Walk the Sky

by Swartwood, Robert

  “Excellent.” The Reverend turned to his wife, a warm smile brightening his face. “We will be having a guest for dinner.”

  “Yes, Reverend,” Marilyn said quietly.

  “Perhaps you should begin preparations for the meal.”

  “Of course.”

  Marilyn nodded and, with her head down, quickly left.

  “As for you two,” the Reverend said, addressing Clay and George, “I would suggest you make sure your souls are right with the Lord.”

  The Reverend turned his back to them as if closing the past, and raised his hands to Bolton, who was now apparently the future.

  “Mayor Bolton, I do apologize for the most unpleasant manner in which our paths have crossed. We have both lost good men today. However, I am hopeful that our meeting will prove to be in both our best interests as well as the good graces of God. Now, shall we?”

  11.

  Fred Bolton may have been a coward, but he was no fool. Despite not being a well-educated man, he understood the dark depths of the human soul. He understood the way the mind worked. And he understood fear. And when you combined all three of those things, well, the result became either hideous or glorious, depending on your point of view.

  The thing was, though, Bolton wasn’t able to peg which one of these the Reverend Titus Willard fit into. The man certainly sounded sincere as he told Bolton the story about how “the trouble” began. Even his eyes held a certain level of sanity when he spoke of the “Devil’s minions” that must surely not be real. And yet ... Bolton wasn’t sure what to think. Clearly the man—and his young wife and the rest of the people in this town, at least those he had seen so far—believed all of this to be true. And so Fred Bolton, being a coward but no fool, did the only thing he could do to make sure he was still breathing by sundown.

  “I believe you,” he said, sitting at the end of the table in the Reverend’s dining room, the Reverend at the other end, the Reverend’s young wife between them.

  Reverend Titus Willard cocked his head slightly. “Is that so?”

  “I’ve read my Bible more than once. I believe as much in God as I do the Devil. And if there’s a Devil, there are most certainly demons. I do, however, have some questions.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Bolton glanced down at his plate in front of him. He’d hardly touched the food on it, despite the emptiness in his stomach. He had been hungry all day but he just couldn’t force himself to eat, not after hearing the Reverend’s story.

  And, of course, his encounter with Clay Miller and George Hitchens still haunted him. They were the last two he had expected to see when he went through that jailhouse door. But once he saw them, he quickly realized he could use them to his advantage. That was why he had begun to tremble like he did. He had been scared, yes, but he wanted the Reverend to see his sadness.

  Because sadness brought sympathy.

  And sympathy, if he was lucky, brought mercy.

  “Mayor Bolton, please ask your questions.”

  Bolton cleared his throat. “The first question I have is ... why not just leave? Why not just leave at the very start?”

  The Reverend smiled as if he had been expecting this question all along. He told Bolton how God had revealed to the Reverend that leaving was not an option, and how half the town didn’t listen, and because of their lack of faith they had died.

  “However,” the Reverend said, “we have been testing the borders, so to speak. That is why I have men out roaming during the day.”

  “The demons?”

  “Of course. Apparently they are not strictly nocturnal. At least, none of us have seen them during the day, but when those in town tried to flee ... all that was left of them were shreds of skin.”

  The Reverend’s young wife hadn’t spoken once this entire time. She’d been sitting quietly in her seat, letting her husband speak uninterrupted, but now she shivered quite visibly.

  “As you can see,” the Reverend said, motioning to his wife, “it has left many of those in town still shaken just thinking about what happened.”

  “So you’re trapped,” Bolton said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you”—Bolton cleared his throat again—“you make sacrifices every night?”

  “Don’t think it does not pain me to have to go to this length. But just as in the Old Testament, sacrifice is required to keep the rest of the town safe.”

  “But ...”

  “Go ahead,” the Reverend said. “Say what you will.”

  “But what happens when there’s no one left? The children ... the children were your town’s future, and now they’re gone.”

  “They are gone because they were the purest of all. Their bodies may no longer reside on this earth, but their souls are in Heaven.”

  “But how can you be so sure? If these are demons taking them, then how—”

  The Reverend brought his fist down on the table so suddenly his wife jumped and cried out. His glare burned into Bolton for a moment too long, and then it subsided.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “Sometimes I just ... it becomes too much of a burden on my shoulders. Yes, I understand what you are asking, but ... I am afraid what is done is done. This, I feel, is God’s will, and as leader of this town I need to follow it even if I do not agree with it.”

  “And the women?”

  The Reverend shook his head just once.

  “But your wife—”

  “Is my wife,” the Reverend said harshly, that glare once again returning.

  “Of course, of course,” Bolton said, suddenly realizing he was overstepping his boundaries. “I mean no disrespect. But it’s just ... what happens when there’s no one left?”

  “That will not happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “God will not forsake us. He has a plan.” The Reverend said to his wife, “Dear, why don’t you start cleaning up the table?”

