stella. But if she didn’t mention the excavation, and the girl knew about it, she’d never believe another word Stella said.

  “I’m like you,” Stella said. She held up a hand, palm out. “You know that. I’m the only one left in the world who knows what it’s like to go into communion, and what it does to you, and how to survive it.”

  The girl was listening.

  “Uncle Hendrick don’t know. Veronica don’t know. And Motty’s dead. So I’m it, kid.”

  Stella took another step through the water, barely lifting her feet. Sunny didn’t run.

  “You and I are the last remaining Birch women,” Stella said. “There are secrets we know, that we pass to each other, that aren’t written down in any scripture. Motty didn’t tell you, because you were too young. But if you’re considering going in that cave, you need to know some things, right now.”

  Sunny looked skeptical. “Like what?”

  “You need to know how we die.”

  15

  1938

  A month before Stella turned fourteen, Motty caught her coming back from the chapel. The old woman was sitting at the kitchen table, facing the back door. The sugar bowl sat in front of her.

  Stella stopped in the doorway, paralyzed. The chapel key in her fist felt like a hot coal.

  Motty said, “Close the door.”

  Stella did as she was told.

  “Did the Ghostdaddy come to you?” Motty asked.

  “Don’t call him that.” It sounded disrespectful. She preferred the language of the church.

  Motty slammed the table and the glass bowl jumped. “Answer me!”

  Stella had never seen Motty so mad. And scared.

  “How many times?” Motty asked.

  “A few,” Stella said quietly.

  “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “A dozen.” Stella raised her eyes. “Maybe more.”

  Motty looked distraught. “Do you not know—didn’t I tell you? You can’t go alone, or he’ll…”

  “He’ll what?” Stella asked.

  “Show me your hands,” Motty said. “Get over here!”

  Stella came forward. She opened one palm, then the other. Her old scars were there, but no new ones. “Nothing happened,” Stella said.

  “What the hell were you doing, then?”

  “We just…visit.”

  This made no sense to Motty. “He ain’t touched you?”

  They touched, Stella thought. The God would let her place her hand on his pale skin. The vibrations ran through her, comforting her. But their hands didn’t connect. He didn’t fill her with his thoughts.

  “He ain’t touched me,” Stella said.

  Motty still couldn’t understand it. “Sit down, damn it. Tell me what you do.”

  “Didn’t the God ever do that with you?” Stella asked.

  Motty scowled. “You just go to him, and he comes out?”

  “Every time. Sometimes I got to wait an hour, but if I’m patient, he shows up.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Motty said. “This time, and all the times. Leave nothing out.”

  “Are you going to tell Uncle Hendrick?”

  “This ain’t for Hendrick. None of the men. This is ours.”

  Ours. That word went off like a firework.

  “We pass down our own story,” Motty said. “From Clara to Esther, all the way down to you.”

  Stella could barely breathe. All this time, there’d been secrets not in Hendrick’s books? “I want to see the stories.”

  “There’s nothing to see,” Motty said. “We don’t write it down.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Think. Where are the Revelations?”

  “In Georgia?” Then she understood.

  “Under lock and key,” Motty said. “His lock. His key. But our stories, nobody can take those away from us.”

  “Did my mother tell you her story?”

  “Not enough of it. I waited too long. That was a mistake, a grave mistake. I’m not doing the same with you.”

  “What’s that mean? Did Lena visit the God on her own, too?”

  Motty said, “Promise me you won’t commune with him on your own. The God, he’s too strong for a person alone. You need me there, you understand? To stop him when he goes too far.”

  She’s jealous, Stella thought.

  “You can’t have secrets from me,” Motty said. “No sneaking off on your own. You understand?”

  They stared at each other. Stella said, “And what about your secrets?”

  “When you’re ready,” Motty said.

  “No. Tell me one thing from The Book of Mathilda. Don’t look at me like that! Just one thing.”

  “I’ll give you one question. That don’t mean I’ll answer it.”

  “Okay, tell me…” Stella wasn’t sure what she could ask for. “Tell me what happened to your aunt Esther. Her book just ends. It ain’t fair.”

