Jasher

Jasher Creek Baptist Church stood at the foot of a low graveyard hill that was fresh and green with early summer growth. The peaceful churchyard was backed by a dew flecked pasture that spread out to a hedge of wildflowers lining the far tree line. The adjacent burial plot gently sloped upward from the church, rising to a dense and shadowed forest of dogwood and oak and hickory in full leaf.

The plot's verdant face was toothed with rows of headstones and footstones, most of them raw and unmarked and roughly formed, like jagged relics of prehistoric man. Others were neatly shaped; white granite arches and blue-grey slate slabs neatly carved with resting lambs, hands folded in prayer, or crosses crowned with rays of glory. Grey and green lichen grew over all but a few of them, creeping from the corners and crooks of the weathered stone. Names from deep in the hills were etched in their surfaces, names like Isaiah and Mayelle and Zede and Narcissus, some underscored by dates of birth and death that spanned generations while others were somberly marked by a single date carved twice.

The wide and gentle creek that bore the name of Jasher flowed past the church, it's bank traced by a pale dirt road. The road cut a dusty and rutted passage that branched and splintered for many miles across the hills and hollows like a lightning scar, worn deep into the earth by wheel and hoof. And from these dark trails and roads and paths came the Sunday morning congregation, on horseback, in their work trucks, in wagons and even on foot.

In view of the church was an old and faithful bridge that branched away from the road and spanned the creek's breadth toward town. It was dark and strong, built from heavy tar-soaked timber and stone that had settled deeply and become part of the landscape itself. Past this bridge the forest reclaimed the creek and embraced it beneath its canopy and reached into its waters with gnarled roots.

Across this bridge came a figure, slinking and hurried, and it made it's way toward the church.

The church structure was white and plain, resting and leveled on short columns of stacked rock pulled from the soil of the field that lay behind it. A sharp steeple rose high from its tarred tin roof in solemn dignity, punctuated by a bleached white cross that was met at height only by the lone graveyard oak, broad and mighty and nourished by those faithful lying at rest beneath its bough.

Inside, sunlight drove in through the aged and wavering glass, bathing the dark oak wood of the pews on one side of the sanctuary in gold-wash. Opposite the aisle they were darkened by the deep and quiet blueshade of morning. The high square walls and ceiling were whitewashed, diffused with sunglow. An old iron woodstove sat cold and empty in the center of the aisle near the front of the sanctuary, it's black tin stovepipe rising up through the ceiling.

At the front of the church were two low prayer altars on either side of an elevated platform floor. The platform bore a simple choir bench, a piano, and the pulpit. Behind the pulpit a wide window looked out over the empty field behind the church.

On the top of the well worn chestnut dais lay the cracked brown leather bulk of a King James Bible. It's hardback cover was embossed with intricate filigree, the faded And flaking gold leaf of "Holy Bible" pressed deeply into its face. It was a family Bible that had been well kept since before the time of The War Between the States, and it's delicate family records pages carried many shades of ink, each bearing dates of death and birth and marriage, the names of patriarchs and matriarchs and lost children. The Bible belonged to Reverend Dell Tuttle. His marriage to Anne Miggs on May 7th, 1931 was written into the Book a few spaces below his birthdate of November 2, 1914, and many spaces above where they would one day write his death date of March 15, 1989.

But the year was 1956, and Dell was currently leaning back in his Sunday shirt and slacks, brown suspenders tight against a round belly.

The preacher was investigating a small wasp nest hanging high in the corner of his church. It clung to the ceiling near the dark open mouth of the belfry, an old waxy bell rope hanging down like a withered tongue inside it. He squinted through bespectacled blue eyes as a few of the buzzing interlopers came and went, busy with their construction and clustering over its surface. He felt a certain appreciation for their tenacity and craft, the tidy nest with it's symmetrical chambers formed in paper by these indomitable pests.

Suddenly the back corner door of the church creaked open, and Reverend Tuttle glanced behind him, surprised. A disheveled and anxious looking man was peering in, a shapeless floppy hat bunched in his fists.

