Six months after the Lord had led him to Taubolt, Reverend Samuel Cotter of the One True Gospel Church had yet to win a single convert. In part, he credited his failure to the foothold enjoyed by that papist outfit on the hill. They had the only real church building here, and sinful folk always mistook such empty edifice for true spiritual authority. Sam’s ministry, which did not enjoy the funding to support such vain facade, was housed in a small rental storefront at the farthest corner of town, and the few tourists who found him there at all invariably beat a hasty retreat upon discovering that he was no purveyor of filthy, overpriced mammon like the others.
Beyond these handicaps, Sam knew his poor showing was simply the inevitable result of having been sent, like Jonah, into such a heathen, unresponsive land. Taubolt reeked of pagan belief and practice. Halloween seemed bigger news than Christmas here!
This particular morning, however, Sam’s ire had a far more urgent target. Hours of agonized prayer had revealed that his most urgent mission here must be to drive Molly Redstone from the streets of Taubolt once and for all. He’d felt constrained to lie low for a time after that ill-fated confrontation during the parade. God’s grace had helped him to elude those misguided officers, but one did not ask the Lord to multiply such signs.
Wickedness like Redstone’s could not be tolerated indefinitely, however. Thus, he had reluctantly decided to visit his only ostensible colleague here, papist or not, and see if they might join forces against the Wiccan whore of Shea Street and her nest of blasphemous followers. If nothing else, a life of itinerant preaching had taught Sam better than to scorn any tool, however offensive or demeaning, that the Lord might provide. The road to glory, he knew, was lined with thorns, and traveled on one’s knees in humility, one painful step at a time.
So it was that Sam Cotter came knocking at the door of St. Luke’s Parish rectory, that Halloween morning, prepared to extend the hand of ecumenism to his Catholic counterpart for as long as it took to get rid of Molly Redstone. When no one answered, he wondered if the old priest might be in his chapel, and walked around to the front of the church. The doors there were locked, but he knocked anyway. Receiving no answer here either, he turned to go in something of a huff. But as he reached the gate, he heard the door rattle behind him, and turned to see it swinging slowly open.
“Hello?” Father Crombie smiled.
“Hello, sir.” Sam smiled back. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Well, but rather slow, I fear. My legs are not what they were. May I help you?”
“Actually, sir, I was hoping we might both help the Lord. My name is Samuel Cotter. I’m minister of the One True Gospel Church, here in town.”
“Ah, yes,” Father Crombie said uncertainly. “I believe I have heard your name.”
“May I come in?” Sam asked.
“Why . . . yes, of course. This is God’s house, not mine.”
Sam was not surprised at Crombie’s poorly concealed hesitation. It was only to be expected that a leader of the papist cult would feel some hesitation in the presence of a true man of God. He put on a pleasant face, and stepped inside, glancing suspiciously at all the papist gewgaws and idolatrous statuary as they moved toward the altar.
“Nice little building,” Sam said. “You fill it up on Sundays, do you?”
“Attendance varies, of course,” Crombie said amiably, “depending on how many of Taubolt’s visitors happen to join us, but we’ve a goodly congregation.”
When Crombie failed to inquire about the size of Sam’s own congregation in return, he could not help feeling snubbed. As much as it would have embarrassed Sam to admit he had none, the old man’s smug disinterest still offended him. You shall know the tree by its fruit, he thought with disgust, deciding it was time to get down to business.
“Sir, I’m here today because this lovely and deserving town is afflicted with a spiritual cancer that I expect distresses you as deeply as it does me. I am referring, of course, to that heretic, Molly Redstone, and her spiritual brothel down on Shea Street. The Lord knows I’ve labored to expose that woman for what she is, but one voice in the wilderness does not seem to have been sufficient. It was my thought that if you and I joined forces, we might have enough moral clout around here to drive her out, and return this community to the state of spiritual health I’m sure you also long to see restored.”
Having said his piece with admirable brevity, Sam fell silent, assuming that not even a papist minister could fail to endorse such clear common sense. But Crombie just stared in apparent confusion, causing Sam to wonder if he might be a little senile, or just so out of touch that he’d not even heard about the witch in his own backyard.
