Signs in the Blood (20 page)

“What about Sylvie's husband?” asked Elizabeth. “Did he go after them?”

Dorothy frowned. “Now, I don't know as I ever did hear about that. He was the one built the church house; they got his name wrote on the cornerstone—it's Tomlin, I believe. But I don't rightly know what did become of him.”

“Weren't he the one got swept away in the big flood of nineteen and sixteen?” Birdie asked Dorothy. “That was when the sawmill got washed away—”

The cousins began trading flood stories: the bull that was found dead, tangled in the branches of a tree, the calf that was found alive on a rock in midstream two days after it had been swept away from its pasture beside the river, the mud two feet deep in the Gentry homeplace, the giant catfish “still alive and floppin' on the hearthstones,” when the water went down and Miss Birdie's grandmother had returned to her flood-stricken home. “And how the place did smell!” Dorothy wrinkled her nose. “They couldn't never get the smell outen the beddin', what with the water and the mildew and the dead things.”

It might have been last year rather than almost a hundred years ago,
thought Elizabeth.
That flood is as real to them as anything. I guess when their generation was growing up with no television and not much in the way of radio or books, sitting around telling stories was the main entertainment.

Finally Elizabeth said, “I have to be going; I've got groceries in the car I need to put away. But, Miss Birdie, I wondered if you—”

“Saturday night, that's when I want to go back to that Holiness church,” Birdie said firmly. “Belvy called and said she'd likely have another message for me. And that nice Brother Harice, he come by to pay his respects. He ast about you, Lizzie Beth, and he said he'd be lookin' for us.”

Ben was outside when she pulled up and he helped her unload the car. “Laurel called, Aunt E,” he announced, plopping two more bags on the kitchen table. “She said to remind you that you promised to go to the revival with her tomorrow night. She was going on and on about that John the Baptizer.” He grinned. “You've sure been getting a big dose of mountain religion recently.”

“So I have,” groaned Elizabeth. “It's fascinating, but . . . I don't know . . . a little scary. It's just that these people are so sure they're right. At least, not just that, but they're also sure that everybody else is wrong. And if you believe that, then you can justify almost anything you do . . . you know, ‘God on our side.' That's what scares me. Like that militia.”

“Or the Germans, back when
—Gott mit uns—
or however they said it,” Ben intoned, stiffening his arm in the Fascist salute. Elizabeth shuddered.

Late that night, just before going to bed, Elizabeth went to the front porch to call Molly and Ursa. James was already curled up on his pillow in her bedroom but the other two dogs were not home yet, had not been home for dinner. In fact, she realized that she had not seen the pair since that morning.
Probably off on an adventure,
she thought. It wasn't unusual for the two to spend the night barking up a tree on the mountain at a possum or raccoon, and then come home in the morning, starving, exhausted, bristling with burrs, and thoroughly happy.

She called and whistled to no avail. The night air was still, but cool and sweetly fragrant. Across the valley, lights twinkled from a scattering of homes. She could hear the distant rumble of a freight train on the tracks that ran along the river, and the lonesome cry of its whistle. On the mountain above the house, an owl hooted and another replied on a lower note.
So beautiful, so peaceful,
she thought and, with one last unanswered call for the dogs, went inside.

CHAPTER 16

J
OHN THE
B
APTIZER
 (
F
RIDAY
N
IGHT)

T
HERE WAS HARDLY A PARKING SPACE LEFT WHEN
Elizabeth and Laurel arrived at John the Baptizer's big revival tent behind the BP gas station. The lurid yellow flyers, as well as daily announcements on the local radio station, had done their work; cars and trucks crowded the recently bush-hogged field. An old Winnebago painted with bright apocalyptic scenes and Bible verses sat at a little distance from the tent, its generator humming. From within the tent, children's voices could be heard singing. Laurel gave her mother a disgruntled look. “I told you we should have left earlier; we'll be lucky to get a seat. But look at that incredible camper! I'll have to come back in the daytime to get pictures of it!”

Elizabeth had insisted on waiting till after seven, when the meeting was scheduled to begin, hoping to slip in unnoticed and sit well toward the back. As she and Laurel took their seats in the last row, a group of teenagers was introduced as “the Holy Ghost Singers from the Sycamore Cove Fellowship.” They shuffled onto the platform at the front of the tent and fiddled with the two microphones before breaking into a ragged version of “I Am Clinging to the Rock,” accompanied by an older man with a battered acoustic guitar and a blonde young woman at a portable organ. By the time they reached the chorus, their shyness had disappeared and they sang in parts, the boys elaborating on the soprano line with a confident booming bass. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and began to be glad that she had come. It would be nice to think about something other than Cletus for a while.

As the singers launched into the second verse, Laurel whispered in her ear, “I wish we could have sat up close, but at least he hasn't started painting yet.” She nodded toward the half-dozen white panels that leaned against a table on the platform. “I've heard that he can do anywhere from three to six paintings a night, depending on how inspired he feels.” Laurel twisted in her seat and peered all around. Then she whispered again, directing Elizabeth's attention to a row of completed panels, brilliantly a-swirl with color, that were propped up over to one side of the tent, “Those are probably the ones he's done on the previous nights. He doesn't sell them till the revival's over. They say he almost gives them away.” She sighed deeply. “God, what a show it would be to have just two weeks' worth of his work. I've got to talk to him about that. But I don't see him anywhere, do you?”