  She nodded and without a word stood and began to collect the plates. Once she was gone and it was just the two of them, the Reverend’s smile faded.

  “Are you scared?”

  Bolton swallowed. Staring back at the Reverend, he nodded slowly.

  “There is no reason to be scared. You are in my home now. You are my guest.”

  There was a long silence.

  Bolton asked, “Now what happens?”

  “We prepare for sundown. There are extra beds in town and I will make sure you get one.”

  “What about ... the demons?”

  “There will be a sacrifice. One of your acquaintances, in fact.”

  “What happens in two nights? Who”—he swallowed—“who will be the sacrifice then?”

  “Do not fret,” the Reverend said. “You will not be the only choice. I have made sure since this began that all the men in town stopped smoking and drinking so their bodies and souls would be as pure as they can be. There will be a lottery. Every man will have his name put in the hat.”

  This news didn’t quite relax Bolton. Still, it was better to know he had at least two more days.

  Two more days to try to figure things out.

  Two more days to try to survive.

  The Reverend asked, “Was he telling the truth?”

  “Who?”

  “The man you claim killed your son.”

  Bolton stared back into the Reverend’s eyes, remembering that night a week ago. How he had been called to Clay’s property and how he had seen his boy dead. How he had heard what his boy had tried to do. He wasn’t at all surprised, but that didn’t mean it was right that his son was dead. And so yes, he had decided to act like it had never happened. He had killed Clay’s daughter who was unconscious but still alive with his own hands because his lifelong friend Sheriff Jeremiah Logan refused to do it for him and then placed all the blame on Clay.

  After all, Fred Bolton was no fool.

  “Absolutely not. That man killed my son. He’s as guilty as the day is long.”

  The Reverend said,
“Then why don’t we make him tonight’s sacrifice?”

  12.

  The nights got cold in the desert, and even though the sun was still up George could feel the temperature beginning to cool down as he leaned back on his bunk and supported his spine against the brick wall of the cell.

  Clay hadn’t said a word since the Reverend and Bolton left. Not a word. He sat on his own bunk in his own cell, his shoulders slouched forward, his eyes downcast.

  George watched the young jailer who had stayed to keep an eye on them. He was lounging on the chair by the door, his boots up on the desk. His hat was tipped low, his eyes closed.

  “You think he’ll believe him?” George whispered.

  Clay said nothing.

  “Bolton’s no fool. He’ll go whatever direction the Reverend leads him.”

  Still Clay gave no response.

  George went to say something else when the jailhouse door opened and the Reverend’s wife—Marilyn, he reminded himself, her name was Marilyn—slipped through.

  “Ma’am?” the jailer asked, startled. He dropped his feet off the desk, quickly stood up. “Can I help you?”

  “The Reverend wants you to check the livery.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes, and he said you better not question him.”

  “What about them?” the jailer asked, hooking a thumb in George and Clay’s direction.

  “I’ll keep an eye on them for a few minutes. You best hurry.”

  The jailer nodded and hurried through the door. Marilyn waited a few seconds, watching him through the window, before she turned and marched straight to Clay’s cell.

  “Were you telling the truth?” Marilyn asked. “About what happened to your daughter?”

  Clay nodded distantly.

  “That man killed her just to get even?”

  “To save his career. The election was coming up. He didn’t want what his son did to sway the voters. So he”—Clay swallowed—“he strangled her to death.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “The mayor’s son?”

  “Eighteen, I believe. He was always stopping by the house, but my Ellie didn’t care for him. That night I was reading in the parlor when I heard noises in the backyard. Ellie sometimes lay on a blanket and watched the stars when the sky was clear. She liked watching the stars. She was always hoping to catch one falling. That was where he found her. By the time I went outside, he had torn her dress half off. She was fighting him, and he had his hands around her throat to keep her quiet.”

  “His death was really an accident?”

  Clay nodded again. “It was never my intention to hurt that boy, even after what he had done to my daughter.”

  Marilyn took this in as if it hurt her to hear it. She nodded slightly, her brow furrowed, then turned to George.

  “What’s your lot in this?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Why risk your life for this man?”

  “I was there when it happened. They had me holding Mr. Miller off to the side, Mayor Bolton and Sheriff Logan. I didn’t know what they meant to do until it was already done. They planned to hang the murder on him the next morning. I couldn’t ... I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “That can’t be all of it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You wouldn’t risk your career—your family—just for a wrongly accused man.”

  George went quiet. His eyes shifted away from Marilyn’s face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t got a family,” George said quietly. “Not anymore. My son ... he was born different than other boys. He wasn’t ... he wasn’t normal. The doctor said he had some kind of retardation and there was nothing we could do about it. Life wasn’t easy raising him. My wife, she ... she got real low most days. She would just sit there and stare into space, or she would sit there and cry. When my boy was old enough to go to school, the schoolteacher wouldn’t take him. She said he was too slow. But Clay”—George’s voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat—“Clay agreed to see my boy every day after school and try to teach him what he could. My boy couldn’t learn much, but at least Clay gave it his best.”