"Well, hello there Ben Parton." he called out. 

The preacher turned from his wasps and walked toward the front of the church, lifting his jacket from the back of a pew as he passed it. Ben approached, raising a rough hand in silent greeting. He stopped abruptly, then twisted back around to carefully close the door behind him. He turned back to the preacher. His eyes were tired, and his face weary, his voice low and tense.

"Pastor. I hope I'm not botherin' you."

"No sir. Glad to see you here. How you been keeping?"

"I need to be baptized."

Dell went still for a moment as he was pulling on his jacket. He studied the man's face in a moment of silence. Red-rimmed eyes sat in a sun-darkened and weathered face, and met the preacher's gaze only briefly.

"Well now Mr. Parton, thank the Lord, I'm glad to hear it." A smile drew up into his round cheeks and he clapped a hand onto the man's boney shoulder. "That's wonderful to hear."

"Right now."

Reverend Tuttle's smile faded some. The man before him was grim faced, and worried, and as tightly strung as the wire in the piano that sat against the wall behind them. "Well, we will be doing a baptizing this afternoon."

"Cain't wait."

Dell attempted another smile. "Is everything alright Ben?"

The man seemed to draw back. Silence hung in the air for a moment, until it was broken by the low groan of the front double door opening. Mr. and Mrs. Rodgett, an elderly couple melded together by 50 years of marriage and six children, inseparable and singular in spirit, stepped through the doorway. The bright green summer growth shone warmly behind them. Albern patiently held the door open for Ruth as he had done nearly every Sunday for three decades.

"Good morning Reverend.", came Albern's quavering voice.

His old eyes glanced over the worried looking man standing beside the preacher. He finally recognized Ben Parton, Quincy Parton's boy as he'd known him, and was surprised and suspicious, as the man had not so much as passed in sight of the church since he was a child.

"Good morning Mr. And Mrs. Rodgett." Dell's smile had returned. "How are we this morning?"

Ben Parton sat down suddenly on the front pew against the shadowed wall. The preacher looked down at him, and laid his thick hand on the man's shoulder again and felt tense muscle. He moved away to greet the Rodgetts, and said, "I'm glad you're here Ben, thank the Lord you're here. This afternoon we'll go to the river."

The congregation trickled in as the reverend's second son, Thomas Tuttle, arrived to ring the church bell, ignoring the wasps. A shrill clanging sounded over the trees, and down winding roads, and over the wide breadth of the creek. Old wood-railed trucks, and dusty cars, and a few horsebound wagons gathered in a dirt lot at the side of church. Children in their pastel Sunday clothes walked solemnly between their parents while elders shuffled in with slaps on the back and firm handshakes. A few younger men in sleeves rolled up to their elbows or with shining greased hair, snuffed cigarettes into the dust or against the tread of white walled tires, then made their way inside.

A few people greeted Ben up at the front, taking his clammy hand in theirs. There were shoulder claps, and one lady even hugged his neck joyfully after they heard he was there for the baptizing. He uneasily smiled despite himself before retreating back into his worried shadow.

The church warmed with the bodies, and the air thickened with their breath and the scent of perfumes and pomades and soaps and sweat. A few windows were raised and cool air drifted sweetly over the pews like an elysian spirit. The service began, and they prayed, and they tithed into Jack Merle's upturned felt hat, and they sang from the Red Back hymnals. Ben Parton stood, but didn't sing. After ending with all five verses of "The Healing Waters" they prayed again and Reverend Dell Tuttle began his sermon.

e preached on the baptism of Christ at the hands of John, and the Dove of the Holy Spirit that came down. He spoke of his own baptism as a boy in 1925, and the warmth he felt as he rose up from that cold mountain water in the arms of his own father and pastor as his sins were washed away. Ben Parton listened intently, and his foot silently bounced his knee throughout the service until the preacher started on Hell and damnation. He spoke of Satan's hatred of all, and the greedy claws he dug into the unrepentant, and how the eternal death of the sinner was his victory. Ben was still as stone and he swallowed against a dry mouth.

e preached on the baptism of Christ at the hands of John, and the Dove of the Holy Spirit that came down. He spoke of his own baptism as a boy in 1925, and the warmth he felt as he rose up from that cold mountain water in the arms of his own father and pastor as his sins were washed away. Ben Parton listened intently, and his foot silently bounced his knee throughout the service until the preacher started on Hell and damnation. He spoke of Satan's hatred of all, and the greedy claws he dug into the unrepentant, and how the eternal death of the sinner was his victory. Ben was still as stone and he swallowed against a dry mouth.

