That’s what it was like, if you can imagine those empty cars filled with broken glass and cement mixers and freeway accidents and a couple of South American revolutions. In spite of myself, I listened. I started walking up the aisle again, but I listened. In truth, it was impossible to do otherwise. Loud? Loud enough to be heard over the music.
… tears without us …
Tears of His sweet holy blaaaahhd.…
Yes! Yes! Yes! Almighty Gaaahhd!
I was getting numb. Certainly I was no longer moving up the aisle. But I felt I recognized the touch of Festus Lemming in there somewhere, the beat and “Yes!” and other things. He was a two-pronged man, as brilliant a poet as preacher. Not many men have it within themselves to destroy, unaided, two entire professions.
I started to relax, got ready to move a leg, thinking they’d hit their peak. But on they went, as sure-mouthed and leaden-tongued as any similar group of men and women since Atlantis sank without a trace.
Down with E-Vil, down with SIN!
We will FIGHT and we will WIN!
With our triumph sin will cease.…
LOOK OUT! Here comes the Prince of Peace!
They were geniuses. I had to admit it, give the devil his due as they say. These darlings had managed to make a wise, kind, gentle, and forgiving man sound like the Boogie Man. Jesus Christ will get you if you don’t watch out! Right then and there I began getting scared of these citizens.
I headed up the aisle in a bit of a hurry, because I was filled with extreme unease, and I am not reluctant to admit it. I wanted this place far behind me not merely because I felt it was a place where in a tilted moment the fanatics might all-at-once hit the fan, but to escape whatever it was that seemed to thicken the air—and to escape the aura or miasma or spooky that kept grabbing at my feet.
Like, back there, when …
Did it again. You think it wasn’t spooky?
I wasn’t even halfway up the aisle and here I was, motionless, frozen, transfixed. Never before had I been unable to move more than a few tottering steps without becoming completely paralyzed. But I had been sure they were through that time. Obviously they’d hit their punch line and hit it hard. Couldn’t top it, where could they go from there? Where, indeed?
Perhaps it would have been impossible to those not filled with the joy of the Lord, but to these cats nothing was impossible. No, it was not over. The worst—horrifyingly difficult as such a thing must be to believe—was yet to come. They bellowed it out like bulls in Spain calling their cows in Argentina, speeding up the tempo until when they hit the glorious final line they were going chugachugachuga like a choochoo train.
We will fight fight fight and smite the foe!
Come on, Christians! Go-go-go-go-GO!
We kiss the Cross and Corpse from which
the blaaahd of Christ is poured!
For we-we-we—WE ARE—THE LEMMINGS OF THE LORD!#?*@!
“God in Heaven, NOOO-O-OO!”
It sounded like one of those bulls in Spain, mooing.
But it wasn’t a bull. It was—yeah.
6
I hadn’t known I was going to do it until I’d already done it, which is not the usual way to go about such things. It definitely is not the best way.
And, especially, you shouldn’t be bent over in the manner of one experiencing an acute attack of appendicitis during a hemorrhoidectomy, with one arm and hand wrapped around your head in an attempt to cover both ears and the other hand clutching the seat of your pants.
Why was I clutching the seat of my pants? I knew someone would ask that question. And I am ready for you. The answer is: There is no answer.
I didn’t know I was doing it, so how could I know why I did it? Covering my ears is easy. I won’t even bother with it. But the other … well, perhaps it had something to do with that picture I’d locked in my memory bank. Or perhaps I felt unwanted here, and, becoming a little unstrung, feared the astonishing conglomeration of sounds trapped and tortured within these walls might come to life like in late movies and naturally want to get even, strike back—it’s not important.
What is important is the fact that, far from being drowned in the sound of the planet beginning to break up, when I bellowed out as I did, a unique hush had fallen over the congregation. It was so quiet in the church you could have heard the church mice, if it hadn’t been obvious that not a church mouse could be left alive anywhere in the area. As the last shriek ended and the singing stopped entirely, the deaf musicians also stopped, as though on a dime. That’s what ruined me.
