The Telling

by Mike Duran

  He slowed the car, fighting to still his mind.

  The Endurance basin spread before him, swatches of farmland laced with the Owens River and its crystalline tributaries, the entire valley ringed with the Sierras’ rugged blue peaks. How long had it been since he witnessed this sight? He could not imagine a landscape more beautiful.

  The asphalt rippled with serpentine heat waves, invisible tentacles rising toward the cobalt blue. He traced the thin black runway with his eyes, following as it sloped in a series of low rolling hills before spilling into flatland. As the mill wheels of his mind turned, a building appeared on his left—at first nothing more than a pale speck against the dry earth. Then the white wooden bell tower rose into view, weathered into decay.

  Zeph slowed as the church came into sight. It had been so long since he’d come this way, he’d almost forgotten about Shiloh Church of God in Christ. Seeing the place had the effect of a scab being ripped from a wound.

  It was here that he knew his life would never be the same.

  A white picket fence, though sagging in sections and brittle with age, surrounded the property. How many times had he run the perimeter of that fence, chasing monarchs in spring while singing church hymns? One time the entire congregation did a Jericho march around the whole seven acres. Now tumbleweeds and old newspapers dotted the empty expanse.

  He slowed the truck and veered onto the shoulder. The plywood sign out front tilted haphazardly while announcing a revival. Zeph looked away from the marquee to the boarded-up white structure. The image of the neolithic cave painting had scarred his mind and left him off-kilter. Which was the only explanation for his next move. He parked and turned off the ignition.

  Zeph sat grinding his teeth, peering at Shiloh. Finally he nudged the truck door open and stepped onto the gravel. Several cars whooshed past, kicking up dust, but his gaze remained on the tiny church.

  He walked cautiously along the fence. The afternoon sun throbbed upon his back, and in the distance a hawk wheeled against the blue sky. He prepared to vault the fence, but finding the gate unlocked, pushed it open. Dry leaves skittered across a rock-lined path. Far off the droning of a semitruck warbled to life, merging with the unseen chatter of locusts to form a low-level monotone soundtrack to the proceedings.

  Adjusting his sunglasses, Zeph walked to the church building. The porch creaked terribly, and he worried that it might collapse under his weight. He faced the thick wooden doors. With their braided wrought-iron handles, the doors always seemed excessive for the little country church. How many times had he marched through these doors like a king into his court, all eyes fixated on the boy wonder?

  Zeph took the handles in both hands and shook them firmly. Something thumped inside, and the doors creaked open.

  Dust motes exploded, and he stepped back coughing. Hazy light drifted through the doorway, casting a foggy sheen about the wooden pews. Zeph glanced at his truck, inhaled, and strode inside.

  A smell of urine and feces struck him. Shiloh was probably home to vagrants and hitchhikers. Had he woken someone with his rude entry? Except for a broken stool and some tattered hymnals, the stage was barren, so different from the last time he saw it.

  Zeph proceeded up the center aisle. He climbed the steps, stood on the stage, and turned to the empty pews. Cobwebs draped sections, and the light cast gauzy silhouettes about the abandoned church. Zeph’s gaze settled on a spot on the carpet.

  Blaise S. Duty had lain there. Right there.

  Yes, that was when everything changed.

  Chapter 34

  He was well respected, that insurance salesman. Of course, behind closed doors the boy prophet had heard the deacons snicker and refer to the man as B. S. Duty, with an emphasis on the B. S.

  Which may or may not have affected the outcome of the man’s life.

  “Zephaniah!” His mother tugged at the cuff of his suit. Then she tapped her temple with her forefinger. “Pay attention!”

  Her eyes were so blue. And by “pay attention,” she meant he should not allow his surroundings to distract him from ciphering. That was one of the terms she used for the Telling. Her brother, a seven-foot-tall math wizard, had coined the phrase. She knew twelve-year-olds were easily distracted. Especially from ciphering.