He preached on the baptism of Christ at the hands of John, and the Dove of the Holy Spirit that came down. He spoke of his own baptism as a boy in 1925, and the warmth he felt as he rose up from that cold mountain water in the arms of his own father and pastor as his sins were washed away. Ben Parton listened intently, and his foot silently bounced his knee throughout the service until the preacher started on Hell and damnation. He spoke of Satan's hatred of all, and the greedy claws he dug into the unrepentant, and how the eternal death of the sinner was his victory. Ben was still as stone and he swallowed against a dry mouth.

When Pastor Dell called for those that sought salvation to come up to the altar Ben hesitated, but finally relented. Two others made their way up, then he stood and knelt at the altar so quickly he knocked his knee against the wooden floor. A few faithful came up to pray with them. Bowing beneath warm hands and whispers, hat clenched in his clasped fists, Ben prayed, and pleaded, and wept. He couldn't afford not to.

They eventually returned to their seats over the gentle tones of Mary Pendley's piano rendention of "What a Friend We Have". Reverend Dell returned to the pulpit and thanked God, and announced the baptism for the evening, and welcomed the few new converts that would be "going to the river."

Church dismissed with a final prayer. Ben wanted to go out the back, but hands drew him in and down the aisle toward the front door. Stepping out into the high hot sunshine, he shadowed his eyes with his hat, and nearly frantic, looked about the churchyard, the graveyard, at the creek, the cars, the horses, the old bridge leading to town. He saw nothing and was relieved, but the exposure had him more uneasy than before. He wormed himself to the preacher's side, ignoring the parishioners that greeted and congratulated him as he passed.

"Cain't we go down now?" He nodded toward the creek with a sharp jerk of his head.

"Mr. Parton we're all going to have dinner first. These ladies have us quite a spread laid out over by the field." Ben looked out past the cemetery. A few old tables covered in gingham and patchwork cloth were set up in the grass at the edge of the cemetery, on the line of a broad unused cattle field. A wide area of the tall grass and wild flowers had been cut down with a rusty push mower that now leaned against a bare fence post nearby. Long wooden benches lined the tables, some of them taken from the edge of the graveyard, others from the walls of the church.

The tables were being laid out with glass casserole dishes and metal pots, pitchers of water filled from the spring, and tall jars distinctly colored with pale yellow lemonade and dark tea.

The man's heart sank and he twisted his hat in his hand. "Please preacher I ain't got time."

Dell stepped away from the dispersing crowd and led Ben near the church side. He softened his voice. "What is this all about Ben? Ain't got time for what?"

Ben swallowed hard. "He's coming for me."

"Who?"

"The Devil."

The preacher stared at him for a moment. "He's got it out for all of us I reckon, but we don’t have to worry about that now." He smiled.

"He's gonna kill me."

Dell's smile faded. "Son, what makes you say that?"

Ben said nothing more and his pleading eyes cut toward the ground. The preacher sighed. "You're safe now Mr. Parton. Safe in the Lord and safe here with your brothers and sisters." He laid his palm across Ben's shoulder. "Now come eat something, and then we'll go to the river together."

Ben reluctantly made his way to the tables. He didn't look at the quiet graveyard as he walked past it. He took a seat at a white clothed table, nodding absently at those seated around him. As the preacher blessed the meal, Ben stared down the hill at the old bridge over the creek. At "Amen" the congregation stood in unhurried unison, chattering and joking, taking up the ceramic or tin plates set before them, and falling in line before the food table. Many older men remained seated and waited as their wives prepared their plates for them. Younger men piled their plates high and laughingly jabbed at each other to hurry along. Mothers carried wide plates or tin trays for their brood to share from, with the young children clutching at their dresses and following closely like baby chicks.

