The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3)

by Miller, Jason Jack

  Men and women lifted their palms to the sky, eyes closed, murmuring prayers. Together they sounded like summer cicadas. Hicks watched, smiling. When he saw me looking he rushed over to me. He grabbed my jaw and turned me to face a girl in the front row. He shouted into my ear, “This young lady is getting the Holy Ghost!”

  To make sure the show never stopped he held the mic up to his mouth so the congregation could hear. “She is baptized in Jesus’s name for the remission of her sins! Now she has a new life in Jesus Christ!”

  He left me to return to his flock. A thousand hands in the air. Men and women on their knees. A group of people way off to my right pushed toward an old lady wearing a knit cap and speaking in tongues. Their hands waved, fingers in the air, eyes closed. Their eyes were always closed. The music built in pulsating waves. I turned and saw a pair of banjo pickers and another guitarist surrounding the mic stands. They’d abandoned the I-IV-V and hammered away at the same chord over and over again. A pulsing, droning tune that created empty space above the congregation for the prayers of the church. The drone put them into the trance that let Hicks have his way with them.

  “Sert nikdy nespi hakkaleena sert veede viljdi k sertupray…”

  My mind tricked me into believing the syllables radiating from the congregation made sense. I knew all about matrixing, and finding order in chaos. But I heard the same things over and over, like standing on the beach and seeing only the tops of waves until just before they broke. I tried to keep the syllables straight in my head, and they spoke to me through the noise. My heart raced. For a fragment of a second, I wanted to believe. I wanted to be back at Mass with my grandma on Sunday morning.

  “But y’all are not here only to listen. No, sir, y’all ain’t. You came to test your faith. You came to show God that his laws supersede local laws. State laws. Federal laws. Man’s laws are fine… For some folks. The state don’t want us out here, meeting like this.” He waved his hands to get the attention of somebody at the back of the tent.

  “The state has its laws, and we have ours. Y’all know which I’m talking about, right?”

  Men approached the pulpit from all sides of the tent. Three from the back. Two from behind me. Some from behind Hicks. Emerging from the cold humidity itself.

  “We got the Commandments, handed down to Moses from God himself.”

  The men carried wooden boxes of various shapes and sizes. Some had a series of holes drilled into the top and sides. Some had wire mesh tacked to the wood. Like little cages. I tried to see inside, but could only see burlap. Didn’t matter. I knew.

  At that moment I wanted to feel the communion wafer on my tongue, and to believe it had become the body of Christ. For a moment, I wanted to belong. I wanted the warmth of my grandma’s church.

  “The Lord works with mystery, and challenges us to seek out guidance. His Word extends beyond the Commandments, and He challenges us to find answers elsewhere in His Book if we are to test our faith. I’m talking about Mark, chapter sixteen, verse eighteen. Y’all know that one?”

  The crowd pushed toward the altar. Hicks held them back with a wave of his hand.

  The sound of tongues grew. “Okalla sert nikdy prayay nespi…”

  I knew what was coming, because I’d cracked the code. Only thing left to do was verify it.

  “Mishkash dapel nespi moor!”

  The drummer tripped over the beat and fumbled the turn around. So with all the grace of a stop sign, he hiccupped toward a faster tempo.

  “Unkuprayay sertu kalalagod…”

  Tongues streamed forth from every corner of the tent now. Dissonant voices spitting out syllables—to break the code I had to listen real close. Women ululated to the stream-of-consciousness voices in their heads. Some bounced like punks. Men kicked their legs up. Some fell to the ground, spasms popping in time with the beat. I fought to keep track of the syllables.

  “Holy Spirit, be with us tonight!”

  “An dev eel kee sonnitprayayay where kanlal…”

  The wooden boxes were laid at Hicks’s feet. He kicked the lid back with his toe. When Hicks rolled up his sleeve, I saw the markings that we’d mistaken for needle tracks back in Louisville outside the club. The black and blue bruises that dotted his atrophied and misshapen forearm looked like bad tattoos. But I knew exactly what they were.

  “Tumal godkan malee tola billbilled…”

  It all made sense at that moment. The syllables.

  The devil prays wherever God builds a church.