  The basket swept through the crowd for the second time. Brother Miller beamed his ultra-white smile at Zephaniah. It always made him uncomfortable, and the boy prophet looked away, wriggling in his seat. The word “bury” always came to his mind when talking to Brother Miller. But Zephaniah could never calculate what it meant. Bury what? Bury where? Or maybe it was berry—as in strawberry, blueberry, and, his favorite, raspberry. No matter. Zephaniah never spoke a word of it to Brother Miller.

  In fact, there was a lot he’d never spoken. Even to Belle, his mother.

  From the stage he could survey the whole congregation. Mother called this the Measurin’, the part of the service where he should settle in and watch for God’s presence. Just like those tongues of flame rested above the early disciples, when the Lord moved upon someone, He often set His mark upon them. Sometimes Zephaniah could see that mark. But mostly it was a knowing that the boy prophet could not shake.

  “The Lawd is here!” Brother Miller shouted after the collection had been received. “He shall speak!” Then his tone descended into abrupt, dramatic hush. “And we shall listen.”

  “Amen!” The congregation sounded their approval.

  The Lord will speak. The boy prophet believed that. The Lord did speak. Zephaniah had heard Him. Yet being His spokesperson was not something Zephaniah cherished.

  Out of the corner of his eye Zephaniah could see his mother staring at him. She had her way of prodding. Thankfully he had graduated from the Pit, from the darkness and the mold and the rats. The boy had learned his lesson. Mother was proud of Zephaniah for that. She could not take losing another son to his own sin. It pained her to have to shut him up in the Pit, she told him. But the Lord was even there, she said, just like He was with Daniel in the den of lions.

  Still, Zephaniah never, ever wanted to go back to the Pit.

  It didn’t take much to train his mind. He looked out on the collection of farmers and migrants mixed with the well-to-do ranchers and city folk. Despite their smiles and shouts of praise, the boy prophet could sense their emptiness. Their longing. So many lost souls. So many people yearning for something more. The scary part was they all looked to him for hope.

  He scoured the audience, ciphering, his spiritual antenna up like the tower at the Mighty Z. They watched him, faces full of fear and anticipation. That’s when his eyes came to rest on Blaise S. Duty.

  A large man, disproportionate at the waist. His face was thin, gaunt, in direct contradiction to the bulging waistline. He wore his shirt in such a way as to camouflage his size. Flowery Hawaiian prints, opened at the collar to intentionally display expensive jewelry.

  As the boy prophet looked at Blaise Duty, a familiar sound rose inside him.

  It reminded Zephaniah of a Geiger counter over precious metal, an emotional sonar that pinged something deep inside his soul. Although this sound did not register in his ears, it seemed to drown out the outside world, a switch that he could not control, only witness.

  And sure enough, the Telling arrived and took his breath away.

  Mother reached out her hand as Zephaniah twitched at its reception. She knew when the connection came. If Zephaniah turned to look at her, she would have probably been smiling proudly. However, the words emblazoned on his mind prevented him from doing anything other than study Blaise Duty.

  Zephaniah rose from the large wooden chair and yanked the hem of his coat down, as his mother had showed him. The congregation became as still as the sky before snow. He descended the steps. No doubt Brother Miller was beaming, anticipating a second offering.

  Blaise Duty did not possess the normal tan one would get working outdoors under the Death Valley heat. His was the kind movie stars acquired indoors, under st
range orange lights. He fanned himself with a brochure and nodded aimlessly. Until he saw the boy prophet measuring him. Zephaniah could almost smell the man’s fear ooze from the pores of his body.

  You’re lying, Blaise. That’s how Zephaniah heard it. You can’t hide. This day the wife of your youth, My little lamb, is freed.

  The words were not full of hate or anger, although that shifty newspaper reporter liked to describe the boy prophet as always angry. If anything, the Telling broke his heart.

  Zephaniah walked down the aisle, gazing at Blaise Duty and thinking about that little lamb that would be set free. Before the boy prophet even called his name, Blaise Duty lurched to his feet.

  “Mr. Duty.” The world seemed to wait for Zephaniah’s words. “The Lord has this for you.”

