Momma Grizzly

by Kevin Hensley

  Momma Grizzly

  Momma Grizzly

  By Kevin C Hensley

  Part of the Nexus Nebula Saga

  Copyright © 2019 by Kevin C Hensley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at: kevin@nexusnebulasaga.com.

  Edited by KC Moffatt of TheStoryMechanic.com.

  Cover by Mariah Sinclair of TheCoverVault.com.

  Look at illustrations and get news about upcoming books at NexusNebulaSaga.com. You can also contact the author on Twitter at @TheChuggReport or on Instagram at @k.c.hensley.nns.

  For Kali

  “I will meet them as a bear that is bereaved of her whelps, and will rend the caul of their heart, and there will I devour them like a lion; the wild beast shall tear them.”

  —Hosea 13:8 (KJV)

  ✽✽✽

  The boy never slept these days. In the past, occasionally he could forget everything that had happened. Just long enough to drift off, anyway. He could will himself not to think of the creature of shadow that lurked in the woods. He could put aside the nightmares about the horrible fate from which he had so narrowly escaped and to which he had nearly returned. In his better moments of fortitude, he could even convince himself that the Eld King was gone forever.

  But he could not forget the Grim Halberdier. The children of the town would not let him.

  That axe-wielding madman had come so very close to resurrecting the Eld King and throwing the boy back into tormented slavery. The mechanism that had protected the boy so many times before had failed in the face of the Grim Halberdier. The guardian had not come as she always had before.

  No, it was blind luck that saved the boy from the Grim Halberdier. The thought gave him a chill even now. It had been so long since he had seen his guardian. Why had she abandoned him? Was it because of what the town did to Muriel?

  And now, since the coming of the Grim Halberdier, the boy had to try to sleep during the day. He was too afraid of what could happen in the woods at night. The problem was, the children played during the day. He could hear them.

  He remembered what the shadow had said. The Grim Halberdier had failed by a stroke of good fortune. The boy would not be so lucky again. The Halberdier would take a hundred years’ repose and then bring back the Eld King. And the boy had long since lost track of time.

  Had it been a hundred years yet? It had to be close. The story of the Grim Halberdier had passed from a frightened whisper to a campfire tale and now, finally, to a children’s song. As cheerful yet awful as any nursery rhyme, the verse condensed the horror of the Halberdier’s rampage into four lines.

  The same four lines the children called out to each other as they chased each other, skipped rope, played hopscotch. From his hidden spot in the shade of an oak tree just outside town, he could hear them even now. He wished he couldn’t. He wished they would let him sleep, let him forget. But the words brought back the nightmares and the unwanted image of the cruel man’s smiling face.

  “Axe-Man, Axe-Man, sharpen your blade.

  Make all the girls and boys afraid.

  Sheriff got a gun, went bang-bang-bang.

  If they find the Axe-Man, he is sure to hang.”

  ✽✽✽

  Chapter 1

  “The Lord’s peace be with you all,” the pastor said.

  “And also with you,” the congregation replied as one.

  I jumped out of my thoughts as the little old lady at the organ began to fumble through a hymn and the people around me stood to leave. I blinked, glancing at the wall clock over the entrance behind me. Yep, I hadn’t paid attention for the entire service. I couldn’t even remember a single word of the sermon. I had been too busy planning my article in my head.

  I felt like a terrible person, but my mind still wandered as I joined the line of people walking down the center aisle of the church. The going was slow—I was easily the youngest person in this building by a margin of thirty years.

  Watching the older folks shuffle along the carpet to the front of the church, I reminded myself that I had come here for pragmatic rather than sentimental reasons. Even so, I frowned. The pews were less than half full. Saint John’s would not be around much longer if attendance continued to drop like this.

  Not that I was any less guilty. Here I was, physically in the building but mentally somewhere else.

  A warm hand clasped mine, bringing me back into the present. I focused on the weathered, bearded face in front of me.

  “I’m glad you came, Kelly,” Pastor Gordon Clegg said.

  “Of course,” I replied, forcing a grin to match his. “I was wondering if you and I could have a talk soon.”

  His face lit up. “That would be wonderful. Why don’t you join Maggie and me for dinner some night this week?”

  I gave a small nod. “Thank you, but it’s about the situation with the church.”

  “Ah. For an article.” He sighed. “Well, the offer still stands.”

  I knew he wanted to say more, but there were people behind me. So I stepped past him to head for the door. His wife was there. She, too, took hold of my hand.

  “Hello, dear.” Margaret Clegg was a small, stout woman with grey hair in a permanent bun on top of her head. “I overheard. Come on by any day you like. You know I always make enough to feed a small army.”

  “Sure, I’ll let you know.” I gave that hollow grin again.

  She was better at spotting it. Her eyes narrowed. “We haven’t heard from you in quite some time. Has everything been well?”

  “Everything’s been fine.”

  Maggie frowned. “You sure seem in a hurry to leave. Are you sure you’re alright?”

  “Yes. I’m just meeting my parents at the new church across town.”