Ben wasn't very hungry, but he reflexively took advantage of a good meal. He filled his plate mechanically, and slowly found his appetite stirring. The spread was whole and hearty. Fried and roasted chicken, fried trout, thick slices of pork, and venison in gravy. Mashed potatoes, boiled carrots, wilted greens sprinkled with vinegar and fried squash. Onions and early tomatoes and cucumbers, crisp and sliced to be salted and eaten raw, were dished beside a basket of sun warmed biscuits covered in clean, worn cloth. Casseroles of canned vegetables and potatoes and unidentified white meat lay waiting in square glass dishes, alongside eccentric gelatin blobs colorfully molded around specks of fruit or nuts, the proud magazine-recipe achievements of younger town wives. Beside these, at the end of the long table, were dark cookies sweetened with molasses and bundled in a deep clay bowl, accompanied by three thatched pies and a white cake.

Ben ate in fellowship, and for a brief moment forgot about the Devil. As the meal was consumed and plates cleaned, the men leaned back in satisfied conversation, or drifted toward the lot to smoke. The women began tidying and putting away empty dishware while the children were running together in the pasture. There was laughter and gossip and warmth. Ben himself had eased, and only glanced up to the bridge as someone left early and rolled away back toward town in a dusty brown Ford coupe.

Then came the low growl of thunder.

Ben looked up to find a mountain of cloud billowing high above the graveyard oak, and the sunlight fading behind it. Through the trees, low on the ridge, the sky was the color of a gravestone. Ben paled and spilled what was left of his lemonade as he stood. He searched desperately for the preacher. A few others were glancing upward, and he noticed a couple headed for their car.

Pastor Dell rounded the corner of the church looking up behind him at the darkening sky. He had a smaller Bible in his hand, soft leather creased along the spine, the one he carried with him everywhere. Ben was already approaching him when the preacher called out. "Awright folks, the sky's looking threatening, so we best hurry on down to the creek. Fellers if y'all wouldn't mind packing up the tables and chairs right quick? " Ben relaxed somewhat, but his eyes fixed coldly on the bridge as he turned and hurried down to the creek.

The congregation slowly gathered down at the water, some somber, others singing or laughing. Ben was the first to the bank, along with the excited children. He was focused, his jaw set tight as he removed his shoes, revealing corpse white feet. He began to roll his pants to the knee, but abandoned this effort and stood and waded out into the dark, smoothly flowing creek pool. Unconsciously remembering his hat, he removed it and threw it back onto the bank. By the time everyone had gathered, and the few other baptized-to-be had unshod and met at the waters edge, the sky was truly storm dark, and a few fine drops of rain had begun to fall. Ben clenched his shivering fists, nerves racked, each distant roll of thunder burrowing into his chest and stomach.

Pastor Dell warily made his way out into the creek, nodding at Ben who stood out awkwardly behind him. He held his carrying Bible in his hands. "The sky is looking mighty loathsome, but we'll do what as we can as the Lord sees fit. We ain't sugar so we won't melt, but we ain't ducks neither."

The congregation tittered laughter at this then quickly fell silent as the pastor lowered his head to pray. Ben stared down at the cold water flowing past his legs. It was suddenly murky. He looked up stream. The creek was taking on a brown hue, and the trees were arching over a darkening haze. He could smell the rain coming. A flicker of lightning and an instant peal of thunder caused him to recoil. The preacher ignored it, and said amen, but as everyone lifted their heads from the prayer their gazes turned up in concern. A few older women unsteadily made for the church. The men whispered to one another. Children came away from the water and clung to their mothers. The preacher adjusted his glasses, Bible open in his hand. "Well…"

A low hiss suddenly filled the air around them. The sky was dim and grey and heavy between the trees. The hiss grew louder. More people began to retreat now, and Ben heard one say, "Here it comes boys."