Even so, it might not have been quite so bad if I had immediately blurted out my involuntary little criticism at the top of my lungs. But there was blessed silence for at least five long seconds, and then in ringing tones I volunteered my uninvited opinion to four thousand Lemmings.
Lemmings—that’s what really did it.
The shock to my already strained nervous system of “LEMMINGS OF THE LORD!” plus my absolute fascination, for several precious seconds, with the strangely curdling sound of four thousand adult human beings fervently screeching “wee—wee—wee” as though preparing to take a monstrous leak simultaneously, held me rigid. No corpse in the exact middle of rigor mortis ever got more rigid than did I.
So that’s why there was a good five seconds of unrelieved silence, and then: “God in Heaven, NOOO-O-OO!”
When I straightened up—and, in time, I did straighten up—eight thousand eyes were looking at me. It didn’t surprise me. It didn’t make me feel very good, but it didn’t surprise me. Nor did the comments, some whispered, some deliberately uttered loud enough so I would hear them: “If he doesn’t like it, why did he come?” and “Martha, don’t look at him, all he wants is attention” and “There’s one in every church” and “Some people have no respect” and “Why do you suppose he done that, Elmer?”
So I had another little cross to bear. People—if I ever got out of here—were, I knew, still going to ask me, with a faintly superior air, why I didn’t go to church every Sunday.
I straightened up even straighter, straightened my canary yellow jacket, stared straight back at those eight thousand eyes—and headed straight out. Lickety-split. Though, of course, I tried to maintain my dignity, carry it off with a sort of aplomb. Tried some. I didn’t try with all my might, because I now knew even better than I had known before that I wanted out, and in a hurry.
So, back straight, head held high, I picked them up and put them down, left foot, right foot, one-two-three-four.…
“WEE.…”
Yeah. Four was it.
It came from up above me, and over my right shoulder this time. Of course, I knew what it was. It was a bunch of angels, preparing to take a leak together. No, I joke. It was only the Sainted Most-Holy Pastor of the Church of the Second Coming, wherein I was trapped.
It mattered not one iota who or what it was. I was conditioned now. Every time I heard a sound, any kind of sound, I became petrified like those logs that have lain millions of years in the desert. My mind worked O.K., though. There was nothing wrong with my mind. Nothing serious. I considered everything, weighing and balancing the various factors, and decided I just wasn’t going to get out of there.
It’s strange how quickly a man can age, I thought. I had come into the church only a few wee minutes ago, then a young, vital, laughing lad of thirty. Now, here I stood at least a hundred and ten, bloodless, twanging, filled with dismay, unable to totter more than a few steps without suffering a seizure, feeling older than sin. And just about as popular.
But I always say there’s a ray of light somewhere, no matter how black the blackness seems. So I looked and looked. On the wall to my left there was a funny little mark. I recognized it I had seen it before when I was walking up the aisle toward it, and it had been five or six feet away. Now it was … now it was six or seven feet away.
Did you ever get the feeling that it’s just no use?
“… WILL NOT SING NINETY-EIGHT TONIGHT.”
I sighed, turned, looked up at Lemming. Might as well hear what he had to say. I probably couldn’t move, anyhow. So far, he’d said, “Wee … will not sing ninety-eight tonight.” He was on safe ground there. They hadn’t sung eighty-nine, either.
First eighty-nine and then ninety-eight. It was an interesting pair of selections—one was the other backward. Maybe for their second number they sang the first number sideways, which would have to be an improvement.
Thus my thoughts went, turning things inside out—if not insight-out, for in the process I arrived at an exceptionally valuable insight germane to my reason for being here, which I would speedily employ if I did not forever remain here—and then going on to another valuable insight, the awareness that Festus Lemming spelled backward was gnimmeL sutseF, but discarding that one as impractical.
