The Ladies’ Aid would next meet on Thursday night. The Gents’ Saturday Prayer Breakfast would have a guest speaker. The Crustian Young People’s Fellowship would go on an outing to Banty Creek Tuesday night.
“Brother Duckworth,” Chid requested, “would ye kindly report on the membership rolls?”
Chid yielded the floor to Elder Duckworth, and Tolbert stood to announce, “Brethern and sistern, the elders and deacons of this here church is proud to announce that sixty-three young folks has done reached the age of imago and jined up; seven roosterroaches has repented of their past sins and atoned for their expulsions and has asked to be taken back into the fold. The deacons and elders is powerful sorrow to announce the following expulsions from the church: Brother Theron Coe, who has been found guilty of incest with seven of his daughters, is no longer with us. Brother Jesse Clendenen, Junior, has been found guilty of excessive profanity, and is expelled. Brother Hector Duckworth, who I am glad to say aint no brother a mine, has confessed to incest with five of his sisters and is removed from the rolls. Sister Nancy Whitter has committed incest with eight of her sons and is no longer amongst us….”
Chid listened idly to this recitation of transgressions, backslidings, expulsions, and reprimands, and noted that it was no worse than usual. His eye and his sniffwhip roamed the congregation, to note their reactions to this tabulation of wrongdoing, and all of them were looking properly solemn and contrite…all except one, who was grinning. Who was that stranger? Why, yes, it appeared to be Squire Hank’s boy, name of Samuel. What was Squire Sam doing here? Worse, why was he wearing such an idiotic grin during this public declaration of awful sin? Did he think it was funny that so many church members were being expelled and castigated?
Chid’s eye and sniffwhip moved onward, pausing here and there, until he noticed his own family, his wife Ila Frances and some of their children—but where was Archibald? Oh, yes, there was Archibald, over to the other side of the congregation, near Squire Hank but talking to some girl, that same female who had been out there in the Roamin Road earlier this evening, who had seen the Woman mail Her letter to the Lord. Chid realized she was Josie Dingletoon’s daughter, and, probably because she was the result of that there marble that Chid had given Josie in a moment (or two hours) of weakness and temptation, Chid’s very own daughter too, therefore a half-sister of Archy. Chid would have to remember to give Archy a little lecture about getting so chummy with his half-sister. If nothing else, Chid would have to tell the boy not to talk to her during the worship service.
But Chid remembered that Tish was probably in mourning for her parents, and this reminded the minister that he had to give the funeralizations, so when Brother Duckworth finished the expulsion announcements and crouched back down, Chid rose again and said, “Well, brethering and sistering, maybe we’ve got time before the Lord returneth to take care of this week’s funeralizations. The following has done went and westered off lately since our last meetin, and we do hereby commend their souls to the Lord: Malvina Swain Murrison has gone west of old age in her twenty-seventh month; James T. Bourne, beloved son of Millard and Gladys Bourne, in only his third instar, has been eaten by a salamander; the childern of Nolan and Bertha Coe, sixteen in number, in their third instar, has been chewed up and westered by mites; nine of the fourth-instar children of Fred and Florence Chism has been consumed by pismires.
“Let’s see, now,” Chid went on, searching his memory, “Brother Rodney Stapleton has been eaten by a nightingale. And oh yes, the entire family of Clarence and Beatrice Whitter and their sixteen imago childern, fifteen fourth-instar childern, sixteen second-instar childern, and thirteen newborn nymphs and swains, has all been consumed by a opposum, may Our Lord and Saviour Joshua Crust take them each and every to live forevermore on the Right Hand of Man! Now, let’s see, yes, also little Joseph Donald Dingletoon, eaten by a green frog, has predeceased his parents, John or Jack Orville Dingletoon and wife Josephine, logdwellers of Carlott, who was last seen in a beercan in the Lord’s cookroom, where they had no business in the first place.
“And last but not least, just a few minutes ago, out yonder in the Roamin Road, before my very own eyes, Brother Luke Whitter was crushed beneath the sole of the Woman of Parthenon! Now, my friends, I wish I could tell ye that She did it of a purpose, that She had seen him and stomped on him to punish him or to rapture him, but I do believe it was pure accidental-like. But who is to say? Maybe Luke didn’t care, or maybe he thought he had it coming to him, on account of his wife Nancy….”