  I rocked the chair as hard as I could. Truly and a man from the congregation held me steady. I screamed, but the noise got lost in the crowd. The devil prays wherever God builds a church. That was what they were saying.

  Hicks spoke over them. “These ‘seminary preachers’ don’t know a lick about what happens in the world of men and women with bills to pay and babies to feed. One Lord! One house!”

  A chorus of tambourines ran wild through the uneven tempo. Children ran through the crowd, screaming, swinging their arms. Old men openly wept. Young men jumped as high as they could, their heads appeared at unbalanced intervals above the crowd. The screams and expression I saw were sexual—orgasmic. Women balled their fists and pulled their hair. They screamed in ecstasy, longing for a touch they’d never feel.

  Hicks reached into the wooden crate and wrapped his hand around a magnificent viper. A lazy rattler as thick as his forearm. He held it over his head and danced wild circles like an Indian brave from an old cowboy movie. He kicked his legs out in front of him and spun with his arms out to his side, the mic in his right hand countering the snake in his left. He shouted, “They shall pick up serpents with their bare hands!” And his voice boomed through the PA system.

  He shook the snake, agitating it but not hurting it. The lazy rattles shivered, hissing like steam from a pot on a gas stove. He waved it over the people in the audience, shaking it. One of his girls took the mic from him, looking more like a magician’s assistant than a parishioner. She held it up to his mouth long enough for him to shout, “And it shall not hurt him!” Feedback screamed out of the cheap PA.

  Hicks held his forearm up to the snake’s flicking tongue. The snake pulled away, but Hicks persisted, taunting the snake with the warmth of his shriveled arm.

  When the snake struck I didn’t see it. That was how fast it hit. Only Hicks’s reaction, a moment of panic, like he couldn’t be entirely sure that this one wouldn’t be different, gave way to the smug satisfaction that his God had saved him yet again. The snake clung to his arm, pumping its jaw, working venom into his blood. But Hicks smiled and held the serpent high above his head. Whipping the congregation into ecstasy.

  He grabbed the mic and ran at me, stopping inches from my nose. He whispered into the mic, “What say you now?”

  “I know what Jesus said.” I pulled away from the snake. “Jesus said, ‘You know not what manner of spirit they are of. The Son of man is not come to destroy men’s lives, but to save them.’”

  The drowsy rattler twisted in Hicks’s hand, having spent all its energy defending itself. Still, when Hicks shoved it at me my heart raced and sweat formed on my palms. Its yellow cat eyes glimmered in the amber glow of the overhead bulbs.

  “The faithful have nothing to fear,” he said.

  “A drowsy snake…” I should’ve bit my tongue, but couldn’t. “It’s not even spring so for all I know it could’ve been hibernating. Maybe it’s well-fed. Or a venomoid. My mom’s cousins had snakes with venom glands removed by a vet.”

  “Miss Katy, I’m going to pray for you.” He licked his lips.

  “Don’t waste—”

  Hicks shoved the snake at me. Searing pain, like hot needles ripped into my bicep. Like hornets. Like fire. Like stepping on a nail in the old spring house.

  But none came close to the pain of having my muscle split by those fangs. My breath left me. I gasped for mercy, for words, but couldn’t find any that would let me talk my way out of it. Hicks pulsed the snake’s
head with his index finger, driving the fangs deep into the muscle. The rattlesnake twisted, a living thing, defending itself. I turned my head to see, but Hicks pushed my face away with his other hand.

  “Please…”

  “You asking me? Or God?”

  I bit my lip and tried to relax. I tried to tell myself that bites weren’t always fatal. I tried to tell myself that some people are allergic to venom, and those were the people that really got hurt. In my head I tried to think of people I knew who survived snake bites. I thought of guys from high school. Relatives. Surely Jamie’d talked about it at dinner. When I thought I’d never see him or Chloey or my mom again my chest ached. I felt like I couldn’t win.

  There were words I could say, but without ash or silver, they’d only be words. Without faith, they lacked the power to be more than just noise. I didn’t want those old ways to be part of who I was ever again. Every time I went down that path, a part of me died. But I needed to do something, or there’d be nothing left for tomorrow. Rule number one…

  I wanted to see Preston again, even if it meant using the old ways.

