by Mark Anthony
There was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath, then plunged into the golden light beyond.
15.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Brother Cy’s Apocalyptic Traveling Salvation Show was in full swing.
The first thing Travis noticed was that the tarnished light came, not from electric bulbs, but from punched-tin lanterns suspended below the canvas ceiling. A haze of smoke hung on the air like an atmosphere of mystery. To either side of the entrance hulked a bank of wooden bleachers. A scattering of people sat upon the splintery planks, perhaps two dozen in all. It was an unlikely mélange. A walleyed trucker in faded flannel kicked up his battered boots, smoking a cigarette. Nearby, a woman in a smart blue business suit perched on her bench like a stiff bird. Beyond her, an old blind man in thrift-store garb leaned forward on his rattan cane, head bowed, listening. Sitting in the front row was a young woman—barely more than a girl—clad in a nylon coat of dirty sky blue with matted fake fur around the neck, a small child clutched on her lap. The young woman’s thin face was tightly drawn—in weariness, and perhaps in trepidation—but the child stared around him with wide eyes, a look of wonder on his grubby cherub’s face.
Feeling conspicuous, Travis found a vacant place and sat down. He lifted his head, and that was when he saw him.
The man in black.
Or Brother Cy, for that was certainly his name, and this was most certainly his traveling revival show. The preacher prowled on a stage opposite the bleachers, clad in that same black coffin suit, and paused now and then to thump a bony fist on a podium that looked as though farm animals had drunk out of it in its last incarnation. He had taken off his broad-brimmed pastor’s hat to expose a phrenologist’s dream of a cranium. With a start, Travis realized the rich music he had heard rising and falling on the smoky air was in fact Brother Cy’s magnificent, terrible, honeyed-rasp voice, preaching up a storm.
“… and you, my friends, you who lurk in your comfortable tract houses,” Brother Cy thundered with as much spit as volume, “believing yourselves protected from all harm, wallowing in your reclining chairs, drinking your six-packs of beer, and prostrating yourselves before the altar of television. You are in for a surprise, my friends.” The podium shuddered under his fist, and his eyebrows bristled like black caterpillars. “For whether you live in a hilltop mansion or a river bottom shack, it will find you just as easy and knock upon your door. For I say to you again—there is a darkness coming!”
“Amen!” a smattering of voices said, and there was even one faint “Hallelujah!” Brother Cy grinned, fire lighting the pits of his eyes, as if it had been an affirmation a thousand voices strong. But he was not finished yet.
“It creeps nearer every day, this darkness—every hour, every minute. But have any of you seen its coming? Have you felt it, like a shadow falling across your soul?” He shook his head, perhaps in sorrow, perhaps disgust. “No, you have not! You have turned your eyes inward, you have shut your ears, and you have drowned yourself in the petty comforts of your material possessions.” He thrust his arms out to either side, and his voice vaulted to a crescendo. “I say, is there not even one among you who has dared to gaze into the heart of the approaching dark?”
Two dozen faces stared at Brother Cy, fearful, entranced. Then one tremulous voice rose on the smoky air.
“I … I have.”
It was the young woman who held the child.
Brother Cy gazed down at her for a protracted moment, like he was judging her with those black-marble eyes. Then he stepped off the stage and moved to her with his scarecrow gait. He cupped a long hand beneath her fragile chin and lifted it until her look was lost in his.
“So you have, child,” he said in a secret voice. “So you have.” They remained that way for a long moment, as if some unheard conversation passed between them. Then he leaped back onto the stage and pounded the podium until its sides bowed.
“Are you not ashamed?” Brother Cy said. “Here before you sits one with a tiny child, who is little more than a child herself, pitiable and full of fear. Yet she has found the strength to do what the rest of you have not, to lift up her eyes and stare into the very heart of shadow!”
The spectators shifted on the hard bleachers.
“Yes, I see the truth now,” Brother Cy said. “There are disbelievers among us tonight, aren’t there? You know who you are.” He thrust out a skeletal finger and swept it over the audience. When the accusing appendage pointed toward Travis, it seemed to pause. Travis squirmed in his seat, and he felt naked. Then Brother Cy’s finger moved on past him.