Chid detected a murmur running through the crowd, but it was not because of his words. Those in the back of the audience had detected the footsteps of the return of the Lord! Once again, many of the congregation dashed away beneath the rug or pieces of furniture, but once again the majority of them remained rooted and watched in adoration as the Lord walked back to His cheer-of-ease and plunked down into it. Chid was glad to have the Lord back. Why had He taken so long? Maybe he had grabbed Hisself a snack in the cookroom, which meant there might be more crusts and crumbs littering the floor. Yes, a few of the faithful were becoming unfaithful and edging away in the direction of the cookroom.
“Hold on there!” Chid shouted, stopping them in their tracks. “This here service aint over yet! Why, no, my friends, we are hardly started! I’ve got a real important message fer ye tonight! But first, Brother Chism, supposing ye lead us in a hymn or two?”
Deacon Fent Chism rose and, using both of his sniffwhips to set the tempo, led the gathering in a four-part harmonization of “I’ll Meet You in the Morning on That Glorious Shore of the Sweet Bye and Bye Right Along Topside of His Blessed Hand.” After four verses and chorus of this, Fent Chism conducted them through “At The Old Shiny Pin Where My Saviour Did Bleed I Shall Lean on Those Everlasting Arms and Get Ready to Leave This World and Go to Gloryland.”
Now for the best part, Chid said to himself as the last chorus faded off and he picked up its last word to open his resumed sermon: “Glory land! How sweet the sound! Yes, brethering and sistering, we shall all meet in Gloryland! But who will be waiting for us there? Why, of course, those I’ve jist funeralized, what has been eaten by frogs and salamanders and possums and mites and what-all, and them that has westered of plain old age or jist disappeared, but most of all, my friends, I tell ye, the ones that will be waiting to save us a place will be them that have already been dispatched by His Holy Gun!
“You know I didn’t mention none of them in my funeralizations for this week. You know why I didn’t mention ’em, because they don’t need no funerals! Nossiree, their souls is already in Gloryland! This past week, the following has not westered a natural west nor been eaten by critters, but has been raptured and pulverized into smithereens by the Holy Bullets of the Lord! Brother John Thomas Murrison! Brother Carl Henry Duckworth! Brother Arnold Justin Chism! Sister Jessamine Sue Plowright! Sister Sophronia Marabelle Coe! And Brother Oscar Robert Whitter! These are the saints who have been raptured and sanctified in the fire of His Fire!”
This was the moment that Chid liked best, and he paused for breath, and to let the mood be set for his next words: “Who will jine them tonight? Who amongst ye has already been chosen for the Sacred Fire? Who will stand bravely with head upraised and ask, ‘Is it I, Lord?’ Search your hearts, I say, and ask yourselfs, ‘Am I ready?’” Chid felt no guilt over this contradiction. The best way to hold them, he knew, was to confuse them. Let them be uncertain whether the westering by gunfire was punishment for sin or a rapturing and reward for faith, whether the pulverization into smithereens was to be avoided by clean living or sought as the ultimate salvation. No school of theology had implanted Chidiock Tichborne with this fundamental lesson of evangelism: perplexity is the foundation for faith. Do we live our eastering in order to seek west or avoid it?
Already the more susceptible were whipped into a frenzy of postures and devotions, some of them shouting aloud, “Is it I, Lord?” and “Am I ready?” while still others strained th
eir entire bodies in the direction of Man and declared “It is I, Lord!” and “I am ready!” Surely, Chid thought, the Lord Himself could hear them. He was pleased to notice that Squire Sam Ingledew had stopped grinning his stupid grin and was looking around himself in wonder. And then, as if the young squire could not bear the sight of so much faith and fervor, he slipped away from the crowd and disappeared into the darkness. Good riddance, thought Chid.
It sure would do me a right smart of good, Chid thought, if the Lord would shoot one of them Ingledews. It would not only strengthen Chid’s power over the unbelievers and the Crustian backsliders, but it would also reduce by one the obstacles to the Crustian takeover of Parthenon.
“Just a little more hubbub,” Chid said to himself, “and the Lord Hisself may hear us.” He shouted to the crowd, “WHO IS READY?!?” and he commanded them, “PRAISE HIM! PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME!”
A great tumult of sound rose from the congregation, a blending of cries of “I AM READY!” and “CHOOSE ME, LORD!” and “BLESSED BE THE NAME OF THE LORD!” And Deacon Fent Chism managed to get a few dozen of them to harmonize on a loud chorus of “Gettin Ready to Leave This World of Sorrow to Head My Gitalongs for the Gloryland Up Yonder.”