The rain seemed to roll out of the forest like an approaching flood, and indeed it nearly was. The sky opened and a torrent of water washed over them. There was the screeching of children, and laughter from the young men, and a few slipped curses, and the admonition of mothers gathering their broods and heading for the shelter of the white church house.

Ben began to panic and turned to the bridge. It was empty, and dark, but to him it loomed in the rain with a sorrowful anticipation. He splashed toward the retreating reverend, without noticing how much more difficult walking had become in the swelling creek. Pastor Dell was telling everyone to go inside the church as he waded toward the bank, when he felt a violent tug at his shirt sleeve. He nearly fell, and reached up and took a ropey handful of willow branches. "Hold on tight Ben, we…" He went silent when he looked back and saw the man's pale face and felt the draw of the wiry muscles pulling him back toward the creek. He called out over the heavy rain and rush of the creek "What are you doing son, we got to get in, we'll get plumb washed away." Ben drew him further in.

"No! Please preacher, I got to."

"What?"

Ben was looking at the bridge again, then whipped his head back to him. "I got to! He's coming, I know it!" The pastor stared into the man's wild eyes. Then he turned toward the church and the ghostly faces watching from the doorway and from fogging car windows. The water was high now, sloshing around their waists, and Dell had to pull himself self upright with the willow bough. "It has to wait Ben, we got to get out of this. "

"No! Please preacher, please! He's gonna take me!"

Dell saw the terror in the man's eyes, and felt the desperate and painful grip of his hands. He realized the man didn't fear dying at all, but true damnation, and expected it soon. "Alright Ben. Let me go a moment." Ben shook his head, but then saw the Bible upraised in the preachers free hand, and the stern but calm expression on his face, and let go of his arm.

Carefully, Dell slipped his Bible into the front of his shirt, it's dark bulk visible through the wet cotton. He leaned toward Ben and reached his arm around the man's shivering shoulders. They faced the bridge together. Ben's face had softened with the shocked relief of a criminal having had the noose slipped from his neck, and clasped his shaking hands before him. The sky grumbled with a sound like distant mountains sliding into the sea. The preacher cried out over the roar of the rain and thunder, tension and frustration in his voice fading into a bold formal tone.

"Heavenly Father we are gathered today to baptize Benjamin Parton in your Holy Name, and to bear witness-". A searing blink of lightning was matched by a whip crack of thunder that they all felt in their lungs. The preacher paused and drew himself up into the willow bough with difficulty. He felt the thin man shivering in his other arm, watched his eyes flickering up to the empty bridge, his thin lips that worked out mumbled prayers.

The water, now heavy with pale brown mud that stained their clothes, dragged at them violently. Pastor Dell panted against the strain. He considered dragging the man to shore, but continued.

"Benjamin Parton do you except Jesus Christ as your savior? Declaring your faith before witnesses, and your desire to have your sins washed clean in His blood?"

"Yes! I do!" His voice was strained and sharp, almost angry.

"Then in the name of the Father, the Holy Spirit, and His Son." Ben suddenly clenched his own nose and pressed himself back into the roiling muddy water, nearly forcing the pastor down.

Immediately the powerful current pulled him free from Dell's grasp.

The pastor just managed to wrap his thick fingers around the man's shirt collar, and groaned with the effort of holding him as the willow limbs cut into his hand. Ben was completely submerged in the dark water. Dell cried out to his congregation. “Help! I can't hold him!" His face was red with the strain.

Two men, one in overalls and one with a yellow streak of wet pomade running down his cheek, bounded across the church yard. The younger one reached the swollen creek first, hesitated, then plunged into the water and nearly fell while trying to wade to the preacher. He grabbed a handful of the willow tree himself, then hooked a lean arm around Dell's waist. Ben seemed powerless to rise from the water, to stand or find purchase on the creek bed at all. Dell felt him thrashing under the surface, grabbing at his wrist trying to pull himself up. His wiry hands would flail out of the water and slap back down as if trying to climb out and on top of it.