“It seems I lack the power to convince all of you disbelievers,” the preacher said. “However, you are fortunate, for there is another here tonight who sees this darkness more clearly than anyone else. And with her is one who understands its nature far better than I.” Brother Cy thrust a hand toward a side curtain of moth-eaten velvet and bowed like a macabre facsimile of a game-show host. “May I introduce to you Sister Mirrim and Child Samanda!”
The curtain parted, and onto the stage stepped a woman and a girl. They approached Brother Cy hand in hand, and Travis had the sense that it was not the woman who led the girl but rather the reverse. Both wore heavy dresses of black wool that contrasted with their moon-pale skin. However, there the similarity ended, for the woman’s hair was wild and fiery, and she gazed forward with distant green eyes, a stricken cast to her otherwise impassive visage, as if she looked upon some far-off place, while the girl’s hair was raven dark, and her purple eyes seemed far too knowing for the angelic cameo of her face.
Brother Cy stood behind woman and girl, and encompassed but did not touch them with the half circle of his arms. “Sister Mirrim is possessed of great and unusual sight,” he said in a stage whisper. “Would you have her see for you now?” He held up a silencing hand. “Wait! Before you answer, know that what Sister Mirrim sees may be good or ill, and in these times I say of the two it is far more likely to be ill she will glimpse. But then, from knowledge of evil can come great good, for those who dare to listen. Do any of you so dare?”
A chorus of affirmation rose from the bleachers.
“So be it.” Brother Cy bent close to Sister Mirrim. “See for us, Sister,” he murmured, then retreated. Sister Mirrim stood at the fore of the stage, her hands resting like frail doves on the small shoulders of Child Samanda, who stood quietly before her. At last Sister Mirrim spoke, and as she did her eyes grew more distant yet, gazing on things no other within the tent could glimpse.
“It comes from a place far distant,” she began in a chantlike voice. “Yet in that distance lies no protection. For I can see it growing now, sending forth dark shoots, and digging down dark roots, drinking a world to make it strong. And when it has drunk that world dry, and all that is left is ash and bone, it shall lift its gaze in this direction, and it shall slake its thirst upon this unwary world.” Her voice rose, shrill now. “Can you not see it? The birds of night have taken wing. Their pale master wakes, and his heart is colder than winter. Where are the Stonebreaker and the Blademender? I cannot see them yet. But there is something more, something darker still, a shadow behind the shadow.” She shook her head. “I cannot … I cannot quite …” Her voice was galvanized by panic, and the stricken look in her eyes became one of terror. “Alas! Alas! The eye that was blinded sees once more, and all is blackened and withered beneath its fiery gaze!”
Sister Mirrim swayed and would have fallen save for Child Samanda, who grasped her arm. In two long strides Brother Cy was beside them to add his own steadying grip to the fire-haired woman’s shoulders.
A cracked voice rose from the audience.
“I’ve seen them, too.”
It was the blind man. He lifted his wrinkled sockets toward the stage.
Although his voice was low, Brother Cy’s words pierced the stillness of the tent. “What have you seen?”
“The dark birds.” The old man gripped his cane. “I ain’t seen a thing since I was
a boy, but I seen them of late, flying before my eyes, like blacker patches of black on the black I always see. And …” His voice dropped to whisper. “… and I seen him as well.”
Brother Cy watched him with interest, and the old man shifted in discomfort, as if he could feel the force of the preacher’s gaze.
“Who have you seen?” Brother Cy asked.
“Him,” the blind man said, and his knuckles went white around the cane. “The pale one. I saw him once, with the night birds whirling round him, and he was white as snow—or so I’m guessing, as I ain’t seen snow in ’most a lifetime—and he shone against the blackness, tall and fierce and wearing a crown of ice, it seemed to me. And he was laughing. Laughing at me.” The old man shook his head. “He was something terrible, he was.”