Even Archibald, Chid was pleased to note, had stopped fooling around with that Dingletoon gal and was getting into the spirit of things. But Chid silently prayed to the Lord to spare Archibald and all the rest of his own family, including especially himself, although he quickly added, “But if it be Thy will, Lord, and You don’t need me no more to watch after Yore flock, why then just Rapture me too.”
Then, somehow, the tumult of all those prayers and songs, the very loudness of those hundreds of voices raised in worship and supplication, must have reached Him. He closed the book He was reading, and seemed to stare off into space for a moment as if He were thinking about what He had just read, but then He reached up and turned His reading lamp so that it shone full upon the entire congregation. The Lord leaped out of His cheer-of-ease.
“Shit!” spake the Lord, and snatched up His revolver. “BANG!” spake the Holy Gun, and dispatched Deacon Fent Chism to the Gloryland he was singing about. So many of the faithful were so close to the Lord’s gitalongs that the Lord began stomping at the same time he was shooting, and westered several at a time beneath his shoes, narrowly missing Chid himself. “KER-POW!” spake the Holy Gun again, and obliterated Ila Frances Tichborne, Chid’s wife. “Oh, take me next!” Chid cried, in a curious mixture of grief for his wife and elation at his own imminent Rapture.
But the Lord was not aiming at him. The Lord was aiming at one in a group of three: Archibald Tichborne, Tish Dingletoon, and Squire Hank Ingledew. “Oh, let it be the Squire!” Chid screamed.
“PLEW!” spake the Holy Gun, and Chid looked to see which of the three was hit, but none of them were. The Lord had missed? Chid looked up, and saw that the Lord’s eyelid, the lid of His sighting eye, was covered by a clinging roosterroach! Some blasphemous roosterroach had climbed up the Lord’s person and dropped off the top of His head at the instant of His firing, seizing Him by the sighting eye’s lid! The Lord had been made to miss!
“AAAAGGHH!” spake the Lord, and dropped His revolver, which crushed the Stapletons, and swatted at His own face, knocking the offending rooster-roach away, then raised and clutched His gitalong. The Lord had shot Himself in His own gitalong!
Chapter nineteen
When Tish heard the fourth explosion she thought it was one more discharge of the Lord’s Holy Bullets, but how could that be? The Holy Revolver was on the floor, lying atop poor westered Mr. and Mrs. Horace Stapleton, and the Lord Himself was sprawled out on His loafing couch, clutching His gitalong in agony, moaning and cursing. No, the fourth explosion must have been somebody else shooting a gun, but who?
Tish found that one of her gitalongs was enwrapped by the sniffwhip tip of Archy Tichborne, who was pulling at her and saying, “Come on, gal, let’s skedaddle out of here!” He led her through an old bullethole in the wall and into the space behind the walls, a deserted corridor, where they were squeezed together in their hiding. Hiding from what? Tish wondered. Then a fifth explosion sounded, and she jumped, mashing up against Archy, who enfolded her with his sniffwhips and said, “Easy, sweetheart, He caint git us here.”
“He’s not trying to get us,” Tish said. “He’s shot. Somebody is shooting Him.”
“That aint gunfire any more,” Archy declared, knowledgeably. “That’s thunder. It’s comin on to rain.”
“Nobody’s shooting Him?” Tish asked.
“He shot Hisself,” Archy said. “He was aimin right at me but He missed and shot Hisself.”
“Is He west?” Tish asked in awe.
“Naw, He jist blasted a big hole in His gitalong and fell on his loafin couch.”
“But He’s a-westerin,” Tish declared with concern.
“I misdoubt it,” Archy said. “He jist won’t be walkin around much.”
“Then why are we hiding?” she asked.
“It’s still dangerous out there,” Archy said.
A sixth explosion sounded, causing Tish and Archy to jump again and to hold one another more tightly. Even though they knew it was thunder, not gunfire, it was so close, so loud, and so shaking that it seemed as if the walls of Holy House would collapse. There is nothing like danger to promote intimacy, and Tish was surprised to find that she and Archy were such close friends already, almost as if she had known him all her life. Had it been only the night before last that she first saw him at the Carlott play-party, and admired him, and wished he would take notice of her? He was certainly noticing her now. The proximity of their bodies reminded her of that night too, when the two of them had hidden together from the Lord. Was there a cosmic parallel here, that once again they were hiding from the Lord? Or were they only hiding from the thunder? Or from what?
