The Keeper's Heart

by Catherine Stovall

  Trekking close to a mile through dark woods under the strain of an unfamiliar silence took its toll. By the time they saw the faint yellow glow of lights in the distance, and heard the first strains of pounding music, exhaustion had begun to set in. Only the sight of their destination relieved their wariness enough for them to follow the church leader the rest of the way.

  “Is that the church up ahead?” Amara’s voice was barely above a whisper as she squinted her eyes in the direction of the faint light.

  “Yes. That is The Tabernacle of the Holy Fire.”

  Marcus grumbled under his breath, “What kind of church is that?”

  Unfortunately, Bryan had excellent hearing. “We are a non-denominational congregation.”

  Feeling brave, Desiree asked, “So, why come all the way out here? Why not just have services on the mainland?”

  Silence fell over them once more. The only sound was the crunching of leaves and twigs underfoot and the music growing louder. The man either had not heard, or was choosing not to answer.

  As the small group topped the final hill, they looked down upon the life sized version of the house in the snow globe. Alive with life and music in the buzzing heat of the swampy island woods, it seemed less magical than Amara thought it would be. Silhouettes danced and swayed in front of the windows to the pounding rockabilly gospel beat, and the rise and fall of voices ebbed and flowed.

  Pointing down to the house, Marcus ordered, “You go get whoever it is you want us to talk to and bring them out here.”

  “That’s not going to be an option. This day has been long awaited by many, and your presence is required within.” Bryan pulled a pistol out of his pocket, the barrel glinting in the moonlight as he used it to motion them forward.

  Anthony stepped closer, his eyes blazing with defiant anger, but as always, Desiree was his anchor. Hand tucked into the crook of his arm, she quietly demanded, “Anthony, don’t be stupid. It’s not worth a bullet.”

  “You should listen to your girlfriend, boy. She seems smart,” Bryan spoke calmly, the slightly southern voice remaining even and clear.

  As she trekked down the hill, holding tightly to Marcus arm, Amara’s eyes never left the strange house. Nothing about it seemed welcoming or homey, and there were no otherworldly or Keeper vibes coming from within. She had hoped the portal into the Weaver’s Lair would be hidden inside, but she couldn’t believe that after hearing the thrumming sound of “Jesus Bless My Hot Rod” blaring out of the open door, accompanied by the sound of stomping feet and loud human voices raised in praise.

  Two men—both dressed in white shirts, black pants, and straw hats—sat on either side of the open front door with shotguns in their laps. As soon as they heard the footsteps in the woods, they stood and took aim, preparing for man or beast to either exit or move on.

  “Mitchell, Robert, stand down. We have company.”

  The larger of the two men stepped forward. “Is that you, Bryan?”

  “Yes, it’s me. These here are some very important folks. I need to take them inside.”

  The men looked curious, but not defiant. They shrugged their broad soldiers and laid their guns down across the arms of their matching, weathered rocking chairs.

  Bryan did another shooing motion with his pistol, and Amara led her friends up the steps onto the wide front porch. The light from inside spilled outward, but she felt no welcoming spirits as she stepped through the front door of the church and into a large room filled with a level of strangeness that she had never seen in her many years.

  Frozen, Amara couldn’t believe her eyes. Every member of the congregation was on their feet, hands thrust into the air as they called out to their god in joyous praise or danced wildly. Some spoke in a bizarre language, their eyes pressed tightly closed in their fervor. Men danced with jars of fire, holding the flames to their skin as they sang along to the gospel still vibrating against the walls. An old man crossed the aisle between the wooden pews, grabbing a young man by both sides of his face, as he screamed at some unseen demon within the boy.

  Amara tried to step forward to intervene, for fear the man’s bony fingers might actually crush the kid’s skull. He pressed so hard against the skin, obvious indentations were already forming, even as the boy prayed and gave thanks for the saving grace. Before she could reach them and pry the insane man away, Bryan caught her.