The middle-aged woman in the skirt suit stood on the heels of the old man’s words. “Is it too late?” She wrung her hands. “Is it already too late for us to do something about the darkness?”
“No,” Brother Cy said. “It is never too late, not until the end—and even then, who’s to say if all is really over? The darkness approaches, but it is not yet fully here, and if we all do our part, it may never be.”
“But what is it?” a voice called out in frustration. “What is this darkness that everyone keeps saying is coming?”
Travis was shocked to realize the voice had been his own. He was standing now. Somehow all this hysteria about doom and darkness had gotten to him.
“That is the question I have been waiting for.”
It was not Brother Cy who spoke, but the girl. Her voice was soft, and it lisped slightly, yet there was power in it. The girl stepped forward, and her black-buttoned shoes tapped against the wooden stage like tiny deer hooves. Although her voice addressed the entire gathering, Travis was convinced that her too-knowing gaze was for him only.
“The nature of the darkness is both singular and multifidous,” the girl said, and heads nodded, as if the onlookers understood her cryptic words perfectly. “Singular, in that it stems from one deep well. Multifidous, in that each of us must face it in our own way.” With a tiny hand she pointed to the audience. “Each of you has a battle to fight. That is why you came here tonight—although there are many, many more such as yourselves. Most of your battles will be small ones, yet that does not mean they are not important. For that is how this war will be won or lost, by a thousand little battles, each fought by one person standing alone against the darkness—or surrendering to it.”
“But how will we know our battle when it comes?” the trucker asked.
A secret smile touched Child Samanda’s rosebud lips. “You will know,” was all she said.
With that, the revival was over.
“Thank you all for coming,” Brother Cy said with a dismissing sweep of his arms. “Do not forget the seeings of Sister Mirrim or the words of Child Samanda. And do not forget to consider a small donation—a pittance that will allow us to bring our message to others like yourselves—as you depart.”
Brother Cy leaped from the stage and stood beside the tent’s entrance. Seemingly from nowhere, his broad-brimmed pastor’s hat appeared in his bony hand, and he thrust it out before him. A few people tossed in a handful of change or a crumpled bill as they shuffled past. Onstage, Child Samanda led Sister Mirrim toward the curtain. As they stepped through a slit in the ratty velvet, Travis caught a fleeting glimpse of a dim space beyond. He blinked, for it seemed to him that a number of figures gathered behind the curtain, tangled in a queer knot of crooked legs, sinuous arms, and curved swan necks. One of them, a young man—or was he old?—peered back at Travis with nut-brown eyes. Something sprouted from his forehead, something that looked almost like … antlers? Then the gap in the curtain closed. Sister Mirrim and Child Samanda were gone. Travis supposed it was all simply a trick of smoke and shadows, yet he found himself thinking of Waunita Lost Owl’s delgeth all the same.
He realized then he was the only one left inside the tent except for Brother Cy. He hurried to the exit. Avoiding the preacher’s piercing gaze, he dug into the pocket of his jeans, found a creased five-dollar bill, and dropped it in the hat.
“Thank you, son.”
Travis said nothing. Head down, he reached for the canvas flap covering the exit.
“Your battle will be harder than most, son, if you choose to fight it.”
Travis turned around and laughed. It was a hollow sound. He rubbed his right hand. “You mean I have a choice?”
A knife-edged grin cut across the craggy landscape of Brother Cy’s face. “Why, we all have a choice, son. Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying? That’s what this is all about.”
Travis shook his head. “But what if I choose the wrong thing?”
“What if you choose the right thing?”
“How will I know?” Travis said. “Sometimes I don’t even know right from left. How can I possibly choose?”
Lamplight gleamed off Brother Cy’s eyes. “Ah, but you have to, son. Light or dark. Sanity or madness. Life or death. Those are our choices, those are the battles we must fight.”
Travis tried to absorb these words. Was there more to Brother Cy than he had guessed? Without really thinking, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the iron box Jack had given him. He held it toward the preacher.
“You know, I think the man who gave this to me saw the same darkness you do. Maybe … maybe it would be better if you took it.”