The man in overalls, an old farmer named James Reed, suddenly approached and grabbed the preacher, his labor hardened arms providing a relieving steadiness. Dell jerked his head toward Ben and yelled to the young man. "Get him!" The wide eyed boy released the preacher, and lunged with his free hand toward the drowning man, straining the willow bough. But before he could reach Ben beneath that cold water, the preacher suddenly recoiled with a gasp, shaking the willow's branches.

Surprised, they looked at Dell’s horrified expression, and saw clutched between his white knuckles a tatter of Ben's filthy shirt collar. "God help."

Dell only stared down stream at the roiling brown water. He was vaguely aware of Mr. Reed bellowing to men on the bank, gesturing downstream. He felt hands pulling him toward the bank, his own cramped fingers refusing to release the willow. Still he stared, praying that Ben would break the surface.

His eyes searched the bridge line that sat nearer to the water now, foam and debris rushing against the pilings. A blink of lightning brought his eyes upward. There was a dark figure standing on the far end of the bridge.

The thunder caught up then, a low long growl that crept over the earth. Dell's skin prickled as if the rain was suddenly filled with cold needles. The figure seemed to be watching him.

It looked like a man wearing a long black coat, with a matching wide brimmed hat covering his head and most of his face. He stood motionless, rain running down his coat in shimmering streams, and stared at the pastor over the rushing creek.

James Reed's thick hands gently pulled Dell away with inexorable strength, and drew him up the bank. His legs felt weak and numb beneath him. "Come on Dell."

All but the oldest men had left the shelter of the church, heading down stream searching for Ben, calling his name. Dell steadied himself by the road, and removed his water flecked eyeglasses, wiping at them in vain before replacing them. He was still looking at the bridge. The figure was now slowly crossing.

Dell glanced around to see if the other men saw the stranger as well. He felt the fool for doing it, but couldn't help noticing that they didn't seem to. He reached into his shirt and pulled out his Bible. It felt warm in his hand, and was heavy with water. Someone called to him from the door, maybe his wife, but he ignored them and began walking toward the bridge.

The dust of the road had turned to mica flecked mud that clung to the preacher's naked feet. The rain had slowed, now falling in sparse heavy drops. The thunder grew distant, slowly grumbling away and into hidden places. The evening was late and darkening, and a few men had taken heavy metal flashlights from their cars to search the cold black cut of the creek.

The figure stopped at the end of the bridge, and waited on the approaching pastor. He was long and lean like an evening shadow.

Dell weakly stepped up to the man, wary and stopping short of the planks of the bridge. The stranger's bearded face was shadowed by his hat, downcast as if observing the preacher's bare filthy feet. Pale grey eyes suddenly rose up to meet Dell's gaze from beneath the brim.

"Preacher."

The voice was low and surprisingly soft. Dell hesitated, nodded and suddenly felt very tired. The man continued.

"Was that Ben Parton?"

Dell's eyes widened. His voice seemed to stick in his throat like cotton. "I couldn't hold him. He wouldn't listen."

The man turned his head away to look upstream. He was silent a moment, then asked, "Baptized then?"

"What?"

"You was baptizing him?"

"Yes. He was desperate for it. He thought…"

The man turned back to Dell, his eyes the color of the rain. The preacher paused, then continued. "He thought someone was coming for him."

He watched the man's face, but it held the same somber, almost peaceful expression. The stranger responded flatly. "Well I reckon that's good for him. Who'd he say was after him?"

Preacher Dell wiped water from his lips. "Well. The Devil. He was white with fear over it."

There was a moment of silence. Dell expected a sneer or incredulous reaction, but there was nothing. He unconsciously took a suspicious tone and continued. "You knew him?" That word, "knew", was bitter in his mouth, and he felt shame at using it so easily. He felt the shirt tear away from his grip again, that sudden and silent stealing away of the struggling man. The stranger ignored the question.

"The Devil. Just as well had been." He looked downstream. "Reckon it took?"

"What?"

"The baptizing."

The preacher slowly looked downstream himself, over the thick brown water that swept past the bridge, and the faint orange glow of flashlights flickering in and out of the trees like wandering souls. "Lord I hope so."