  “The elder is touched by the spirit. His prayers and the laying on of hands will chase the demons from the boy, which cause him to drink, smoke, and disobey his mother. Do not interfere with anything you see here.” Looking back at the others, he shouted over the music, “You are all guests here, and not very welcomed ones, don’t force us to revoke our hospitality.”

  Amara couldn’t hold her temper or her tongue any longer. Once inside the church, the gun Bryan had held disappeared, and its absence made her bolder. “We are not guests. We are hostages. You forced us here at gun point, and then you expect us to just see this kind of ludicrous behavior and not react. Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  Sometime during her rant, the music stopped and her last words hung in the silence as the faithful stared with shocked and angry eyes.

  For the first time, Bryan showed real anger. His face flushed purple and the corner of his mouth twitched down into an ugly scowl. He stepped forward, shoulders back and head high, ready to launch into a full verbal attack. His finger pointed directly in Amara’s face and his mouth fell open, but another voice silenced him.

  “He is my son, and I am the Reverend Peggy Macklin. What Bryan does not understand is just who you think you are, Amara of the Keepers.”

  Amara turned to see a woman, old and frail, her misshapen hands tightly gripping a cane as she came nearer. Her long skirts swept the scuffed hardwood with each difficult step in Amara’s direction.

  “How does everyone know who I am, but I’m completely lost?” Amara clenched her hands into fists at her sides in frustration. The overwhelming human emotions pounded at her like tidal waves, and it was all she could do to fight back angry tears.

  The woman finally made her way to stand beside her son, hunched over and breathing heavily. Though her physical being was decrepit, her bright green eyes stared at Amara with unmistakable life.

  “When the sisters took you from this world, they set in motion many things. The Lord came unto me when I was a child, and he said you would come. He told me that, in my golden years, my lifelong faith would be tested, but I mustn’t falter. He made me swear I would stay true to the word of the gospel.”

  She paused, not for effect, but to catch her breath. The entire room remained quiet while they waited for the old one to speak once more. “When I asked why, he told me there were other beings, false Gods, who are not of our world. I asked him what I should do when the blasphemous devils came to me.”

  Amara protested, “I am no blasphemous devil! I am a Keeper, a tool of—”

  “Don’t speak of the Lord as if you know him,” the old woman hissed her words. “You are here to learn, so don’t presume you are better. He told me to bring you into my church and teach you our ways. This, I will do, because it is His word.”

  Amara nodded her head, too furious to speak, but needing the answers the reverend could give her.

  “You will all come, you will sit, you will listen, and you will learn. When we are done, you can leave, and take with you whatever it is that He wanted you to know. I want no more to do with you after that.” She raised her arms to the ceiling, her age-weakened voice growing in strength as she sent up a hallelujah to the heavens.

  The sleeves of Reverend Macklin’s dress fell backward, and Amara jumped as Desiree screamed. Anthony and Marcus took several steps backward, their eyes as wide as saucers. From beneath the folds of her dress, two serpents appeared. One dark gold and brown, the other translucent white and pale yellow, their arrow shaped heads glided up the thin skin of her thin arms to coil around her age spotted hands. The most frightening part was the
small rattlers on the base of the snakes’ tails that shook and shimmied against the reverend’s palms.

  Chapter 11

  Fire, Snakes, and Blessings

  Amara, Marcus, Desiree, and Anthony sat in the first wooden pew, unwelcomed and unwanted, with shivers running down their spines as Peggy took to the podium. The roughly hewn stand had a large black cross burnt into the wood and several wooden boxes with flip top lids surrounded it. Bloody murals depicting the Stations of the Cross decorated the sides of the mystery containers.

  Amara couldn’t help the dread that filled her when she wondered just what the cartons might contain. Smothering in the heat of the cramped space and muggy island atmosphere, she tried to breathe and concentrate, but her overwhelming discomfort and the strangeness of the circumstances kept stealing her mind away.

  First Mabel, then John, and now Peggy. They must all be decedents of other Keepers. How can there be so many? How have they survived when they are seen as abominations? More importantly, who told them about me? How could they have known decades ago that I would break the Parcae’s trust? I never thought I would have broken the Keeper’s laws. She might have gone on like that forever, but the music started up again, pulling her out of her mind.

