Revelator

by Daryl Gregory

“You’ve ruined it,” Hendrick said to Stella. “The ceremony’s ruined.”

  “He’s lying,” Stella said through gritted teeth. The pain was an ongoing surprise. “His plan won’t work.”

  “Aw, Stella Wallace,” Sunny said. “This ain’t his plan.”

  The girl took two steps, then descended into the hole. In a moment she had disappeared.

  No one spoke or moved.

  Then Hendrick shouted at the skinny cameraman, “Did you get that? Did anybody get that?”

  * * *

  —

  brother paul hauled Stella to her feet.

  She thought, I’m an idiot. She’d misunderstood everything since she’d driven back into the cove almost a week ago. Sunny had been playing her like a fiddle—and Hendrick, too, and all these Georgia boys, and the ancient Uncles. It had been Sunny’s idea to call the God out, and Sunny who promised she could do it.

  Motty was the only one who’d figured it out. She recognized the danger, and ordered Abby to pave over the entrance. And Sunny had killed her for it.

  Hendrick didn’t believe the girl could have done such a thing, because he was a man, a human man. “Take her back to the house,” he said.

  Paul blinked. “I—we agreed I’d be here. In the room.”

  “We can’t have her interrupting, and you’re, well…” He gestured at the shotgun. “…best suited.”

  “With all due respect, no.”

  “Brother Paul?” Uncle Hendrick was frazzled—he was losing all control of the Big Night.

  “With all due respect, I’ve financed this church, Pastor Hendrick, and I’ve waited too long and sacrificed too much to sit idly by. I’m sorry, I will not.” He turned. “Brother Jerome!”

  The man who’d blocked Stella a minute ago stood up, confused. He was sweating, despite the cold. He carried rolls of fat on his neck like a bunched carpet.

  Paul shoved the shotgun into his hands. “Take her.”

  “But I don’t want to miss, either.”

  “God damn it!” Hendrick yelled. “When the God comes out, y’uns’ll see him, sooner or later! It’s not a God damn contest! Now go! Take her to the house and tie her the hell up!”

  Stella had never heard Hendrick swear—certainly not three times in one breath.

  Jerome said, “Is there rope?”

  “What?”

  “Is there rope, in the house?”

  “I don’t know. Veronica!” Veronica and Rickie stood by the door. Rickie cradled his wounded arm, and blood had soaked the sleeve. “Go with them, find some rope!”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Would somebody listen to me?!”

  Brother Jerome nudged Stella with the gun. “Let’s go.”

  She thought, I can’t leave. I have to get Sunny out of that cave.

  “Come on,” Jerome said.

  He was itching to blow a hole through her. She walked out of the chapel, pushed by that gun. Veronica and Rickie joined their group.

  Stella said to Veronica, “Your daddy’s making a mistake.”

  Jerome said, “Hush up. You’ve talked enough tonight.”

  They walked downhill, through the dark. Rickie said, “Did you hear something?” He stopped walking, then Veronica. Jerome said, “Come on, the faster we get her tied up, the faster we can all get back here.”

  Veronica said, “Is that—?”

  A huge shape came out of the trees. It barreled into Jerome, knocking him to the ground.

  Abby Whitt, his face dark and bulbous as a gourd. She didn’t know how he could see out of those swollen eyes.

  “Let her go,” he said. His voice anguished.

  Rickie ducked his good shoulder and rammed Abby in the gut, drove him back, and then Abby slammed into the trunk of a tree. He groaned.

  Rickie tried to pull away, but Abby’s arm was around his throat.

  “Hey!” Rickie said. “Let me—”

  Abby brought his fist down on the back of Rickie’s head. The sailor collapsed at Abby’s feet, boneless. Veronica ran down the hill, trailing screams.

  Jerome had rolled onto his back. Somehow he’d kept his grip on the Winchester. The barrel was pointed at Abby’s chest. Stella could see the murder, as if it were a frame stuck in a movie projector, melting at the edges. Jerome, wincing in anticipation of the recoil, his fingers tight on the trigger. And Abby, half blind, a monster about to be brought down.