The singers had paused and the guitarist was executing an exuberant finger-picking solo. Elizabeth was just about to tell her daughter to be quiet when, through the open tent flap, she saw the lean form of the evangelist stepping out of the Winnebago. He was dressed as he had been at Cletus's funeral, and, as before, gave the impression that some interior tightly coiled spring was quivering on the verge of release. Elizabeth's thoughts flashed to Harice Tyler, comparing his warm, dark eyes and easy way of moving to the remote, icy stare and rigidly controlled posture of this forbidding man. She watched John the Baptizer come quietly into the tent and stand at the back, nodding in time as the Holy Ghost Singers triumphantly concluded their song in rich four-part harmony.

The singers and the guitarist filed off the stage, but John the Baptizer remained at the back of the tent. Only the muffled tread of the singers' feet broke the silence. The congregation sat, hushed and expectant, all heads turned to the rear, waiting for John the Baptizer. A baby began to wail and was quickly quieted. The entire gathering seemed to be holding its breath, waiting . . .

“There was a man sent forth from God, whose name was John.”

Speaking in a low tone that nonetheless filled the tent, the evangelist began to walk down the aisle between the rows of folding chairs toward the platform. A woman sitting at the end of a row grasped at his hand as he passed, but he brushed by her and stepped up onto the platform, turning slowly to face the congregation. The young woman at the organ played a few soft chords.

“The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.”

His voice was louder now, though superbly restrained. He picked up one of the white panels and set it on a rough easel that stood by the table. Now Elizabeth could see that many jars of different hues of paint, each with its own brush, were neatly laid out on the table. John the Baptizer raised his hands over them in a gesture of blessing. He lifted his head, shaking back the thatch of silver-sandy hair.

“Send down the Holy Spirit to Your servant, who is but a voice, crying in the wilderness.”

His eyes seemed fixed on a point high in the air as his hand picked up a brush and plunged it into a pot of deep blue paint. The organ music thrilled, then sank to a low accompanying undertone. Now words were pouring out of the preacher in a torrent, sometimes recognizable Bible verses, sometimes an incomprehensible babble. He spoke of seven angels with seven trumpets while with confident brushstrokes he sketched a picture to illustrate his message. Colors whirled and resolved into images on the panels before him and the words “present at the creation” came into Elizabeth's mind as, mesmerized, she watched the painting take shape.

“‘And the third angel sounded and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters.'”

The voice of John the Baptizer rang through the packed tent and he flourished two brushes in one hand, slashing down a great stroke of orange and yellow across the paint-bedaubed panel as the organ chords crashed around him. Laurel let out her breath with an audible sound of pleasure. Craning her neck for a better view, she rose slightly from her folding chair.

Elizabeth gave her daughter's skirt a gentle tug and Laurel settled back down, quivering with excitement. Elizabeth looked at her sharply but Laurel was totally caught up in the moment, gazing at John the Baptizer with undisguised awe. The evangelist continued to preach from Revelations, warning of the coming apocalypse, punctuating his harangue with a repeated “Can somebody say amen?” At some point, evidently judging that his first panel was complete, he thrust it aside and began another. Nothing stemmed his overpowering flood of Scripture and prophecy. Throughout the tent the congregation was shouting out answering amens; some were standing, many were weeping, and in a cleared area to the side, a chubby young man was executing a little hopping dance and throwing up his arms with a hearty “Praise Him!” at every pause in the exhortation.

Elizabeth sat transfixed, partly by the flood of half-unintelligible but oddly compelling language, and partly by the contagious energy building all around her. She remembered Birdie saying that Cletus loved a revival, and she felt a pang of sorrow that he had missed this one.
Birdie said he loved bright things; he would definitely have liked these paintings,
she thought. An idea nagged at her,
bright things,
but then it was gone, swept away in a deluge of words and images.

Laurel's eyes were shining and she was breathing quickly as she watched a second painting take shape.

“Church! The end times are coming near. Only the living waters can save you from the eternal fire of His wrath; only the living waters that flow from the crystal throne of the Lamb can bring you
to
the Lamb. Say amen!”

The rapid brush delineated a pale blue throne at the top of the panel. The brilliant Presence that sat on the throne was human in outline, but the bands of rainbow color that shimmered around it obscured any precise features. From the base of the throne a whirling cataract of waters poured down the panel, sapphire and emerald. At the very bottom of the picture was a lake of fire, similar to the one that Elizabeth had seen on the flyer announcing the revival. But this was in color: blazing tongues of ruby and topaz lapped around the little pink and brown sinners whose arms were thrown up in entreaty and whose mouths were all opened in haunting black
O
s of suffering. The slashing brush dragged the blue waters closer and closer to the fire, forming swirls that reached down to touch and surround the suppliants. The music of the organ throbbed in sweet yearning.