  Though there wasn’t much light left in the jailhouse, George could see Marilyn’s eyes brimming with tears. She asked Clay, “You’re a teacher?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m originally from Pennsylvania. When my wife became sick, she wanted to be with her parents, so we headed west. I found a teaching job two counties over at a boy’s school in the city.”

  Marilyn turned back to George. “Your wife and boy are gone?”

  “In Heaven. At least I’d like to think so. My wife, one day she got so low that she drowned our boy in the creek out behind our house. Then she ... she took her own life.”

  A silence fell over the room. Somewhere faraway cicadas began to chirp.

  “Ma’am?” George said. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  She swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her eyes, stepped back so she could address the two of them.

  “They’re going to sacrifice one of you tonight.”

  George nodded. “We reckoned.”

  “There’s nothing I can do to stop it. But I can give you a fighting chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once you’re tied to the post, keep your eyes cast down. No matter what you hear or what you think is about to happen, keep your eyes down.”

  “Why are you helping us?” George asked.

  Her eyes met his. The fear he had seen there yesterday was gone. Her right hand seemed to unconsciously touch her stomach as she whispered, “Now that he’s dead, she has nobody else to help her.”

  “Who?”

  Before Marilyn could respond, the jailhouse door opened and the young jailer stepped inside. He gave her a curious look and said, “Ma’am, you probably shouldn’t be that close.”

  “I was just praying with these men. Their souls need prayer more than ever.”

  The jailer nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon they do.”

  She drifted toward the jailhouse door. She nodded at the jailer, started to leave, but paused and glanced back at Clay and George. She whispered, “May God have mercy on your souls,” and left.

  * * *

  It wasn’t much longer that the jailhouse door opened again. Only it wasn’t Marilyn who entered this time, but the Reverend, Fred Bolton, Roy, and two men George had never seen before.

  One big happy family as demonstrated by the grin nearly splitting Bolton’s face.

  Apparently dinner had gone very well.

  “Sir,” the young jailer said, standing to attention. “I checked the livery as you requested.”

  The Reverend gave him a slight frown and said, “Sit back down, boy, and be quiet.”

  The young jailer did as he was told.

  “Gentlemen,” the Reverend said in his smooth booming voice. He stepped to the front of the group, his hands clasping the edges of his brown vest. “As I am sure you are aware, sundown is fast approaching. Which means we have some business that needs settling.”

  Both men sat on the benches in their separate cells, but neither of them spoke.

  “After much prayer and deliberation,” the Reverend said, “tonight’s sacrifice has been decided.”

  The grin on Bolton’s face turned ugly.

  The Reverend focused on Clay. “Mr. Miller, I am afraid it will be you.”

  George rose to his feet, wrapped his fingers around the bars.

  “How exactly was that decided?”

  “It was not our decision,” the Reverend said simply. “It was God’s.”

  13.

  Clay sat on the bench and did not move when Roy opened his cell door, nor did he move when Roy told him to get up. He just sat there, staring down at the floor, thinking about his daughter.

  “I said, get up!”

  Roy grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet.

  F
or the second time in his life, anger began to slowly stir inside Clay Miller. Like the night he had caught the mayor’s boy having his way with Ellie, anger began to stir and it would not stop until he released it.

  Roy must have seen this on his face, because he said, “Don’t even think about it,” and punched him square in the gut.

  All the air escaped Clay’s body. He fell to his knees, wheezing, cradling his stomach. He was faintly aware of George calling his name. He was faintly aware of Fred Bolton laughing.

  Then Roy grabbed his arm and once again yanked him to his feet.

  “Don’t make me do that again.”

  Roy pushed him out through the cell door, where the two men had moved forward in front of Bolton and the Reverend. The men took one arm each and began to lead him toward the jailhouse door.

  Clay let them take him. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop them.

  “Clay!” George shouted.

  Clay stopped at the doorway, even pulled back from the men.

  The men paused, allowing him the few extra seconds he needed to look back at George standing behind the bars of his cell.

  Clay nodded once to his friend.

  And then took his first step toward death.

  * * *

  Outside, the sky had begun to darken, fifteen minutes or so away from slipping into blackness.

  Clay stepped into the dirt street, each man tightly gripping one of his arms.

  The Reverend and Bolton and Roy and the young jailer watched from the plank walkway, at the door to the jailhouse, unwilling to venture any farther into the pending night.

  The post was set in the middle of the street, in the middle of town, standing like a monument to the evil that had taken place there. Dried blood trailed down all four sides to where several dark brown pools had formed in the dirt below.

  The men said nothing as they backed Clay into the post, tied his hands behind his back, wrapped the excess rope around his waist, and used a clove hitch to secure him.