  The air around her turned violet. Stella opened her fists.

  23

  1938

  An hour after sunset, the screaming started. It sounded human, but Stella recognized it for what it was: the sow, in pain.

  Stella had been holed up in her room all day, avoiding her chores—and Motty. Stella felt like she was vibrating at a strange frequency, a sharp, jittery feeling that could have been excitement, joy, or dread. Lunk was coming that night, and the cove would be a memory. Motty, Hendrick, and the Ghostdaddy could go to hell.

  Her first problem, though, had been finding luggage. She didn’t want to start her new life carrying a pillowcase full of clothes like some hobo. The cardboard suitcase she’d arrived with when she was nine was split down the side, useless. So when Motty was out of the house Stella slipped into her room and dug under the bed for the ancient carpetbag. It may not have been the one Esther used in her escape, but Stella would claim it for her own.

  She stuffed the bag with the few clothes she liked, and even fewer keepsakes. The handkerchief Lunk had given her. Her Bible. Her science journals. Nancy Drew’s The Secret of the Old Clock. She hesitated over The Book of Clara and The Book of Esther. Take them because they were part of her history, or leave them behind for the same reason?

  She made a disgusted noise and threw them in. She could always burn them later.

  Last was her prized possession: the photo of Abby and her parents, looking so young, all of them in their cowboys-and-Indians getup. She felt weak in her stomach and sat down. Something about the picture unsettled her. Maybe it was the way Ray Wallace and Abby looked so oblivious. Maybe it was how her mother, tiny and small-boned and clear-eyed, stared out with a sad smile, as if she knew her daughter were out there on the other side of the camera, invisible, untouchable.

  Stella thought, The God nearly killed us both.

  She wrapped the frame in one of her dresses and tucked it into the bag. How terrible that everything she owned fit in one ancient carryall. God damn she was tired of being poor. Soon it would be different. She promised herself that, no matter what Lunk did for a living, preacher or typewriter repairman, she’d make her own money, and keep it, too.

  The sun went down, and fear rattled. She paced the small room, unable to place the emotion anywhere, unable to dispel it.

  Then she heard the screaming, like a woman being murdered.

  * * *

  —

  the sow lay on her side, legs thrashing. Motty was bent over the animal, struggling to hold it in place. She looked up at Stella and, “For goodness sake, help me!”

  The pig lay atop an old wooden gate inside the old horse stall, surrounded by fresh hay. Four lanterns had been set atop the stall—a country operating theater. Motty’s .22 squirrel rifle leaned against a wall.

  “Tie her legs down,” Motty said.

  “Are you going to shoot her?”

  “Not yet. Better if she stays breathing long as possible.”

  The pig screamed and screamed.

  Stella threaded rope through the slats of the gate. Looped it around one rear leg. The pig went into a frenzy; the sharp hooves cut through Stella’s sleeve and sliced her arm. She ignored it and cinched the back legs together. The front legs were easier.

  “Make sure they’re pulled tight,” Motty said. “I need a clear space.” She’d unrolled a leather cloth. On it were three knives
, a large pair of shears, a small pair of scissors, and a long, thin metal tube. She picked up the medium-weight knife and with her other hand felt along under the pig’s chin to the top of the swollen teats. Rested the point of the knife there—not lower on the belly where Stella would have expected.

  Motty looked at Stella. “Are you staying?”

  Stella took a breath. Nodded.

  “Let’s put her down.” Motty tapped her own forehead. “Right there. Can you do that?”

  The pig had no name. Stella had learned early never to name an animal they’d be eating. But she’d been the one to feed her every day, and muck out her pen, and make sure she had water. The sow deserved one last act of kindness.

  Stella picked up the rifle. Checked the safety. Then she pressed the barrel to the front of her skull and fired. The sound in the small space was deafening. The pig went still.

  “All right,” Motty said. “We got to work fast.”