  As the musicians began to quietly play a mournful spiritual, Peggy’s voice carried through the room, larger than the woman herself. “We worship by the word of Christ!”

  The congregation gave up a chorus of amens and hallelujahs.

  “In the Book of Mark the Lord guides us with the signs. In His name, we shall cast out devils and speak in new tongues! We shall take up serpents, and if we drink any deadly thing, we shall come to no harm. We will lay our hands on the sick and they will be healed.”

  As the congregation praised their god and testified, Amara reached over to clasp Marcus’s hand. Their sweating palms pressed together, and she could feel his anxiety nearly as well as she could feel her own. Casting a sideways glance at Anthony and Desiree, she saw they wore matching looks of horrified humor on their faces.

  I guess they aren’t big fans of snakes either.

  Reverend Macklin, her long gray hair flying out as she bobbed and weaved, gave life to her scriptures. “In the Book of Luke, the Lord said, ‘Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy. Nothing! Nothing shall by any means hurt you!’ Praise him, in his power and glory. God is good.”

  The music grew louder, the drums beginning a new beat as the guitars and banjos followed suit. The tempo was not yet the frenzied rockabilly style they had heard when they had first approached, but it was quickly gaining speed. The congregation swayed and bobbed, some hoisted their hands in the air, singing out their tributes.

  “In the Book of Acts, Paul was bitten by a viper and he came to no harm!” The Reverend began to dance, her skirts flailing out in a circle as she spun and dipped. “The mainlanders, they would outlaw our religion. They would see our gospel stripped from us, but on this sacred island, we shall do the work of the Lord! Praise Jesus, hallelujah!”

  The people around them shot to their feet as the Reverend’s voice rose, “Did you hear about the sinner who rested on a hill, dreaming of a train as hot as fire on its way to Satanville?”

  The fires were lit in glass bottles like Molotov cocktails. The old man who had fiercely gripped the boy’s head, along with a few others that Amara assumed were elders, held the flames to their faces and hands, allowing the fire to lick at their skin. To her utter amazement, they did not blister or burn.

  Reverend Macklin’s voice, like a weathered song bird, wailed out, pushing the congregation further into their frantic worship. The people spoke tongues and writhed as if they were in the throes of something otherworldly. All the while, Amara and the others in her group remained quietly seated, gripping each other in confusion and fear.

  The song ended and the music thrummed on in a low beat as Peggy brushed her wild hair from her face. “The spirit of the Lord has touched this church!”

  The elders extinguished their flames, and Amara sighed, prematurely relieved at the thought that the sermon had ended. To her horror, the music played on and the elders lifted the wooden boxes from the floor. The sound of rattlers blended with the drumming base, an eerie acoustic that would have caused most humans to run in fear.

  One after another, snakes were lifted from the containers. The continuous shaking of the vipers’ tails was joined by loud hissing, and Amara had the sudden urge to cover her eyes. For three centuries she had watched as humans died terrible deaths, but in her mortal state, the idea of seeing death frightened her. By the time the music picked up and a new upbeat hymnal began, she clung desperately to Marcus, her fingernails digging into his skin.

  Another dance, another song. The rattlesnakes were passed back and forth, allowed to crawl on faces and hands, and tempted and teased until they were near seething with the want to lay their fangs into flesh. Yet, the creatures didn’t bite. Reverend Macklin, her madness the festering wound that infected all others, danced as if her bones were solid and not in jeopardy of snapping at any second. The old woman who had been breathless and fragile faded into the energetic leader of mayhem.

  The music lulled once more, remaining a vibrating backdrop to the next stage in the macabre revival. “We are the Lord’s sheep. We are His flock and He is our Sheppard. In all things, we must obey the word of God!”

  Snakes hissed and tails rattled, the congregation gave more praise.