The thunder increased, as if it were seeking them out, and even the confines of the wall in which they hid were no blanket against the flashes of lightning. She could hear now the steady drumbeat of rain high up against the roof and even against the sides of the house and the windowpanes.
After a long time, Tish asked, “Shouldn’t we go see?”
“See what?” Archy asked.
“If Man is all right,” she said. “If He’s not a-westerin.”
“We darsen go nowhere,” Archy said. Then he gave her a little kiss. “Let’s us jist stay here all night.” He gave her a bigger kiss.
Tish was thrilled. One thing Squire Sam had never done, even though he had given her a marble, was to give her a kiss. She thought about Squire Sam, and about last night and this morning. But she did not want to think about Squire Sam at a time like this. Her thoughts were already torn between Archy, so close beside her and so increasingly intimate, and Man, who might be in peril and was at least in agony. Archy had such beautiful big eyes. And such an easy-going manner. For a minister’s son, he seemed almost indifferent to the Lord’s distress and wounding. Or maybe, being the minister’s son, he knew things about the Lord that she did not know. He knew, perhaps, that the Lord was immortal and could not wester.
“If He caint walk, how can He get something to eat?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The Lord.”
“Oh, Him. Is He all you can think about, at a time like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like here and now, like this: I got both my sniffwhips around you, babe.” Archy kissed her again, full on the lips.
Tish had believed the old wives’ tale that once a girl has been impregnated with a boy’s marble, she can’t send out pheromones any more. Thus she was surprised to discover that she was giving off a tiny bit of her special perfume, with which, in the closed confines of this corridor-in-the-wall, she could not avoid gently showering Archy.
“Ummm,” he said, quivering his sniffwhips in recognition of her scent. “Wow, honeybunch, if you aint keerful I’m liable to start oozin some of my affy-dizzy.”
There was one old wives’ tale, however, which was sure-enough no mistake: once a girl has taken a boy’s marble, she can’t take another one. Thus, when Archy’s wings rose to reveal a back lathered with affy-dizzy, she was able to resist the temptation, despite her hunger.
“Come on, sweetheart, try a taste,” he urged.
“Thank you, I’ve done already eaten tonight,” she lied.
“Huh?” He looked at her strangely. “No gal is able to pass up affy-dizzy, irregardless of how much she’s done et,” he explained, as if she didn’t know.
Inside the wall it was so snug and cozy and romantic. Outside the wall the sound of the thunder went on and on and on, and the steady beat of the rain. In all her life, Tish had never heard, seen, smelled, or felt a thunderstorm like this one, and she began to wonder if it was not merely a great raining but something more. The Lord had shot Himself. The world was changing. Perhaps the world was ending. Perhaps all those dreadful sounds out there were not merely thunderclaps but The Bomb.
Almost absent-mindedly she reached out and dabbed at the affy-dizzy and brought it to her mouth.
Chapter twenty
Mandamn that preacher all to hell, Doc swore to himself, hobbling among the bodies of the injured and the westered. Then he involuntarily chuckled at the awful irony of his own oath: it had been the Mandamning which had done this. Unfortunately the Mandamning hadn’t Mandamned the sonofabitchin preacher but had sure Mandamned the east out of several good folks: there lay the fragmented remains of Fent Chism, beyond all help from Doc. Here were several folks squashed past all recognition, although one of the bodies smelled like old Jonce Ledbetter, and at the edge of a fresh bullet hole Doc picked up a broken sniffwhip and took a good sniff of it and identified it as all that remained of Ila Frances Tichborne, the preacher’s own wife. Where was the preacher? Didn’t he even care? Maybe, Doc thought, that last shot had got the preacher himself. But no, it was clear that the last shot had gone right smack into Man’s own gitalong, between the tarsal and the metatarsal bones; the bullet had passed through the shoe, come out through the sole and left one more hole, a bloody one, in the floor. “Sorry, mister, I caint do a thing fer ye,” Doc said irreverently to Man, who lay in obvious suffering on His couch. “But iffen I was you, I’d git up and put more than a Band-Aid on thet thang.” Doc turned his attention away from bleeding Man to the bleeding roosterroaches, those who still had a spark of east left in them and could use his help. Horace Stapleton had had all his midgut squeezed to soup by the falling revolver-gun and was already west, but his wife Martha was still a bit to the east, her thorax caved in but her abdomen almost intact. Doc soothed her. “You’ll be all right, Marthy. Jist lay easy, and don’t try to move.”
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 137