  “That’s right. Their first service is at ten, isn’t it?” Maggie pursed her lips, her squinty eyes appearing thoughtful. “You don’t have to keep coming here just for us if your parents want you to go to Bellwether with them.”

  “I should be here. My attendance hasn’t been great, I know. And, truthfully, I came here to ask for the interview. I’ve got to be better.”

  She cupped my face with both hands. “You’re such a sweetheart. You’re doing the best you can. Believe me, I understand. Just call us anytime. Gordon and I would love to get caught up with you.”

  “That would be great, Maggie. Thank you.”

  I hurried out the door so she would not see my face. For more reasons than I cared to think about, I didn’t feel like I deserved their kindness.

  ✽✽✽

  Standing between my mother and father in another pew twenty minutes later and five miles from Saint John’s, I felt the urge to check out and think on the questions I would ask Pastor Gordon. But this time, my focus was not going anywhere but here. It would have been impossible. This place was too noisy.

  The chapel, which looked more like an auditorium, seated about two thousand people. The pulpit was no less than a stage. It even had wine-red curtains and an orchestra pit, where a brass band was wailing out a jazzy worship tune.

  On the stage, a choir of fifty people in majestic violet robes clapped and sang to the music. Two wide-screen televisions high on the wall across from me displayed the lyrics, with an animated ball bouncing along each syllable in sing-along fashion. A stained-glass skylight formed the entirety of the ceiling.

  Every person in the church was on their feet, uproariously
happy, clapping with the choir. My parents did the same, but I was too busy looking around. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of one of the black-clad technical crew darting here and there, weaving in and out of the crowd and band with expensive TV cameras on their shoulders, adjusting lights and making sure wires stayed untangled and clear of the walkways.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” my mom nearly shouted in my ear, beaming her big apple-cheeked smile. “Aren’t you glad you finally came along?”

  I gave her my nod and grin. My dad looked over to wink at us both.

  I had to admit, it was good to see them so happy. They had gone to a more traditional church when I was younger, but the beloved old pastor had left several years ago and the new leadership had caused some drama among the congregation. Wanting to focus on worship rather than interpersonal politics, my parents had opted to attend their Sunday service via television instead.

  So, imagine their delight when their favorite TV megachurch announced a few years ago that it was moving to a new location, a small town north of San Antonio, Texas. My town. My parents had made the forty-five-minute trip up here from San Antonio every Sunday since Bellwether had relocated here from Atlanta.

  I wasn’t happy about Bellwether’s presence here—in fact, that was the subject of the article that had brought me to St. John’s this morning—but I didn’t feel I had any place to say so to my parents. I rarely went to church myself these days. And I wasn’t theologically informed enough to articulate exactly what problem I had with Bellwether. But the words the pastor spoke made my mother feel good, and my dad didn’t care as long as she was happy, so I kept my mouth shut and let them enjoy themselves.

  Ever since the new church had opened its doors here in Grunwald a year ago, my mother had tried to get me to join them. She had finally insisted, so here I was. They normally didn’t try so hard to see me unless my mother had something to say that she thought was important, so I wasn’t looking forward to the end of the service.

  From the left side of the stage, a powerfully built man came up the stairs and approached the pulpit. He held a bright violet robe tightly around himself. When he reached the podium right at the end of the song, he cast the robe aside to a burst of applause.

  The man was six-foot-something, three-hundred-something, with slicked back iron-grey hair, thick eyebrows, and a wide smile with expensive-looking teeth. The grin put deep lines in his face. He wore a bright yellow suit and tie, with one microphone in an earpiece and another clipped to his lapel.

  The televangelist walked back and forth across the stage, waving to the people. Something about the way he moved struck me as unusual. Then I noticed it—he did everything with his left arm. He kept his right tucked against his side. I wondered if he had had a stroke.

  A crew member snuck through the band and snatched the discarded robe off the stage. Above, the TV screens flashed ornate purple-and-gold letters announcing PASTOR CHESTER COTTON.

  I’d seen this man on television with my parents more than once, but this was my first time seeing him in person. I couldn’t help but think about how Pastor Gordon Clegg would have reacted to such attention. Not well. But this man appeared to bask in the adoration.

  Pastor Cotton stepped up to the pulpit. “Mighty fine singing, as usual. Mighty fine.” His voice was a pleasant baritone. He could have done well in radio.

  He waved his hand, calling for silence. “Children of God, I welcome you all, those in front of me and those watching at home.” He paused to look directly into the camera in front of him and gave a wink. “For those who don’t know me, my name is Chester Cotton, called and ordained minister of Bellwether Church.”

  Scattered applause broke out, and Pastor Cotton raised an appreciative hand. “It’s a very special service today. We’re celebrating the first anniversary of Bellwether’s move to this new location. I’d like to reminisce a little, if y’all will indulge me.”