So it’s easy to see my mind was, if not in a state of total disinhibition, at least bordering on the unconventional. More, that though feeling hopeless I had not really abandoned all hope, and could still be at least painfully amused by such an apparent—to me—calamity as the “Lemmings of the Lord.” And even to a lesser degree by the lesser calamity of the lesser lemmings, those small rodents with short tails and furry feet—and, interestingly, small ears—the surviving generations of which every few years leave their island and swim into the sea in order to reach the haven of another island out there, which would be wonderful if the island were there; one would greatly admire the lemmings’ suffering, sacrifice, determination, singleness of purpose, and faith if the island were there; one might even admire the obsession of each swiftly swimming lemming that not only he must reach that haven, and thus be saved from drowning in the sea, but so must all other lemmings as well—if the island were there. But, alas, the island.…
Pastor Lemming was speaking again to his Lemmings.
I honestly didn’t think anything could dismay or even surprise me now, not here. I should have known better.
Festus had completely convinced these four thousand members of his headquarters church and millions more elsewhere across the land—convinced them solely by his word, his I-say-so, unsupported by any evidence or proof whatsoever—not only that he alone among men possessed wisdom and “inside” information not granted to lesser mortals, but also that he could and would announce the year and month and day and perhaps even hour when the long and long and long-awaited Second Coming of Jesus Christ would become a glorious reality.
If his flock believed all that, naturally they would believe anything, for once it is accepted that black is white the fact that dark gray is light gray becomes obvious. Thus forearmed, I felt I would not be surprised even should Lemming, in a change of style if not substance, lean forward from his aerie and say, “Folks, I gotta s’prise for yawl. I been tellin’ yawl ’bout the Second Comin’ o’ Sweet Jesus, and how I know all ’bout it, but what I din’t tell ya—this here’s the s’prise—is I’m Him. Been Him all the time, folks, and I know it’s a sneaky trick to play on yawl but, you gotta b’leeve me, it’s for yrown good. So now le’s all sing eighty-nine, or ninety-eight, don’t make no difference.”
He surprised me anyway. What he actually said was hardly less fruitcake, but it sure sounded different when Festus Lemming laid it on. Part of it, of course, was that he didn’t lay it on corn-pone, but mostly it was—well, the sonofabitch had style. He had that voice, a delivery either natural or practiced but extraordinarily effective, and he had power.
There had been a long pause after his single statement, and when he spoke again it was without further comment or preparation. He simply began:
“I have spoken to you on many nights of Emmanuel Bruno.
“I have spoken to you on many nights of the Second Coming of our Lord and Savior, who died in agony, crucified on the cross, in atonement for our sins.
“I have reminded you that it is foretold, at the time of the Second Coming, there will be famines and earthquakes in divers places … nation rising against nation, flesh against flesh, and blood against blood.… Of all these things and many others have I reminded you … and that the Antichrist will have appeared on Earth and will be slain by the true Christ … that the Scriptures may be fulfilled.”
In the crowd there had begun a murmuring. There was little movement, for all eyes were on Lemming, but there was a sound of mumbled words or audible breathing, or sighs. There was tension building in them, and I could feel it building in me as well. Much of it was the richness and impressiveness of Lemming’s delivery, much, but not all.
He had been speaking—for him—very softly, and now his voice began to rise and the tempo slowly quickened. “I have told you this Lord of Demons and Spawn of Satan, in order to appear in the carnal world, must and will take on a carnal body, that he will appear even to the elect as a man, an ordinary man and that BY HIS WORKS YE SHALL KNOW HIM. THE MAN SHALL BE KNOWN BY HIS FRUITS. THE ANTICHRIST SHALL BE KNOWN BY THE EVIL AND SIN AND CORRUPTION WHICH ARE THE FRUITS OF HIS WORD AND DEED, HIS PRESENCE AND HIS LIFE.”
That was no longer a murmur in the crowd, it was a soft but growing roaring, a babble and muttering and sighing, with a word or a phrase flung out into the crowd from somewhere within the crowd, and then another and another—because they knew what was coming, and so did I, but I couldn’t believe it, I simply wouldn’t believe it, not even of Festus Lemming.
“Tomorrow night.…” Again, more softly, for a little while more softly, and gradually speeding up, “Tomorrow night I shall tell you of the time of the Second Coming.
“I have told you I know the name of the Antichrist, that I know his evil face and his evil name.
“But I have not told you his name. Tonight I do so. Tonight I reveal this truth to you and through you, the Lemmings of the Lord, to the world.