  The congregation drew a single collective breath. And held it.

  Zephaniah spoke the words just as he’d heard them.

  Blaise Duty looked like he’d been punched in his soft, spongy gut. The color drained from his orange-tinged skin, and his bottom lip began to tremble. Then he pushed his way out of the pew, stomping May Bristol’s foot, and stumbled into the center aisle.

  Blaise Duty opened his mouth to speak but didn’t. He wiped perspiration off his forehead and did a slow rotation, staring at the gaping congregants, his lips twitching.

  “I—” He swallowed. Then coughed. “My wife, she …” Fumbling at the collar of his flowery print shirt, tears welled in his eyes. “God, I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I am so sorry.”

  Then his features grew placid, and his skin turned hideously ashen.

  “Loree-e-e,” was the last thing he said before spinning like a corkscrew onto the carpet and falling flat on his back, as dead as a possum on the center line of the 395.

  Chapter 35

  A gust of wind flung the church door wide, whipping sand into the dilapidated sanctuary and snapping Zeph from his daydream. He stared at the spot where Blaise Duty died.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, the insurance salesman was already losing color. That’s how fast it went down. The congregation refused to touch the body, although Zeph doubted that any amount of resuscitation could have altered Blaise Duty’s arc into the afterlife. Some congregants openly recalled the story of Ananias and Sapphira in the Bible, claiming it was the judgment of God. Others believed it was the precursor to a great revival. The coroner claimed it was simply a massive heart attack. Nevertheless, when it was learned that the man had a mistress, as well as an elaborate plot to stage his wife’s death and collect the insurance, they looked at the boy prophet differently. How could they not?

  Zeph stared at that patch of faded carpet. Did Detective Lacroix know about the Prophet of the Plains? Had they uncovered the sad story of Blaise Duty? Could they even fathom the weight Zeph had carried all these years?

  He left Shiloh, the mold and urine, and stood under the weathered sign, staring back into the afternoon sun. The Black Pass rose like a monument to mystery.

  Do you find your destiny, or does your destiny find you?

  Yesterday the answer to that question was obvious. The detectives arrived on his doorstep unannounced. Could they be part of some universal scheme? Then there was the man in the morgue who’d set everything in motion. Who was he? What was he? And why was there a bullet in his chest? And there was Annie Lane and the remnant—could he really be the fulfillment of some ancient prophecy? Whatever the answers, one thing was clear: destiny had finally come knocking for Zeph Walker.

  He removed his keys and cast a long look at Shiloh. A man died in there because of something Zeph said. Now more than ever it confirmed what he had once only wondered.

  Zeph got into his truck and drove back to his property. Perhaps he should have never left. When he arrived, he parked the truck under the carport and closed the gate. Then he did something he hadn’t done in years. Zeph removed a cardboard placard from inside the Book Swap and taped it on the door. It announced the store was closed.

  Like Crusoe, if God really wanted Zeph Walker off his lonely island, then He’d have to come and rescue him.

  Chapter 36

  Take a look at this,” Annie said.

  Easy Dolan watched as she dumped the dossier on his desk.

  “Good Lord, Miss Annie!” He snatched a package of powdered doughnuts from the path of cascading papers. “Whatcha got here?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Easy retrieved his glasses, turned the gooseneck lamp on, and began sifting through the strange documents.

  “Have a seat, Miss Annie,” he said, already enthralled in the assemblage of paperwork.

  She glanced at the antique wingback chair. Jezebel was still missing from her usual spot. Annie recalled seeing the cat at Camp Poverty last night, but Easy seemed unconcerned with the feline’s wandering ways. However, the way her lower back ached, Annie would not be able to stand that chair. She declined Easy’s offer and remained standing.

  The retired golfer’s eyes seemed to widen with every page. He studied one of the anatomical sketches. “What’n the world is this?” Easy held up the sketch of the winged, four-faced man-beast.

  “An angel, I think. A cherub, to be exact.”

  “Angel? Ain’t like no angel I ever seen!”

  “You’ve seen an angel?”