“You are aware of Molly Redstone and her so-called Harmony House?” he asked.
“I have heard some about that, yes,” Crombie murmured, “but, Mr. Cotter, though the woman clearly holds very different beliefs than my own, I am not sure it is my place to . . . ‘drive her out,’ as you put it.”
Cotter was stunned, at the old man’s bald admission, if nothing else. Hadn’t he even the shame to pretend he was on God’s side? “You’re a Christian minister, sir, are you not?” Sam protested. “Are you aware of what this woman teaches, of how many people she has seduced into joining in her Satanic practices?”
“I’ve been led to believe,” Crombie said, “that she sells bits of crystal, a little jewelry, some candles, tea, and vitamins there, and espouses a philosophy of vague goodness and optimism.” He paused briefly, then added, “Some astrology as well, I suppose, but while I may not be as convinced as she that such things are efficacious, I would hesitate to call them Satanic.”
For a moment, Cotter was reduced to drop-jawed, speechless astonishment. “You back this woman?” he blurted at last.
Crombie looked startled. “I said nothing of the kind, Mr. Cotter. You and I clearly disagree on several points, but that doesn’t mean that I endorse—”
“Sir, I have spent my life reading and rereading the scriptures, and I can assure you, without hesitation, that God agrees with me!”
Crombie’s expression became almost sympathetic, which galled Cotter more. “I propose, Mr. Cotter,” the old man said gently, “that it might be wiser to agree with God.”
“You, sir, are a danger to your congregation!” Sam snapped indignantly. “The immortal souls of your flock hang in the balance of what you teach them, and if that tripe is any sample, they are surely all bound straight for Hell in the same handbasket!”
“Mr. Cotter, I am afraid I must ask you to leave,” Crombie said, no longer looking confused, or friendly.
“If this was God’s house, I’d make you leave, old man!” Cotter spat. “But any fool can see it’s not, so you bet I’ll go, and shake the filth from my sandals as I do.”
It was only as he turned to leave that Sam heard the sound of . . . music? It was quiet, and rather discordant, as if a large choir were warming up behind the door of some distant room. But this place was nowhere near large enough to hide any such choir. Cotter turned, looking for the source of the sound.
“What’s that?” he demanded, but Crombie said nothing. In fact, the old priest suddenly looked almost frightened, which raised the hair a bit on Cotter’s neck. “Where’s that music coming from?”
“I . . . am an old man,” Crombie demurred. “My ears have failed along with my legs, I fear. I cannot hear whatever you’re referring to. Perhaps it’s something outside.”
But it wasn’t outside. It was coming from somewhere just behind Crombie, and growing louder! It was coming from somewhere very near the altar!
“Liar!” Sam rasped fearfully. This was as unnatural as any sound he had ever imagined. “What kind of perversion are you hiding in this whitewashed tomb, old man?”
“Mr. Cotter, I really must ask you to go,” Crombie insisted.
But Cotter’s mission was to cleanse Taubolt of evil, and he knew now that he’d found its dark heart here, where no one would have thought to look;
in a church! Ignoring Crombie’s protests, Cotter pushed roughly past him, and marched toward the sanctuary.
“In the name of Jesus Christ!” he shrilled. “I command the powers of—”
That was all he managed to get out. Through the very seams of a golden box mounted in the wall behind the altar came a hideous light, which washed Cotter in such pure loathing and animal terror that he could only flee in panic toward the church’s open doors. Some small part of his mind was salient enough to feel ashamed that he had met true black magic at last and fled before it without a struggle. But the rest of him was filled with gibbering pleas too backed up to do more than clot behind his mouth.
Only when he’d run several blocks down Shea Street did fear finally relinquish control of his legs, which clung now to his pants in a glaze of cooling urine. He stumbled to a halt, trembling and gasping, right in front of Redstone’s wicked store. When the worst trembling had passed, he turned and screamed back up toward the unhallowed church, “Thou art an abomination before God! Burn! Burn, thou consort of witches and demons! The fires of Hell consume you and your blasphemous temple!”