  I mumbled, “Crotalus horridus, Agkistrodon contortrix, Crotalus adamanteus, Agkistrodon piscivorus, like water to me. Like water to me.”

  Without silver and ash, I didn’t know if it would work. Those words had been passed down generation to generation. The words didn’t make the bite any less painful.

  “Crotalus horridus, Agkistrodon contortrix, Crotalus adamanteus, Agkistrodon piscivorus, like water to me…”

  Hicks pulled the snake off me. The fangs ripped my skin, the spent snake withered in Hicks’s grasp. He passed it off to a handler. Warm blood trickled down to my elbow.

  “Crotalus horridus, Agkistrodon contortrix, Crotalus adamanteus, Agkistrodon piscivorus, like water to me. Like water to me.” I said so he could hear.

  “Don’t worry, little lamb, I prayed for you just now, like I pray for your salvation. I have faith enough for the both of us.” He rested his palm on my forehead, trying to comfort me.

  I pulled away from his touch as best I could.

  “It’s fine. I didn’t do it for your thanks.” He waved Truly closer. “Lock her up. By this time tomorrow she’ll have made a choice. Saved or stoned, Miss Katy.”

  “Are you okay?” Truly held a clean white cloth to my bites as one of the men from the crowd took the duct tape off me. “I’m so sorry.”

  I watched the blood spread through the cotton and waited for Truly to lift her hand, trying to see whether or not I’d been invenomated. She took care with me, helping me stand when I couldn’t stand on my own. As she led me away from the glow of the tent, waves of relief brought tears to my eyes. I had to follow rule number one no matter what. Truly stopped and turned, and placed her hand on my shoulder. Two men from the congregation trailed a few yards behind.

  “Faith saved you tonight,” Truly said as we walked.

  And I didn’t have the will to disagree.

  “When you tried to make me out as a doubter today? I didn’t appreciate that. But faith is the only reason you’re here right now.”

  I nodded.

  In that moment I thought about my rules, thought about what I needed to do to get out of here. So I sniffled a big sniffle, laid my head on her shoulder and forced a shudder.

  Truly froze.

  I forced more tears and let myself collapse.

  When Truly completed the embrace, I forced all the color out of my voice and said, “Please don’t let him hurt me anymore.”

  She pushed the hair out of my face and wiped away a tear with her thumb. When she released me I sniffled, dried my eyes, and let her lead me back to the old freezer. While she fumbled with the latch I waited patiently.

  Before she shut the door, I said, “Thank you for being so kind.”

  Without a reply she shut the door behind me. I heard the latch click but did not hear her footsteps go back off into the dark. So I waited.

  Truly said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes with pillows and a blanket, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing she couldn’t see the little smile I let slip. “That is very charitable of you.”

  In my dream, Preston and I wandered through Cordoba. Or Barcelona. The dream lacked the specificity of a memory, which, I supposed, was kind of the point. But it felt hot, and the air felt dry, and I didn’t hear the Castilian accent I’d grown so tired of hearing in Barcelona. As soon as I figured out we were in Cordoba, I felt a cool breeze from the Guadalquivir and saw the Roman Bridge, which reminded me a little of the Charles Bridge in Prague. Preston wore a white Oxford and khaki shorts and I wore clothes like a Spaniard. A soft violet dress, and strappy sandals and a necklace like I’d seen the women in Barcelona wearing. My hair looked darker, and my high school Spanish sounded perfect. Preston understood me, but continued to speak English.

  That was how I remembered where we were. I’d regretted not getting one of the long necklaces I’d seen the women in Barcelona wearing, and Preston told me not to worry, because we’d see something and it would be more meaningful because we weren’t looking for it. The one I’d been wanting had a long strand of thick string, like sisal or hemp, embellished with a clunky stone ornament. Almost like a fairy stone my mom had when I was little. But I couldn’t recall seeing the fairy stone in years. When my dad was at his worst—coming home from work, drunk, and pulling her out of bed to fight—she clutched that little fairy stone like nothing in the world could ever harm her. And I supposed she was right. Because as much as he beat on her and ran her down, he never managed to once leave a mark on her.