“Yea, verily, I know his name, I know his name, I KNOW HIS NAME AND HIS NAME IS EMMANUEL BRUNO!”
I was shocked, dismayed, all the things I’d told myself I would not be. To expect that which defies logic and reason is one thing, to experience it is another—but Lemming didn’t give me, or anybody else, time to think about it, time to think at all. He continued without a pause, but with his voice for the first few seconds so soft it required careful attention from each man and woman here if it was to be heard and understood, and, in obedience to his desire, the rising rush and flutter of breath stopped instantly, almost entirely.
“You are not surprised. You are not surprised, for possessed of wisdom are you, and you, too, knew his name before I spoke it. Possessed of wisdom are you, and you, too, knew his name. YOU KNEW THAT EVIL NAME BEFORE I SPOKE THE EVIL NAME OF EMMANUEL BRUNO—YES, THE ANTICHRIST—YES, THE ANTICHRIST—YES! YES! YES!”
This time he stopped and waited. But this time, even before he finished, while he still spoke, that beginning murmur grew to a gushing roar so like a great gale of wind that even the enormously amplified and booming voice of Festus Lemming was almost drowned in it. He let it go on, while it pleased him, then raised his arms, lowered them, and as his arms were lowered the wind of voices died to whisperings in the cavernous room.
My throat was dry and tight. I couldn’t say, not with absolute certainty, that Lemming was good or bad, saint or sinner; but I knew without question I was watching him do something ugly, terrible, and frightening to four thousand men and women. Four thousand—for a start.
“The Antichrist will have many agents, he does, he does have many agents.…”
Agent. I’d heard that word. Whatever came next, it wasn’t going to surprise me. It wasn’t. No, it wasn’t.
“Yes! Some knowing they live and work and move in evil, some mere pawns and dupes of the Lord of Sin. One such is here. One such is here, an agent of Emmanuel Bruno, one who works for the triumph, THE TRIUMPH OF SIN AND EVIL AND LOVES THE LUSTS OF THE FLESH AND WORKS FOR THE DEATH OF CHRIST THAT THE ANTICHRIST MAY RULE—YES! THAT THE ANTICHRIST MAY RULE UPON THE THRONE OF EARTH WITH THE COURT OF FORNICATORS AND WHOREMONGERS AROUND HIS THRONE, AND VIRTUE, RIGHTEOUSNESS,
AND DECENCY AT HIS FEET!
“One such is here. Yes! Here, now, in this our church, the Church of the Second Coming, in the House of God, here, here, a Satanic defilement within these sacred walls and his name—his name—his name is—”
Oh, for Pete’s sake, I thought, go ahead and say it.
“SHELDON SCOTT!”
For once I’d been right; I was not surprised.
But it could be guessed a bunch of other people were. Gloriously surprised. Wildly surprised. Ecstatically surprised. It wouldn’t show on their outsides, of course, but I had no doubt they were being filled up on their insides with gladly righteous juices, for here, right here, was somebody they could hate without the slightest guilt, happily hate—someone they could hate for the Lord.
I pulled my eyes from Festus Lemming, looked at the crowd. I’d expected the entire gang to be eyeballing me with happy hate. But they weren’t. Not even one was, so far as I could tell. Of course. It was merely my—I’ll say it—my vanity, that led me to expect sudden and huge, if hugely unflattering, attention the instant they heard my name. I had failed to take into account the possibility that the names of Sheldon Scott and Elvira Snull were equally familiar to them. We lived in different worlds, they and I, for which I was at least as grateful as they.
So, if Festus had finished, it was time for me to sneak out of this trap before he—
“Yes, his name is Sheldon Scott—Yes! YES, AND HE IS THERE, THERE, HE IS THERE!”
It was, truly, the goddamndest thing I had ever seen in my life. I was looking at the crowd. The crowd was looking raptly at Festus Lemming. And as he spoke the beggar flung out an arm with an accusing finger pointing at me. I knew he’d done it even though I didn’t see it because at the same instant every head in the crowd, every head, swivelled on a down-slanting left to right angle from Lemming up there in heaven to me down here in hell.
Dead-Bang Page 5