  Motty lowered her chin. “You want me to tell you how she died.”

  “Yes!”

  “There ain’t anything to tell. When I was six years old, she took me down to the river. It was January, very cold. I remember the spray of water hitting my face, sharp as needles. I didn’t mind. I used to follow Esther around like a baby duck. And Esther said, Let’s play a game. I hunted for rocks, big as I could carry, and she put them in her pockets. We filled up her coat.”

  Stella’s throat went tight.

  Motty said, “And that’s why we don’t try to do this job alone.”

  * * *

  —

  five years on the farm had taught Stella a few things. One: Everything dies. Two: Eat it if you can. Three: Everything that ain’t dead, shits.

  The day Lunk decided to drop by for a public visit, she was ankle deep in chicken shit. She was raking out the mounds under the chicken coops, an archeological exercise. Goop on top, hard as coal on the bottom, and every gradation of viscosity in between. Esther herself had probably raked this same shit-trough. No wonder she’d jumped into the river.

  Lunk yelled, “Hey there, Stella!” Came walking up the drive, spiffy and scrubbed in a wool coat and Sunday pants. In his hand was a small square wrapped in butcher paper and tied with a red ribbon.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she said. He’d pestered her for months, and then finally she agreed to spend time with him—but only in the woods or down at the store, never here. And now, to her irritation, she was conscious of how she looked. Her arms were coated in muck up to the elbows, and she was wearing waders and overalls and one of Abby’s old hats.

  “I brought you something.” He thrust his package at her.

  “This ain’t another Bible, is it?”

  “What? No! It’s your birthday.”

  “Am I supposed to open this now?”

  “If you like.”

  She sighed elaborately but was secretly pleased. She pulled off the ribbon and folded open the paper. “Oh!”

  “Is it all right?”

  It was a folded white, lacy cloth that looked like a doily. “I can’t take it out, I’m covered in chicken shit.”

  “Let me.” He took it from her, then unfolded the lace. “It’s a handkerchief. And it’s monogrammed, see?” Stitched into one corner in pale blue thread were her initials, “SW.” “I didn’t know what your middle name was. Mary Lynn didn’t, either.” Lunk consulted his sister on everything, seemed like.

  Stella said, “You spent money on this?”

  His face fell. She hadn’t meant it to come out so harsh but now he was hurt and she wan
ted to slug him in the shoulder.

  “I…I bought it in Knoxville,” he said defensively.

  “Ooh, Knoxville.” Like it was Paris. “I can’t see blowing my nose in it.”

  “It’s not for blowing your nose, it’s a girl’s hankie!”

  “Girls don’t blow their noses?”

  “Not in—they just—it’s—” He shook his head like he was trying to shake the words loose. “It’s decorative.”

  Good lord. Wait till she told him girls farted. “All right, put it away. I don’t want to touch it with my hands like this.”

  “So it’s okay?”

  He was suddenly relieved, and looking…hopeful. She glanced toward the house, and the kitchen window.

  “It’s lovely, Lincoln. Thank you.”

  She’d lit a candle inside him. It took her a couple of minutes to get him to go, and that hopeful expression didn’t leave his face the whole time—until she sent him away without a kiss.

  She hid the package inside the bib of her overalls and walked into the house. Motty was at the sink, plucking a chicken in hot water.

  “So,” she said. “Lace.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “That boy trying to get into your panties?”

  “No!” But of course he’d been trying, with the determination of a forty-niner.

  Motty said, “You can’t trust a preacher’s son.”

  * * *

  —

  stella hiked up to Abby’s cabin in the rain to tell him Motty had invited him to dinner. “She killed the fatted chicken so better not skip.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  She made a face and Abby laughed at his own hilarity. He might have already been a little soused. But it was true that Motty had never cooked a chicken for her birthday—that was usually for guests.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Abby said. He vanished into the mysterious Man Place of the back bedroom and returned a minute later. “From Merle and Pee Wee.”

  Merle had sent a stack of journals and a leather-bound notebook. Inside the notebook she’d written: