Pork Chop yelped, cupped his knee with a hand. “What the hell . . .”
“I said now!” Poochie hammered the hand braced over his knee.
“Stop, goddammit!” It took a few more knee hammers before Pork Chop finally gave up and did as he was told.
Ten minutes later, when Poochie was finally sitting shotgun in Pork Chop’s old black pickup and they were barreling down the highway towards Angelle and Trevor’s, she crossed her fingers and said a silent, persistent prayer.
Please, God,let dem be dere . . . please let dem be dere . . .please let dem be dere. Please . . .”
After what seemed like days, Pork Chop finally pulled into the driveway behind Trevor’s truck. Poochie didn’t wait for him to help her out of the pickup. As soon as Pork Chop pulled to stop, she flung the door open, crawfished her way out of the truck, then pulled out her walked and headed for the prayer tree in the backyard—where she felt called. Where she hoped not to verify the picture she’d seen in her head.
As Poochie hobbled around the house, she heard Pork Chop yell after her. She ignored him, the same prayer playing over and over in her mind . . . Please, God, let dem be dere . . .
When she finally reached the prayer tree and rounded it to the bench where she normally sat, a little gasp escaped her.
There it was, just as she’d seen in her mind’s eye back at the bar—an empty spot on the prayer tree—where the pink sneakers had been—the ones that belonged to Sarah Woodard. Gone . .. they were gone.
And, Oh, God, if the dead had come back for their shoes that had hung on the purgatory side of the tree—did missing shoes on the other side mean the living were now dead?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Olm stood in front of his bathroom mirror and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The idea for what he was about to do had come to him only moments ago. Another brilliant idea that had seemingly come out of nowhere, only proving once again, that he was being led down the path to rebirth. He planned to execute the idea to the letter and make it as ceremonious as the sacrifice that would be offered tonight.
As he moved from button to button, Olm thought of his ancestors. Their skin had been such a luxurious brown, much darker than his own. He pictured their long black hair, some with lengths that reached the middle of their back. Unfortunately, his hair was collar-length and cropped close to the ears. He didn’t have time to grow it out.
However, he could rid himself of something his forefather hadn’t possessed. Chest hair. Although his was sparse and only traveled from nipple to nipple and down the center of his belly, Olm felt it was a barrier between him and the great warriors in his linage. He didn’t want anything to hinder what the great Tirawa would send his way.
Once his shirt was completely unbuttoned, Olm shrugged it off his shoulders, and hung it neatly on the hook behind the bathroom door. Then he took a bar of soap that sat at the corner of the sink, turned on the faucet, wet the soap and began to lather his chest.
He grimaced as his fingers moved over his left breast and the bruise that sat just below his left nipple, where he’d been bitten. Another bruise, this one the size of a baseball, marked the upper part of his right arm. The surprise attack in the truck, the bites and bruises, were a small price to pay. A man headed for greatness should be willing to give his all, no matter what. And he was willing. He would have gladly offered his entire right arm if it had been required of him. Bruises were nothing, almost shamefully insignificant for what he would soon be given. By ten o’clock tonight, he would possess power not yet experienced by any other man on earth.
With his chest now completely lathered, Olm rinsed his hands, grabbed a disposable razor and held it poised at his chest.
“You have done well,” he murmured. “You have performed better than expected, holding patient, determined. It’s no wonder you were favored and chosen.”
With that, Olm ran the razor down the center of his chest. When he reached his navel, he rinsed the hair and soap off the blade, then aimed for another strip of hair.
“Did you see, Tirawa? Did you see the fear in the children’s eyes when I was last with them?” Olm spoke softly, as if the great deity were sitting behind him on the toilet, listening. “Even without the help of all the great leaders that came before me, I was able to build an altar of terror for you in these children such as you’ve never seen. If this is indeed what feeds you, Great God of the Universe, Creator, Leader of the Morning and Evening star, then certainly you must already be pleased with my efforts. Certainly, you find me worthy.”
With half of his chest free of hair, Olm stood a moment and contemplated what the great deity might look like. Did Tirawa possess the eyes of a wolf, cunning, sharp, ever-seeing? Did he have the ears of a fox, so keen they could pick up the sound of a feather floating its way to the ground? Were his limbs like that of the bear, massive, destructive, and powerful? And did he boast the wings of an eagle, able to soar up into the heavens, then swoop down on his prey?
It excited him to think that Tirawa might grace him with a physical presence, appear before him to personally place upon his shoulders the mantle of supreme power. An extra reward for all the work he’d done over the last few days, all of it geared towards this purpose. There was no way Tirawa could turn his back on him now, not when he’d exemplified such devotion and meticulous work. In fact, was it not Tirawa’s hand that had stayed his own from ending the lives of the children too early? Before the apex of the full moon? In his exuberance and enthusiasm, he’d almost been swept away, bringing about their deaths far too soon.
Another swipe of the razor—more hair gone—another rinse of the blade—another run, this one, the last one, from nipple to nipple.
Smoothing a hand over his chest, Olm smiled at the slick, hairless feel of his body. In the mirror, he no longer saw the face of an average man. The Olm before him had a strong jaw, prominent brow. He envisioned himself standing around a campfire in full, brilliant headdress, felt the heat of a fire against his skin, heard the first beat of a ceremonial drum.
Olm dropped the razor and lifted his arms up high, his feet already beginning a steady thump- thump, thump—thump in time with the drums. Then, in the distance, like a cloud of smoke suddenly forced his way by a mighty wind, he heard the cry of a thousand men, medicine men, warriors, priests. They whooped and clicked their tongue, proclaiming in unison the start of the Spirit Dance.
“Hey-nah-hahna-hey-nah-hey. Untah-atah-atah-a. Oonah-untah-hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey.”
The chanting grew louder, louder still, and soon Olm was prancing in place in front of the sink. Back and forth, in a circle, watching his chest slick with water as he moved in and out of view in the mirror. The roar of the fire he’d imagined seemed to be roaring in his blood now, boiling it, infusing it with adrenaline. He felt weightless as his feet pounded the floor in rhythm to the chant.
“Hey-nah-hahna-hey-nah-hey. Untah-atah-atah-a. Oonah-untah-hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey.”
Olm wanted to feel the chant, wanted to feel the drums in his soul. Wanted to be the beat. Wanted to be one with Tirawa so his own spirit would dance the Spirit Dance on the floors of heaven. Wanted to see the Tirawa, touch the headdress of the mighty warrior.
Oh, yes, what he planned to offer this very night would be the greatest sacrifice of all time, in all the history of his people. For generations to come, the name Olm would be remembered, revered. He would be known as the Great Warrior, the mortal man who’d touched the priestly dress of the mighty Tirawa. His name would be synonymous with that of Tirawa, for he would be considered mighty, too.
So much to do, so much. He wanted to make sure that the climax of the sacrifice tonight would be the greatest tribute that Tirawa had ever known.
He’d pour mud over the boy first . . . slowly, slowly, heightening his terror . . .
. . . and force the girl to watch . . .
Mud rising up over the boy’s bottom lip . . .
. . . rising up to his
nostrils. . .
Then past his nostrils, just far enough so even if the boy tilted his head back, he’d find no air.
He’d do the same with the girl next. And neither child would have the leverage to lift their bodies above that fraction of an inch that would give them life. . . .
Both would struggle and fight for air . . .
. . . sludge filling their lungs. The mud—the merging of water and land that had once been owned by his people.
Once that part of the ceremony was over and their spirits had been released, Olm planned to remove the children from their holes. First the girl, then the boy—he’d lift each slowly from the mire, lay them on dry ground, then rinse their bodies with clear water. Then, with the skill of a surgeon, he would cut open their chests and remove their hearts. Even now, he could feel them in his hands, each still warm and slick with blood, so perfect. So ready.