  A tap on the door woke me up. The noise pulled me from sleep and I fought to keep the dream fresh in my mind. Even as the door opened my mind raced to see the dream through to its end, replaying the few things I could remember over and over so as to not lose them too.

  “Katy,” a woman whispered. Lights from the kitchen window above let me see her outline in the doorway.

  Breakfast? So I knew it had to be seven in the morning, at least.

  But I didn’t answer her, because I knew speaking meant I’d fully awoken, and the contents of the dream would be lost to me forever.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I have to get the blanket and pillows before Elijah finds out.”

  Early morning birds called from deep in the forest. Their songs trickled through the vegetation, calling flies and gnats to join them for breakfast. “Okay,” I said, already shivering from the cold.

  I sat up and pushed the blanket toward her with my feet.

  “I’m sorry.”

  No, you’re not.

  “I brought something for your arm too.” She clicked on a little flashlight and showed me a tube of Neosporin. “I don’t want it to get infected. Does it still hurt?”

  I didn’t want to speak to her.

  “I can’t leave it for you. It can get infected.”

  I took a deep breath and let the final fragments of my dream slip away. I pulled my jacket down off my shoulder and let her see the small, purple puncture wounds.

  She dabbed the ointment on the bite, and said, “He prayed for you, you know. That’s why you aren’t hurt. He wanted to show you the power of God’s word.”

  Anger flooded into my head, but I knew I couldn’t lose control and risk cutting the time I had left to fight in half. It killed me to do it, but I redirected that anger and let it boil. I let my head ache with it and thought of my demise, and never seeing Preston or Mom or Chloey again. I let the tears come and put my head into my hands. Through sniffles I said, “Why does he hate me?”

  Truly retreated a bit, like for a fleeting moment she could see the trap.

  “Please don’t leave me. Stay with me a little longer.”

  Truly clicked the flashlight off and slipped it into her coat pocket. She got down on her knees and put her hand onto my forearm.

  The second she dropped her guard I pounced. It would’ve been easy enough to have run through the door. But to what end?
Hounds chasing me right to the electric fence.

  No, I let my muscles soften and fell into her. I let the tears fall, and perhaps even encouraged them by letting my mind run wild with the worst of all possible scenarios. Preston’s face upon hearing word that my body had been found. Pap and Gram and Jamie crying over another casket, and for them, the realization that the Lewises had been the least of our problems if, in fact, we were cursed.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks. Each, I believed, was more potent than hot bird shot from the end of a shotgun if Truly had any humanity at all left in her.

  She put her arm around me and pulled my head to her chest. The thought of the tattoos on the palms of her hands made my skin crawl. A physical manifestation of everything that was wrong with what they believed. But I forced myself to stay in character.

  Without a word, she stood, leaving me by myself on the floor. I sniffled and folded my arms.

  “Just do what he says, Katy. Even if you don’t mean it, do what he says.”

  She shut the door, and flipped the latch shut.

  And I smiled.

  The morning wore on like a long, long stretch of highway when I found myself unable to fall back to sleep. Without Preston, or a book or an InStyle magazine, or my phone, the morning felt like a week. As soon as the first streaks of golden sunlight fell through the little window I backed myself right up to the door. The amount of real warmth was negligible, but as a placebo, it worked perfectly. I closed my eyes and saw the wide blue sky running hot with sunlight. I closed my eyes and saw golden light streaming from the tall green trees. And that, at least, brought back a little bit of this morning’s dream.

  I passed the time by singing. At first I sang Preston’s songs. That his words could find me here, in this sad place, brought me hope. With his words on my lips I knew I wasn’t alone. I would never pray again, not like these people prayed, not ever. But the little lines of verse Preston had pulled out of the sky served the same purpose, for me at least. His words comforted me. His words gave thanks and praise to something greater than the both of us, whether it be love or music or family. If prayers were constructions of man, then Preston’s words, or John Lennon’s, or Emmylou Harris’s, should be no different. If I chose to praise God without the help of a pastor or a pew, and continued to live as the kindest possible person I could be, then it should make no difference to Hicks or his people.