  Motty knelt and made her first cut, a long one. Liquid gushed out of the animal—not blood, but gummy and pale. It splashed out like warm water from a tipped bathtub, soaking both their laps. The air steamed.

  Motty waited calmly for the rush of liquid to abate, and then made her second cut. She put both hands inside the animal. “Reach in there, between my hands. I’m holding open the womb.”

  Stella thought, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be gone.

  Motty shouted, “Reach in, damn it!”

  Stella pushed up the sleeve of her right arm. She rested her left elbow on the sow’s huge, bristled neck, pushed her hand in. She felt something that was thick, yet yielding.

  “Feel for the cord,” Motty said. “Do you feel a cord?”

  Stella didn’t know what she felt. Everything was warm and slippery. Her hands felt coated in jelly. Then she touched something hard. A head? No, flatter. A shoulder, maybe. She moved her hand down. Felt something thick as a sausage. Moved her thumb along it.

  “I think I have the cord.” She was trying to steady her breathing. “It feels so big.”

  “Get your second hand in there. You want to find its neck, make sure the cord’s not wrapped around it. You have it?”

  “I don’t know!” She was terrified.

  “Bring it out.”

  The fetus was encased in a waxy gel, and beneath that, its skin was red as wine. It looked like a baby. A human baby.

  “It’s not moving,” Stella said. “It’s not moving!”

  “Shush.” Motty hooked a finger into its tiny mouth, pulled out some black matter. Her finger was bleeding now. Inside the mouth were tiny white teeth. The child already had teeth?

  Its eyes remained closed. The little barrel chest wasn’t moving. Its arms and legs, skinny and human-looking, hung limp. Motty snipped the umbilical cord and tied a string around it. So fast, like she’d done it a hundred times.

  Motty breathed into its mouth, and the child’s chest moved in response.

  Stella burst into tears. Please live, she thought. Please. She didn’t know who she was praying to. Only Motty and Stella were here to save it. Stella touched its head, studying that narrow nose as sharp as any Birch woman’s. Those delicate hands with their tiny, perfect fingernails. Except for that red skin, it looked like a normal human child. It was a wonder.

  “Oh my God.”

  Stella looked up at the voice. Lunk stood a few feet away, staring at the child. He looked like he was going to burst into tears. “What is that?”

  Stella glanced down. “I…” She didn’t know what it was, or what to call it.

  Lunk stepped forward. The baby coughed, and suddenly began to wail.

  Lunk jerked back. He dropped a small box he was holding. His hand went to his mouth. Then he turned, and ran.

  “Stop him,” Motty said. The child was still in her arms, alive, alive and bawling. “Stop him.”

  * * *

  —

  lunk was running pell-mell for the road. He was taller than she was. Maybe faster. She shouted his name but he kept running. Then he reached the end of the gravel drive and cut right. His feet slipped on the pavement and he almost went down. Caught himself. Glanced back and saw her chasing him, and the look of terror on his face broke her heart.

  When Stella got to the road, he was thirty yards away, making for a car parked along the ditch—his father’s new car. Lunk had tucked it under the trees, where it couldn’t be seen from the house. Later, she’d realize he must’ve gone to her window, and when she failed to come out, he’d crept toward the lights in the barn. And then he saw the bloody child, delivered out of the body of a sow.

  Lunk was pelting along so fast he had to put out his arms to stop himself from crashing against the trunk of the car. He yanked open the driver’s side door. Froze. Looked up.

  The God in the Mountain loomed out of the dark. It strode into the roadway, its white torso swinging under a profusion of tall, tall limbs. Legs unfolded before it, scissored, retracted. It halted in front of the car.

  Lunk screamed.

  Stella stopped running and looked up in wonder. The God reared back, so that the torso stood on end, like a human’s. The air throbbed like a beating heart.

  It knew her. It needed her.

  The dread she’d carried with her all day fell away. The false bravery. The imaginary future. All she wanted was one more communion. One more hour with its thoughts spilling into her head, whispering to her. All she wanted was to be its daughter.