The man said nothing. Dell continued, with weakness in his voice. "He went to the altar this morning. Scared the whole day. But I think it was honest. I hope so."

The stranger looked at Dell. "I'm here on behalf of Barlow."

The preacher turned his head at the words. He felt the air thicken as the man spoke, and something in him seemed to recognize the name. There was a sinister shadow of familiarity he couldn't quite place; it felt to him like hearing a mysterious howl rise from the dark hollows of the mountains. He said nothing. The rain felt colder, and the flashlights were more distant now. Everyone had seemed to fall quiet in the church, the women and children waiting for the men to return with news.

"Barlow has plenty of enemies, and a few friends. One of those friends was wronged by Mr. Parton." Dell locked eyes with the stranger. The man's face glowed suddenly. A metal lighter had sparked a flame in his cupped hands and was burning the tip of a hand rolled cigarette kept dry beneath the hat brim.

"Lewis Gurney's boy was out tending to the hogs after supper last night. He heard a racket in the woods and headed over to check. 'Bout that time Parton came tearing out of the trees like they was on fire. They saw each other and Parton lit out."

He took a heavy draw of smoke, paused, then let it roll out between his lips and defiantly rise up into the rain.

"Come daylight they went out to see what he might've been up to. They had a dog with 'em and he found it out for 'em, not two hunnerd yards into the trees." The stranger looked back downstream. He was silent for a moment, then his voice softened even further. "It was the youngest son of Barlow's friend. They had been out looking for him all night but the Gurneys didn't know it."

Dell felt a tightness in his chest and his breathing went shallow. The man took another draw of his cigarette, exhaled and waited for the smoke to clear before he continued.

“He was six. He’d been beat bloody. Parton stripped and defiled him, and choked the life out of him. The body was stowed under a pine log."

To Dell, the sound of the creek grew to a deafening rush. He felt the blood drop from his face. The muddy ground seemed to give beneath him, like it wanted to swallow him up. He swayed on his bare feet, and reached out for the bridge railing to steady himself. The stranger didn't take notice.

"He should've just kept a-running. I'd of caught up anyhow though. Guess it's no matter now. I reckon you got to him just in time." At this the man cut his gaze to the preacher. It held something feral now, and the man's eyes pierced Dell like numbing fangs.

The dull headlights of a rusty Ford truck glowed on over the preacher's shoulders as the old engine growled to life. Chatter arose at the door of the church as families made for their cars and wagons, more wary of the coming night than of the rain. At this the man abruptly turned to cross the bridge back toward town, hands tucked into the long coat. As he stepped away and into the misted evening, he spoke gently.

"Tend to your flock preacher."

Dell numbly watched the stranger stride away. Something suddenly reflected the headlight glow, something beneath the long dark coat, hanging near the man's knee.

It was the thick metal barrel of a sawed off shotgun.

Dell Tuttle weakly turned back to the commotion behind him. A few lights still stretched down the road alongside the creek, and distant calls of "Ben" echoed over the water. He slowly walked toward the church, the Bible in one hand and his wet leather shoes hanging from hooked fingers in the other.

His wife met him at the door as he mounted the steps. Lamps and candles had been lit inside, as the building had not yet been wired for electric light. He ignored her as she spoke, approached his frightened son and absently handed him the soaked Bible. Curious and worried faces watched him, but few said anything. The preacher was filthy and wet and his face was as white as the church walls.

He peeled away his fogged glasses and laid them in the back pew with a shaking hand. The wooden floor groaned under him as he crossed it, each step tracking slashes of mud behind him. Everyone fell silent as he took a wooden chair from the wall at the back, and dragged it to the corner of the foyer, resting it beneath the belfry with its aged rope.

Stepping up uneasily, he mounted the chair, steadying himself with one hand on the backrest and holding a single wet shoe in the other. There were a few murmurs, a worried questioning from his wife as she took ahold of his trouser leg to steady him. Dell straightened and looked up, stretching out his arm and raising the shoe above his head. He paused, and took a shallow breath.

He swung the shoe with a sharp clap, and crushed the wasp nest.