  He relaxed his posture and took a deep breath. “Bellwether did the Lord’s work in Atlanta for many years, but I felt the call some time ago. It was time to take those blessings and bring them to someone else in need. I prayed to the Lord for guidance, and asked for prayers from you all, that He might show us what part of the country is in most need of the work that this church does. And in His infinite wisdom, He spoke to me and lit the way.”

  My mother’s hand found mine and squeezed. I turned and gave her a grin, hoping to show more enthusiasm than I felt.

  “And now we celebrate the anniversary of Bellwether’s opening at this new location. For those watching from home, we are a little north of San Antonio, in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, in the town of Grunwald. A small town, deep in a valley of cedar and oak trees. Before Bellwether came here, the people lived as if they were trapped in a time warp, gripped by un-Christian superstitions about animal guardians and a ‘spirit of the forest.’” Pastor Cotton paused with a wry grin. “These people were in need of compassion, education, and a shepherd to guide them back to the light of the Lord. Bellwether Church was called to help these people and we have answered. When Grunwald has been saved, I imagine the Lord will call us to move on again. But that is only in His time, if it is His will.”

  I shifted, looking at my dad. He glanced back at me and shook his head.

  Cotton picked up a beaten Bible from the pulpit and thumbed through it. “Proverbs 11:24. ‘One gives freely and grows all the richer, another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want.’ Everyone hold up your offerings. Hold it up, now. Let me see it in your hands. Remember that if you give the first fruits of your labor to the Lord, you will see your cup overflow.”

  Everyone in attendance held a white envelope above their heads. The band began a slow, somber melody. Some people stood up, looking into the air and grasping their offerings in both hands. My father pulled an envelope from a pocket on the back of the pew and dropped some cash in it, but he did not stand.

  “Now,” Cotton said in a lower, reflective tone, “we will receive the offerings from the good people of Grunwald who, by giving to the Church of God, are sealing the authority and reality of the salvation and forgiveness of sin that has been granted to them. Ushers, please pass around the collection plates.” He stepped away from the pulpit, at which point a technician rushed to his side with a glass of water.

  Chapter 2

  “What the hell was that about?” I blurted once we reached the parking lot.

  My mother’s affront showed on her face. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Why did he say that about Grunwald?”

  “Say what?”

  “The thing about people in town being un-Christian. It’s not like they don’t believe in God or go to church. A lot of them… just also believe the stories about the woods.”

  My mother frowned. “Well, Pastor Cotton seems to think it’s dangerous to have those kinds of superstitions. They might lead people away from God.”

  “It’s harmless,” I replied. “At least, I think so. It’s more of a local folklore, tall-tale kind of a thing. Like Paul Bunyan or Johnny Appleseed. You don’t think it’s un-Christian to believe in the Tooth Fairy, do you?”

  “He’s just speaking to his crowd,” my father said in a placating tone, looking between the two of us. “It was a smart business move to come out here. San Antonio and Austin are booming, and I heard his attendance in Atlanta had been falling. There’s a better market here for what he does. In time it will be good for his church and good for people in the cities.”

  “But will it be good for Grunwald?”

  My dad sighed. “It will be different, that’s for sure. Who’s hungry?”

  I really did not want to go to lunch with them. I spit out the first plausible lie that came to mind. “I’m, uh, planning to meet Sammie for lunch.”

  My mother frowned. “There was something we wanted to talk to you about.”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “Oh, I bet that’s Sammie right now.”

&
nbsp; I glanced down and shot off the only text message that would make an honest woman out of me in that moment: Meet for lunch?

  “This won’t take very long,” my mother said as we reached their SUV.

  My dad stood back with a hand on her shoulder. I knew that posture. He wasn’t going to say anything, but everyone present knew he’d be implicitly agreeing with everything my mother said.

  I sighed. “Alright. What did you want to talk about?”

  She searched for words. “Well… I’m sure you can see how many people have driven up from San Antonio to go to this church. They go to Grunwald after to have meals and look at the tourist attractions. A lot of people even moved from Atlanta just to follow Pastor Cotton.”

  “… OK.”

  “So, I bet there are going to be a lot of nice young men from the city.”

  There it was. I fought the involuntary lump in my stomach. Automatically, my right hand covered my left. I had thought I was prepared.

  “I’m still married, Mom.”

  “To a man you never see.”

  “He’ll be back in town soon.”

  “This can’t go on forever, Kelly.”

  I gritted my teeth. I was beyond tired of this conversation. “It won’t. He’s still healing.”

  “You were ready for a divorce not so long ago.”

  “Some things happened, you know. It’s different now.”

  “I understand that. But how long are you going to hold out hope that he will heal?”

  I shrugged, touching the simple silver band on my ring finger. “Longer than you, sounds like.”

  “Kelly, this isn’t good for you. You’re all by yourself out here. What if something happens?”

  “We’ve been through this, Mom. I don’t need to marry a new guy to be happy. I don’t need to move back in with you to stay on my feet. I’m fine by myself. I like it that way.”

  That did it. My mother crossed her arms, pouted her lips, clammed up. “Well. Listen to all that magical, unrealistic thinking. Maybe you’re a good fit for this town after all.”