  “Amara of the Keepers, step forward and receive your blessing from God.” The vivid green eyes locked on to Amara’s face as the woman’s gnarled finger pointed at its intended victim, the head of the albino viper curling around the tip.

  Amara’s heart stopped, literally skipping two beats in the midst of her panic. Dizziness clouded her head as she stood. Her first wavering step was halted by Marcus’s clinging hand. She turned to him, frightened yet determined, and pried his fingers away as he shook his head.

  “I’ll be okay,” she whispered as he finally let go.

  Trying to give her wards a brave smile, Amara let the hypnotic thrum of the music carry her to the pulpit. Her pulse raced and sweat formed on her brow as the room seemed to grow narrow and the people before her moved in slow motion. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she struggled with the need to flee.

  Taking a deep breath, she rode out a violent shudder with her eyes closed. Her whole body trembled and quaked as she wished the entire situation would just fade away. When the sounds of the church did not disappear, Amara forced herself to look once again. The only thing that had changed was the box on the pulpit before her.

  The hand painted scene on the side was not one of depicting Christ, but of a shadowy female shrouded in grey mists. In the left foreground, the bony hand of death reached out as if to touch the barely visible girl. In the upper right corner, as if it were staring down at her, the mask of the Apollumi hovered.

  It did not take a genius to understand the paintings. Amara knew she was the silhouette in the fog facing down her enemies. What she couldn’t comprehend was why her fate had to lie with the creature that inevitably waited within the wooden container for her.

  The old man opened the lid, the rattling and hissing that erupted from inside sounding like a broken steam train barreling through a tunnel. The pleading look on Amara’s face went unnoticed as all eyes turned to the demon serpent raising its head from the box. The red of its albino eyes stared outward and its forked tongue flickered in the swampy air.

  “Take up the serpent and face your fears with the knowledge that God will protect you, Amara. Welcome Him into your heart, and He will guard you.” Peggy raised her hands, showing her twin snakes once more as yet another weaved its way through her silver hair.

  “I…can’t.” Goosebumps crawled up her arms as she stared down the creature.

  “You must.”

  Her hand trembled as she reached forward, knowing she had no other choice. Someone
, somewhere, had known this day would come. Mabel, John, and Peggy all knew her from visions and dreams, the child without a destiny suddenly had a fate. Destiny had somehow found its way into her existence.

  Her chest rose and fell as Amara took a deep breath. Silent tears slipped from her blue eyes as the snake coiled back, the never ending rapid clicking of its tail filling her ears. The music went on and on, a backdrop of strange slapping base and quiet tapping of the drums. The congregation whispered prayers as they leaned forward, waiting to see if the snake would strike.

  The rattler hissed once more, a guttural sound of warning and evil intent. Her left hand hovered inches away, within easy striking distance of the beast as it weaved back and forth, sizing up its prey.

  Amara moved with slow precision as her mind screamed in denial of what her body meant to do. The creature’s head dipped, as if it were beginning to relax, and she made her move. Meaning to slide her hand under the thing’s long torso and turn the venomous fangs away from her, she held her left hand high and thrust her right hand forward. For her efforts, she was rewarded with a sharp pain of something akin to a bear trap being released on her forearm.

  The venom pulsed into her blood stream like a diesel truck on fire. The throbbing, searing agony felt equal to a flaming stake being driven into her again and again. She screamed, but the sound was driven out by the drove of frightened shrieks around her and the mad cackle of an old woman who had defied her God’s word.

  In a stroke of luck, the snake released the bite and fled, determined to escape the flailing Amara and the raucous outbreak of terror that suddenly filled the room. Amara watched its still shaking tail slip behind the podium as she buckled to her knees under the weight of the agony.

  This is not right. This can’t be meant to be. Am I to die here on this island? Were they all lying to end my life?

  In her panicked and tormented haze, Amara felt Marcus, Anthony, and Desiree surround her. Their voices were strong over the strangely gleeful sounds of the congregation. Her faithful friends demanded medical attention and questioned why the people seemed more concerned with locating the escaped serpent than helping the fallen girl.