It was a perfect night for Halloween. Taubolt’s antique skyline and hillside graveyard cut dark silhouettes against the clear, brittle wash of twilight. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed on nearly every porch and fence post, as Laura and Joby drove into town. The few pedestrians on Taubolt’s quiet streets seemed to drift like phantoms, though this was likely due to viewing them through cheesecloth.
Joby had put together an elaborate “headless man” ensemble. His real head was concealed inside a tux jacket on a cheesecloth fronted shirt stretched over a wire frame. Its collar was stuffed with red crepe paper, as was the hideous pull-over mask he carried under one arm as his severed head. The costume left him less than ideal vision, of course, and very limited mobility, so Laura was driving.
She had dressed up as a Renaissance maid in white petticoats under a long green velvet dress she’d made herself. Its low-cut bodice covered a puff-sleeved peasant blouse pulled down to bare her shoulders. A wreath of dried roses crowned her long auburn hair.
“Listen to this,” Joby said, squinting through his cheesecloth portal at a copy of The Lighthouse, Taubolt’s weekly paper, which he’d brought along to peruse during the long ride from Laura’s house. “It’s a letter to the editor. See if you can guess who from.
“ ‘Dear Editor,’ ” he read. “ ‘As we approach Halloween, I feel compelled to join numerous other concerned residents in imploring the parents of this quiet community to remind their children that prowling, vandalism, and other so-called Halloween traditions are not only dangerous, but illegal. Please, in the interest of safety, keep your children at home this year. If we all work together, we can enjoy this colorful holiday without fear of regrets the morning after.’ ”
“Oh my God,” Laura groaned.
“ ‘Sincerely, Agnes Hamilton,’ ” Joby said, smirking.
“Is she nuts?” Laura exclaimed.
“Might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on her front porch,” Joby concurred, “with a big neon sign: INSERT EGGS HERE.”
“She’ll act so victimized, too,” Laura sighed, shaking her head as they pulled into a parking space just down from the Crow’s Nest. “Oh, look!” Laura gasped, jamming the car into park, and killing the engine. “That’s Ben!”
Joby turned his false torso until he could see Ben walking toward them, grinning rakishly in a costume to put any prince to shame. The stiff lace collar of his white linen shirt emerged from a black leather doublet with puffed sleeves slashed to reveal sapphire satin linings. A silver rapier sheathed in black leather hung at his hip. His black leather trousers were tucked into knee-high, cuffed black boots. A black velvet cape, swept back over one shoulder, embroidered in silver, and lined in more sapphire satin, was fastened by a silver broach engraved with Celtic knot work.
As Laura stepped from the car, Ben swept his cape back with one arm, in a formal bow. “Sir Benjamin at your service, lovely lady. May I say, you are a vision tonight?”
“You are too kind, milord,” she replied, dropping a quick curtsy. “I can’t believe we match!” she said, straightening to give him an excited hug.
Joby’s attention was so fastened on Ben’s costume that he banged the top of his false torso on the doorjamb trying to get out of the car, and fell back into his seat. After a more careful exit, he joined them at the curb, and said from within his cheesecloth cage, “Let me guess, Ben. You were in a wedding once, and never get to wear it anymore.”
“Close.” Ben grinned. “I got it at a Renaissance fair, years ago.” He looked down at himself sheepishly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“A little puerile,” Joby joked, “next to the understated maturity of mine.”
“You do look gruesome!” Ben said. “How you gonna eat and drink through that?”
Joby hadn’t thought of this. “Through a straw, I guess.”
“Party animal!” Ben grinned. “Can you dance in it?”
“Okay, so it’s got a few design flaws,” Joby said irritably. “We don’t all have professional tailors, Ben.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Joby said, glad they couldn’t see his beet-red face. “I just . . . lost my head for a minute.” Laura groaned, but Ben was good enough to laugh.
Ben led the way upstairs through the old water tower that was the restaurant’s entrance, while Laura hung back, helping Joby negotiate the rough wooden steps. “I knew I should have come as a cowboy,” he murmured, wondering why on earth he’d chosen a costume that left him half-blind with no peripheral vision.