He’d lift his hands up high, revealing the hearts to the thousand stars above, making all of them a witness. Then he’d carry the hearts over to the wooden mantle he’d have waiting and place them side by side atop it. When that was done, he’d begin the Spirit Dance, offering the hearts to the Morning and Evening star—to the face of Tirawa, which came by way of Brother Moon. Soon afterwards, those two powerful sacrifices would be set ablaze in a sacrificial fire, in the same sacrificial circle where he’d offered his father’s body. As they burned, he would sing praises to Tirawa. Yes—oh, yes—all of it done at the apex of Brother Moon’s fullness.
With sweat running down the sides of this face, his shoulders, and the small of his back, his chest glistening, Olm forced his mind to quiet, forced the rush of adrenaline to calm.
Calm . . . quiet . . .shhhh . . .soon . . .very soon . . .
Slowly, the weight of his body returned to him. His feet slowed, slowed, then finally stopped their steady pounding. He took a long, deep breath, held it, and lifted his chin and looked in the mirror. He saw the eyes of a great warrior staring back at him and nodded an acknowledgement. This was to be his transformation—this the man he would become by the end of tonight.
Satisfied, Olm released his breath, reached for a towel and wiped down his chest, his arms, his face.′ Once dried, he folded the towel and placed it neatly on the side of the sink, then headed out of the bathroom.
So much left to be done . . .so much . . . and time was running short.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
We drove along in silence, each lost in thought. Angelle watching the road, me peering through the side passenger window not seeing any of the landscape.
It hadn’t taken much to convince my sister to bring me to the United Kingdom of Christ Church. All we’d had on our hands that morning was time, anyway. At least until Trevor left for work and we were able to commander his boat. I figured it was just as good a time as any to see Woodard. Maybe he’d have some answers, some spiritual insight into everything that had been going on around here. Not that I was particularly interested in religious hoohah.
In truth, I was probably more curious about him than anything, wanting to meet Sarah’s uncle, see for myself if the man was just zealous in his faith or nuts, like Poochie claimed. I truly hoped it was the former. Even in the throes of fervor, he might still be able to shed some light on things, and since Angelle had already confided in him about the touching incidents, he could very well become an ally to some degree. Either way, I didn’t want to discount the possibility of his help, even if we had to be cautious about the kind of help he might offer. I doubted seriously I’d reveal my secret to him the way I’d done with Poochie, but if Angelle had trusted him enough to tell him her’s, then I figured he couldn’t be all bad.
A small brick building suddenly loomed in my line of sight. We were already in the church parking lot, which was empty save for an old pickup parked under an oak a couple hundred feet away. Angelle pulled the car up close to the building and cut the engine.
“It’s bigger inside than it looks out here,” Angelle said, as though having to excuse the church’s meager structure.”
We got out of the car, and as I scoped out the surroundings a wet, warm breeze touched my face. I shivered, even though it was far from cold. I wasn’t used to the humidity . . . hell, I wasn’t used to a lot of things around here . . . the accents, the food, most of all the weirdness.
The church looked a little like a drugstore, only smaller. Redbrick—glass front doors, and instead of a steeple it had a high-pitched roof. The sign on the front lawn that read, THE UNITED KINGDOM OF CHRIST CHURCH, was probably the only thing that kept visitors from stopping in, thinking they’d find tampons and nasal spray inside. Behind the church stood a small, brown clapboard, which I suspected was the preacher’s house.
“Over here,” Angelle said, then led me to a side door near the back of the building.
We walked into a short nondescript hallway that smelled of cinnamon, fresh-brewed coffee, and something musty that made me want to sneeze.
Halfway down the hall, Angelle motioned to a door on the left. It held a narrow gold placard that read, OFFICE. “Here,” she whispered, then knocked on the door.
“Come!” someone called out from inside. Whoever it was made it sound as if they were granting lowly peasants entrance into a royal chamber.
Royal chamber indeed. The room was only twelve by fourteen and held a small metal desk, two ladder-back wooden chairs, and a framed picture of the church on the right wall. Below the picture was a corkboard with blue letters near the top that read: SAINTED SOULS OF UKCC, and beneath the title were numerous Polaroids of men and women of various ages. Behind the desk sat a man I assumed to be the preacher. He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy with a bad comb-over. His gray suit was ill-fitting, and his emerald green tie did nothing to help the ensemble.