  Stella opened her arms, letting the vibration run through her.

  Lunk was screaming. She felt so sorry for him. He didn’t know how lucky he was.

  Lunk threw himself backward, fell onto the cold pavement, scrambled back up. He sprinted toward Stella. His eyes were wild, like a pony running from a fire.

  “Stella! Run!”

  “Don’t,” she said softly.

  “We have to go!” He grabbed her arm and moved past her. She was yanked along for a few feet. She seized his wrist with her other hand, set her feet. He jerked to a stop, surprised at her strength.

  He screamed again. Now in pain.

  Her palms were open now. A thrill like icy air ran across her skin. The air had turned violet.

  He looked down, and she followed his gaze. Her fists were open. From her left hand floated a bundle of white filaments, undulating as if underwater. And from her right, another flowering of strands—and these connected her palm to Lunk’s wrist.

  She could feel everything Lunk felt. His fear. His confusion. And his love for her, yes, that too, but it was tiny compared with that fear, a tiny raft on an ocean of terror. He wanted, more than anything, to run. Run and keep running, until he found someone to save him. He had to tell everyone what he’d seen. Satan was real. Every rumor swirling around the Birch women—that they were pagans, devil-worshippers, witches—was true. He’d given his heart to a demon.

  “You can’t go,” Stella heard herself say. “You can’t tell.”

  He couldn’t tear his eyes from the threads. Blood seeped from the perforations, but the threads themselves were beautiful. They didn’t feel foreign to her; they belonged to her, simple as that. How stupid of her that she hadn’t suspected. All those years, she thought the God was reaching out to her. Instead, it had been drawing these out of her. Showing her herself.

  “Please,” Lunk said.

  “I’m sorry.” She understood, now, how the God felt toward her. She was a mayfly, and incapable of containing everything it wanted to give her. She was its damaged, broken child, but no less precious for all that. It had to let her go, it had to reject her, before it shattered her.

  Lunk reached with his free hand and gripped the tendrils.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t. Let me—”

  He yanked the strands from his wrist. Blood sprayed from a dozen tiny holes; ea
ch filament had found some length of a vein. In Stella’s altered vision Lunk’s skin was red as hot coals but his blood burned even hotter, bright yellow. It sprayed into the air and fell across the road like molten gold.

  Lunk sank to his knees. His expression melted from fear to bewilderment. He didn’t recognize her. She’d become something else.

  The God eased forward on its many legs until it stood over her. The vibration set her bones to humming. She could feel its thoughts press upon her. She’d done something terrible, but she could not hold on to what it was: the God bathed her in love. Love, and pity, and sadness, but most of all love, an adoration so deep it was almost wonder.

  24

  1948

  She killed Brother Jerome with a touch.

  He fell back, and his head smacked the ground. The shotgun slipped from his arms. His body, in her violet-hazed vision, burned orange. She couldn’t help but see Lunk: scared, mystified, stunned by her transformation.

  She cried out and stepped back from the body. The threads withdrew from the man, but the tips hovered over his chest, as if seeking another way in.

  “Stella,” Abby said. His voice was hoarse. “It’s okay.”

  No, nothing was okay. She’d promised herself she’d never murder again. And now she’d done it, easy as reaching for a glass of water.

  The strands twisted through the air, as if trying to braid into a rope. She concentrated and managed to pull them back into herself. A splotch of blood, bright as a sunflower, marked each palm. Whatever trick Sunny’s body possessed to stitch the hole back together, Stella’s had never acquired it. She’d spent ten years hoping to never see these things again.

  The red haze over her vision dissipated, and darkness swept in.

  “Stella,” Abby repeated. She turned, and he slid down the tree and thumped to the ground. Rickie lay beside him, snoring.

  “Abby!”

  She crouched down. He looked at her with his nearly closed eye, his face like a bloody fist. “I’m okay.” Expelled a ragged breath. “You?”