Brother Cy laughed, a great booming sound. Then his laughter fell short, and his stony face went grim. He took a step backward, as if loath to so much as touch the box. “No, son. That which you carry is not for the likes of me. It is your burden to bear now, and no other’s.”
Travis sighed. He had been afraid the preacher would say something like that. There was nothing more for him here. He slipped the box back into his coat pocket and opened the tent flap.
“Wait, son!” Brother Cy said. “You need a token, something to bolster your faith, something to remember when all seems too dark, and home seems too far away.” He reached into his hat, pulled out a small and shiny object, and pressed it into Travis’s hand. It felt cool against his hot skin.
“Thanks,” Travis said, unsure what else to say. “And I hope you stop your darkness, whatever it is.”
“It’s not my darkness, son. It belongs to all of us.”
In a disconcerting instant, the smoky world of the tent was replaced by one of empty gloom. Travis gasped. He stood outside the revival tent now, although he did not remember stepping through the door. He lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers. On his palm lay a silvery half circle. It was a coin, or rather a piece of one, for it was broken along a rough edge. There was a picture on each side of the coin, and he tried to make them out in the cast-off radiance of the revival tent, but could not.
All at once, like a lightbulb switching off, the tent went black and left Travis alone in the cold night.
16.
Travis slipped the half-coin into the pocket of his jeans and started walking, although he had no idea where he was walking to. The crescent moon had gone behind a cloud, and the road seemed to lead only from darkness into darkness. His boots beat a lonely rhythm on the pavement.
He had gone only a short distance when, without warning, the fabric of night was riven by brilliant light.
Travis spun around, held a hand before his eyes, and squinted against the white-hot glare. The world had fallen silent except for an electric hum that vibrated on the air. It raised the hairs on his arms and neck, like a harbinger of lightning. How had they found him? But it was not so hard to understand. If they had not found what they were seeking at the Magician’s Attic, they would have kept searching. And there was only one road out of Castle City. This road.
For a moment he stood frozen, an animal caught in a fatal headlight snare. He caught a glint of crimson and glanced down. The stiletto Jack had given him was still tucked into his belt, and the gem in its hilt glowed bloo
dred. He jerked his head back up. The brilliant light floated down the highway. At last fear broke through his paralysis. Travis turned and ran headlong into the night. His lungs caught fire. He ignored the pain, leaned his head down, and ran faster yet.
A rectangle loomed in the dark before him and brought him up short. He skidded to a halt and barely managed to avoid colliding with the thing. It was the old billboard. He stared at the back side now, for he had come upon it from the opposite direction than before. The webwork of posts that supported the flat plane looked like bones in the gloom. Urged by a compulsion he could not name, he moved around the billboard to gaze upon the front. Just then, in the sky above, wind tore a cloud to tatters, and the horned moon broke free. Its light drifted down to illuminate the face of the billboard. Travis gasped.
The cigarette advertisement was gone. In its place, fully revealed now, was the picture of the wild landscape. Before, when Travis had glimpsed a fraction of the picture through the overlying ad, it had seemed to depict a daylit scene, yet it was a night land that covered the billboard now. Mountains rose into a star-sprinkled sky, like a crown perched above the endless forest, and everything was dusted with a pearly sheen, as if the light of the moon above fell somehow too upon it. There was a beauty about the landscape that was both fresh and ancient, as though it had stood unspoiled for countless eons, waiting to be seen.
In all, the billboard looked just as it had in the 1933 photograph he had seen at the Magician’s Attic. Only as he realized this did Travis drop his gaze to the words written at the bottom in flowing script. He concentrated, and after a moment they sorted themselves out:
Find Paradise
And below that, in smaller type:
Brother Cy’s Revival, 1 mi. N. of C. City
Laughter rose in Travis’s chest. So Brother Cy had been here back in 1933. That knowledge should have shocked him, should have sent him reeling off-balance. Yet, somehow, after all that had happened, it did not. In fact, it all made an absurd sort of sense.