We walked into the office, and the preacher leaned back in his chair and grinned. Crooked teeth—thin lips—eyes the color of dirt.
“Sistah Angelle!” he said. “How good to see you. Glory to Gawd, you’re lookin’ well today.”
Angelle smiled. “Pastor Woodard, this is my sister, Dunny. Dunny, Pastor Rusty Woodard, Sarah’s uncle.”
I walked over to the desk and offered him my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
He grabbed my hand and held onto it with both of his. I felt trapped and immediately wanted to yank out of his grasp. Something about his greasy smile already had me doubting Angelle’s trust in the man.
“So pleased to meet you! Sistah Angelle has told me so much about you. I’m so glad you’ve come to visit us in our little town of Bayou Crow. You’ll find our congregation and our people some of the best in this state.” He looked down at the glove on my left hand. “It’s awfully warm for those gloves, don’t you think, Sistah?”
“Well . . . ” I pulled my hand out from between his. “I—”
“Oh, I do apologize for using such familiarity. You see, here at the United Kingdom of Christ, we believe we are allll the brothahs and sistahs of the Lawd, and I have a tendency to gather in whatever part of the flock comes to my door. You do believe in the Lawd now, don’t ya, Sistah Dunny? I’m sure being a relative here of Sistah Angelle that you must be close to the Lawd.”
I glanced over at my sister and arched a brow. Looking back at Woodard, I said, “Well, yeah, I believe in God—”
“Halleluiah! Thank ya, Jeee-sus! As usual, the good fruit doesn’t fall very far from the tree. You don’t mind me callin’ ya Sistah Dunny now do ya? Especially considerin’ that you are indeed in the family of Gawd.”
I had to work hard not to snicker. He sounded like a radio evangelist who was only seconds away from asking some new church member for their weekly tithe. “Feel free to call me whatever you’d like.”
“Thank ya, Jeee-sus. Thank ya, Lawd. Now then, tell me, Sistah, what is it with your gloves?” His grin broadened. “Sistah Angelle doesn’t have you pullin’ weeds out in her garden while you’re here visitin’, does she?”
“No,”Angelle said, quick
ly jumping in. “Dunny has a condition with her hands. The gloves protect her skin from the sun.She can’t have them in bright sunlight, things like that.”
I smiled and nodded to confirm Angelle’s lie. Such a natural thing to do . . . smile. Nod. Agree. Hide. Anything but let people know what was hidden in my left glove . . .what was hidden inside me.
“Ho! Hallelujah, I do understand. You know Sistah Gloria, don’t ya, Sistah Angelle? The one who comes out here every Sat’dy night? I’m sure you’ve seen her here. Well, she wears gloves on her hands, too, but they’re the lacy kind. Poor thing, bless her heart, she got the dermatitis so severe, that any kind of sunlight exposure just makes her blister all up. We’re prayin’ for a healin’. We believe the Lawd will bring about a healin’ that will set her free from that terrible affliction. If ya’d like, Sistah Dunny, while you’re here in town, come on to one of our prayer meetin’s, and we’ll put you down in a prayer circle, call the glory of Gawd down on ya, ask the Lawd to heal ya, take your affliction from ya.”
I stood there, blinked, a bit stunned from his barrage of words. Woodard pressed his palms on the top of his desk and stared at me, obviously expecting a response to his oh, so generous offer.
“Um . . . thank you for the invitaton,” I said. “But I…I don’t think I’m going to be in town for very long.”
“Of course we’re hoping she changes her mind and stays much longer,” Angelle chimed in.
I shot her a look. Was she trying to get me stuck in one of Woodard’s prayer meetings? As soon as I saw the expression on her face I felt ashamed of myself. She looked sad and lonely, with only the smallest spark of hope still in her eyes. It felt backwards to me. I thought I was supposed to be the lonely one, feeding stray dogs apple fritters and beef stew, all that old spinster shit. It was then I realized the preacher had addressed me again—twice.
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