“Church! I have seen the wonders spoken of in the Holy Word of God and I say to you again the time is near. For the woman and her child dwell in the wilderness and when her days are accomplished there shall be war in heaven.”

The panel with the fiery lake was set aside and John the Baptizer began to create a Madonna. A young woman in draperies of deep rose and cerulean blue filled the center of the piece. Her head, blonde rather than the usual brunette, Elizabeth noted, was bowed over the swaddled child cradled in her arms. A halo of twelve stars blazed above her and her bare feet were set on a crescent moon. All around her slender form were the deep greens and browns of a forest inhabited by a multitude of birds sketched in bright colors with swift angular strokes. Above the forest rose rocky hills and cliffs of gray and black, reaching up to a billowing sky of livid purple and yellow.

Elizabeth frowned.
What is this reminding me of? It's something about Cletus, something—

“That's the most traditional so far,” whispered Laurel. “That sky is so El Greco. He must use some really fast-drying medium . . .” Her voice trailed off as she once more became absorbed in watching. Elizabeth sighed. The elusive thought had dissolved.

Setting aside the Madonna, John the Baptizer reached for another panel, then hesitated. He pulled a big white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, then took a drink of water from a paper cup. The organ went quiet, the hungering clamor in the tent that had accompanied his preaching and painting died, and those who had been standing sat once more.

“The Lord tells me that's enough preaching for now. We still got us more'n a week before the baptizing. Plenty of time to call home the sinners.” The ecstatic frenzy that had sustained him through ninety minutes of preaching and painting had vanished. His voice was at a normal speaking level, but such was the stillness in the tent that Elizabeth could easily hear him.

“The Lord's telling me to walk amongst you now and pray with you. He's telling me to open myself and to make myself a vessel for His Holy Spirit so that in His precious Name, sin and disease, fear and sorrow, can be rebuked and cast out.”

Elizabeth shifted uneasily in her seat. The folding metal chair set on uneven ground was becoming more and more uncomfortable. She glanced at Laurel, raised her eyebrows, and looked toward the exit. Laurel narrowed her eyes and silently mouthed
No way!

Up on the platform a woman was singing “Tell the Blessed Story” while John the Baptizer drank another cup of water and equipped himself with a handheld microphone on a long cord. Elizabeth tried to gauge whether the cord would reach all the way to the back row where she and Laurel sat. She hoped not.

Laurel was whispering urgently at her, “Mum, I have to stay till it's over. I want to talk to him about lending the paintings for a show. Don't you see how incredible he is?”

“Okay, sweetie,” Elizabeth whispered back. “It's just that my rear end is tired of this chair.”

John the Baptizer began to move through the tent, pausing now and again to rest his hand lightly on a head or a shoulder and to pray. Sometimes he would speak quietly to the person he was touching and, on hearing a reply, shift his hand to another place on the body. Elizabeth watched intently as the microphone cord stretched ever longer.

Finally the pale-eyed evangelist was praying with the thin young woman sitting directly in front of Laurel. Elizabeth could just catch some of the words: “Bless our sister and free her from the fears and terrors in the night. In the sweet Name of Jesus, I rebuke those fears!”

The outstretched hand clamped around the young woman's forehead and she staggered back, then raised her hands and cried out, “Thank you, Jesus!”

Elizabeth had been diligently avoiding eye contact with the preacher; now she breathed a long sigh of relief when he turned and walked back to the front. A sad-looking woman in a faded housedress was making her way up to him. Stringy hair hung on either side of her doughy face and her eyes were dull with mute suffering. A wiry little old woman who was holding the sad woman's arm whispered in the ear of the evangelist. He bowed his head for a moment, then made a signal with his hand.

The young woman who had been playing the organ stepped forward with a small bottle of olive oil. Elizabeth recognized the familiar tapered shape and blue label. John the Baptizer made another gesture, and suddenly half a dozen people were surrounding him and the sad woman, all reaching out to touch her, all praying aloud. The congregation rose as one, swaying toward the little knot of people at the front of the tent. A low hum of many voices filled the air, like the buzzing of an aroused hornet's nest.

Suddenly Elizabeth became aware that someone was closing the tent flap behind her, and without conscious thought, she grabbed Laurel's elbow, stood up, and propelled her startled daughter out of the tent.

“Mum,” squealed Laurel. “What are you doing? I told you—”

“Sweetie,” gasped Elizabeth, “I'm sorry. I couldn't stay in there a second longer. I never had claustrophobia before, but when that guy shut the tent flap, I just had to get out of there.” She realized that she was trembling. “I felt like we were in danger
. . . you
were in danger and I had to get you out, too.” Contritely, she smiled at her indignant daughter. “I'm sorry, that was silly of me. They were probably just closing the flap because the night air's getting cooler. If you want to go back in, I'll go with you.”

Laurel looked back at the tent and then at her mother. “Mum, it's not like you to freak out like that. Are you okay?” When Elizabeth nodded, she shrugged. “No big deal. I have tomorrow off so I'll spend the night at the farm and come back in the morning and get pictures of the camper and try to talk to him then.” She looked more closely at Elizabeth, then commanded, “Give me the keys. I'll drive home.”