  “You know what I mean—the Precious Moments kinda angel.”

  “That is definitely not a Precious Moments angel.”

  Easy mumbled something and hunched forward, continuing his inspection of the dossier. Finally he leaned back in his chair and scratched under the bill of his cap.

  Annie folded her arms. “So, do you believe me now?”

  Easy swiveled toward her and read from the folder: “United States Army.” He tipped his head and peered at her over the top of his glasses. “Now, how in the world’d you come by these?”

  Annie hesitated. After seeing Fergus last night at Camp Poverty and the director huddled in Eugenia’s darkened apartment, paranoia seemed to be seeping into the crevices of Marvale like fog in a marsh. Could she trust Easy? He didn’t possess any of Eugenia’s recent traits: reclusion, emotional distance. There was no bizarre writing on his walls, either. Yet if the devil appeared as an angel of light, perhaps he could disguise himself as anyone. The thought sent her stomach spiraling. Nevertheless, with the documents now in Easy’s possession, she was probably past the point of no return. Eventually she would have to trust someone. Which was not one of Annie Lane’s strong suits.

  Finally she said, “I found it in the custodial area, by the boiler room.”

  “Found it?” Easy squinted at her. “What were you doin’ down there?”

  “Following a hunch.”

  “Obviously you ignored my word of caution.”

  “I’m sorry. But yesterday, when I left here, I heard something strange.”

  “Strange? Like what?”

  Annie shook her head as she recalled the throaty language. “Like moaning, in some odd dialect.”

  “You sure it wasn’t the Higginbothams?” Easy issued a wry smile. “They’ve been known to have some exotic vices.”

  “It wasn’t the Higgenbothams,” Annie said dismissively. “I followed the sound to the custodial area. That’s where I found it. It was scattered on the floor, as if someone had dropped it.”

  “Dropped it? Someone like Fergus?”

  She shrugged. “It was his shift. No one else goes back there except Stevie and the custodial crew. And then last night …” Annie hesitated.

  Easy peered at her. “Last night what?”

  Annie met his inquisitive gaze. “I saw him up near Camp Poverty.”

  “Fergus?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, what on earth were you doin’ all the way up there?”

  “There’s a map of Camp Poverty in there, Easy—maps of this whole area.”

  “Ya don’t say.” Easy turned back to the desk and brushed through the papers absently. “I just
can’t imagine what Fergus could be doin’ with somethin’ like this. Or what the government wanted here.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. With everything going on, it just didn’t seem like a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence or not, if this stuff is Fergus’s and he finds out, you’ll be in a world of hurt, Miss Annie. That young man gives me the creeps.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Easy examined the documents, his brow alternately furrowed in disbelief and wonder.

  Annie massaged her lower back with her fingertips as she watched him. The knot of blue on her shin peeked from under the lip of her sock, evidence that her investigations were taking a decidedly risky turn. And if these documents were any indication, things would only get worse. Perhaps the most perilous thing she had undertaken was finally to involve Zeph Walker. Up to this point the remnant had remained observant but uninvolved. They had watched the prophet from a distance, kept a close eye on the happenings in the city. Now Annie was having second thoughts about her actions. It would not be the first time her foolhardiness had gotten her into trouble. However, it was the effect it would have on Zeph Walker that most concerned her. They could not afford to lose him. Not again. Nevertheless, as long as he had free will, losing him remained a possibility.

  “So, what do you think?” Annie motioned to the spread of documents. “Do you have any ideas what that could be? Or why it’s here?”

  “Let’s see.” Easy randomly snatched a paper from the pile. “Words. Lotsa words. Perhaps some type a code.” He retrieved another page and studied it with the same eager intensity. “Here we got a diagram regarding what looks like … magnetic fields. And here’s a medical examination of some sort. Hyperplasia. Cellular replication. Assimilation. Subject X. Almost like they was experimenting on someone. Odd.” He thumbed through several more papers before stopping.

  “Well, will you look at this!”

  “What is it, Easy?”

  He adjusted his glasses and peered at a single page. “So it is true.”