At the top, Ben pulled the door open and they were drowned in deafening music, laughter, and shouted conversation. Joby’s lack of peripheral vision became an even greater challenge as they sought a table in the bar amidst the crowd of giant butterflies, ghosts, clowns, fairies, witches, ghouls, and super-heroes. The place was a furnace, and Joby quickly discovered yet another of his costume’s drawbacks. He was glad he’d worn nothing heavier than a black T-shirt underneath.
When the waitress came, Laura ordered coffee, Joby asked for grapefruit juice with a straw, ignoring the waitress’s amused expression, and Ben ordered Glenlivet, up. At first, the party swirled indifferently around them, but soon, Joby and Laura’s friends began to come around to ooh and ah their costumes. Ben’s, of course, got all the top awards, as he was introduced to anyone and everyone in Taubolt. When Bridget and her husband came by, she dressed in green balloons as a giant bunch of grapes, and Drew decked out as a “cereal killer,” wearing a robe festooned with empty cornflake boxes decorated with bloody bullet holes or stabbed with rubber knives and cleavers, she became the fourth person to ask Joby if he weren’t awfully hot in there.
“You know, you’re right,” Joby said, surrendering at last. “I’m hot, and blind, and claustrophobic in this dumb thing.” He pulled his arms from the jacket sleeves, lifted the fake torso off his shoulders, and emerged feeling rumpled, sweaty and drably out of uniform in his sodden black T-shirt. “Decapitation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he growled comically, setting his empty shell on the floor. “Now I can order a burger.”
“It was kind of neat though, talking to a stuffed shirt,” Bridget pouted.
“Breathing’s even neater.” Joby shrugged. “Next year, I’m a cowboy, for sure.”
“Well, this isn’t too well ventilated either,” Drew said, turning to his wife and plucking at his robe. “How about we get some air out on the deck?”
They made their farewells and left, but, having taught school for three years, Joby knew half the families in Taubolt, and soon had a steady stream of visitors, whom Ben, and even Laura, hardly knew. This receiving line went on and on, until, eventually, during a lengthy conversation about scholarships between Joby and Bellindi’s parents, Ben and Laura finally excused themselves to go dance. Some time later, when Joby had finally run dry of visitors, he sat sippi
ng his third grapefruit juice, and wondering when, if ever, Ben and Laura would return.
Finally, he got up and went to the restaurant’s dining room, which had been cleared for dancing, where he leaned against the doorjamb, buffeted by the music, and watched Ben and Laura utterly lost in all the fun they were having. They made a lovely couple, and Ben’s costume alone would have justified the attention they were getting from people all around the dance floor. Joby saw himself reflected in the darkened windows beyond them, looking plain, he thought, and rather thin in his black pants and T-shirt. His hair was sticking up ridiculously from having pulled his costume off. He reached up to rake it back into place, wondering why no one had said anything all this time, and he suddenly felt tired—and utterly out of sync with the celebration around him. With a last glance at Ben and Laura, he went back to get his ill-conceived costume in the bar, then headed for the door carrying his empty torso under one arm.
As he started down the stairs, however, Laura’s voice called out behind him, “Joby, where are you going?”
Oh, he thought, I’ve been noticed. “I’m just a little tired,” he said without turning. “I told Gladys I’d help her with some things around the inn tomorrow. I think I’d better get some sleep.” He turned to smile at her. “It’s just three blocks. I can walk.”
Ben came through the door to stand beside her.
“You weren’t even going to say good-bye?” Laura asked incredulously.
“You two were dancing, and . . . I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“For God’s sake, Joby,” Laura said wearily. “I can’t believe this.”
“Hey! It looked like you were having fun!” he sputtered, acutely embarrassed. “I just didn’t want—”
“Save it!” she snapped. “I wouldn’t dream of compromising your pity party.” She whirled around and went angrily back inside, leaving Ben there in his elegant costume, staring down at Joby with a glum look that fanned Joby’s shame into anger.
The Book of Joby Page 53
