Revelator

by Daryl Gregory

  “What?” She stopped there in the road. The church lay just up around the bend.

  “It’s in First Corinthians,” he said. “Let your women keep silence in the churches.”

  “I’m not your woman. And didn’t you just say there was singing?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “So only the men sing?”

  “No! Women can sing, they just can’t talk.”

  “Well that’s a load of horse pucky.”

  “Stella!”

  “This is a bad idea. I’m going home.”

  “No! Please. Just give it a try. One service.”

  “It’s that important to you, huh?”

  “It’s important to you. Your soul, I mean. You said you was worried about it, right?”

  “I’m not worried.”

  Well, she was a little worried. In all the books she’d read, there was no mention of the God in the Mountain, nor the Ghostdaddy either. But she’d read enough Nathaniel Hawthorne to know a woman could meet the devil out in the woods.

  “Maybe I’m just curious,” she said.

  Truth was she feared she was becoming unfit for human company. She had no friends, no true friends, like the ones she read about. The children at school seemed like another species, dumb as chickens, and the school building a clattering henhouse. They made fun of her for the blotches on her skin and the blots on her family record—the Birch women were suspect.

  As for Abby, well, she loved him, but he was a grown man, a criminal, and a drunk. Which meant that most of the time she was trapped in a house with a crazy old woman.

  She could speak to no one about the most important thing in her life. The second communion, a couple of months ago, had left her brains scrambled again, so full of the God’s thoughts that she felt he was looking out of her eyes. She had to lay out of school while her hands healed. She lived two lives that didn’t intersect, one as a revered conduit to God, the other as a farm girl who slopped pigs. She wondered if teenage Jesus felt this way when Joseph told Him to clean up the carpentry shop. The thrilling strangeness of one existence did nothing to reduce the dreariness of the other. Those were accounts in separate banks.

  She was confident Lunk had no clue about her other life as a Revelator, because, when she wasn’t being anointed by Uncle Hendrick, she barely believed it herself. She was going into his church like a spy from a foreign country.

  The church bells started ringing the call to worship. Stella had heard those bells for years from Motty’s house, but they were more impressive up close. Lunk started hurrying up the road, and then they topped a small rise and there it was, the blank white face of the Primitive Baptist Church. Folks were loitering outside—maybe the women were getting their last words in.

  “Anything else you want to tell me?” she asked.

  “Um…don’t fall asleep? Daddy can preach for a while.”

  * * *

  —

  it seemed colder inside the church than out, and the stove near the front door was not up to the job. Unfortunately, the Rayburn women liked to sit up front in the second row, left side, practically looking up Elder Rayburn’s nostrils. They boxed in Stella between Elsa Rayburn, Lunk’s mother, and his little sister, Mary Lynn. Lunk sat across the aisle in the men’s section. He kept leaning over to get a glimpse of her.

  At first it wasn’t bad. Stella liked the singing—four-part harmony blasted at wall-shaking volume, and Elsa hitting the high notes like a trumpet—and the announcements, which were interesting because of their alternating specificity (“Mrs. Meyers asks for prayer about the swelling in her leg”) and vagueness (“The Childress Family asks for your prayers during this difficult time”). But then Elder Rayburn opened his big Bible and eased into his sermon. He began with a supposedly true anecdote of a farmer who mistreated his cattle, took a left turn into the parable of the sower, then meandered through a few Psalms.

  In the months since Elder Rayburn had gifted her with that Bible, Stella had fallen in love with the poetry of the King James Version, and Rayburn was a good reader. Still, she was disappointed. She’d expected a little more fire and at least a whiff of brimstone, but the elder’s deep voice was ferrying them to the Promised Land by slow boat. He seemed more of a teacher than a preacher. Church, it turned out, was a lot like school, except you weren’t allowed to ask questions.

  She was gazing up at the ceiling beams when she noticed handprints pressed into the wood of one beam. Mary Lynn leaned close and whispered, “Those are angel’s hands.”

  “Sorry I missed its appearance,” she whispered back. Mary Lynn giggled. Elsa Rayburn shushed them.

  The handprints were just about the only things to look at, which she supposed kept the focus on the sermon. There were no pictures on the walls, not even of Jesus, which seemed rude considering it was His house. Would it kill them to put in a stained-glass window or two like in the cathedrals she’d read about? She would have appreciated a few angels, or a Jonah-swallowing fish, maybe a naked Adam and Eve addressing the snake. But no, there wasn’t even a cross. If it weren’t for the steeple and bell on the roof you could’ve taken this place for a barn.

  After forty-five minutes Elder Rayburn finally got to something interesting—Abraham calmly plotting the murder of his son. “And Abraham rose up early in the morning,” he read. “And saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.” Rayburn’s deep voice added a necessary hint of menace. It was like a scene from a gangster movie: And lo, Cagney told the henchmen to warm up the car, and they did throw Isaac into the trunk and departed with him unto Hell’s Kitchen.

  Poor Isaac had no clue. He was sweating it, asking his father where the lamb is, but Abe’s busy talking to angels. It took another fifteen minutes of sermon for the ram to show up in the thicket and save Isaac’s hind end. Elder Rayburn gushed about the devotion of Abraham and how God was going to reward him by spreading his seed all over the nations, but Stella was annoyed. If Abe was such a great guy, why didn’t he offer to sacrifice himself rather than his own boy? And why was this God so het up for people to burn things in His honor that He sent the ram in there, like somebody showing up for dinner with their own chicken and demanding you cook it? It was the Jesus thing all over again.

  By the time Stella resumed listening, Rayburn had jumped from Abraham’s promised nation to “the present indignity” of the park service seizing the land of the cove’s residents. Seemed like every week another family was evicted. “The government of man seeks to erase us, my friends. The government of man wants to wipe out our family farms, destroy generations of hard work, and let the land run wild. The government of man wants to disband this church and make this sacred building into a museum exhibit.” In his mouth “museum exhibit” sounded like the two dirtiest words in the dictionary. “But I have news for the government.” He looked out across their faces, and liked what he saw. “This congregation shall not be moved.” He received back a chorus of amens—from men only, of course. The women nodded, just as fervent as the men, but bound by silence.

  * * *

  —

  after the service Stella realized she was either famous or notorious, and it wasn’t clear which. Folks were milling around outside, and quite a few took time to shake Stella’s hand and welcome her, but others kept their distance. Elsa, Lunk, and Mary Lynn stayed at her side; Elsa especially seemed ready to strike down anyone who’d dare to be rude.

  Elder Rayburn stepped away from a group of men and said to Stella, “I hope you enjoyed the service, Miss Wallace.”

  “It was…nice.”

  She sensed Lunk freeze up. What’s the matter? she thought. Was nice not good enough?

  Elder Rayburn smiled. “Well, I’m sure it’s different than the
churches in Chicago.”

  “Sure is,” she said, though her father had never taken her to church.

  He smiled. “Well, we follow what’s in the Bible. If it’s not in the scripture, we don’t do it.”

  “So no pipe organs.”

  He laughed. “That’s right. Other churches may change with the times, but God doesn’t change.”

  “What if something new happens? Let’s say there’s a situation that never happened in the Bible? Like…cars?”

  “An automobile’s just a machine, and man’s always inventing machines. We just have to make sure that the way they’re used fits with biblical teachings. A car is nothing but a fancy plow, and we know enough about plows not to work on the Sabbath. When you look at each new innovation of man, when you look thoughtfully, you realize that what the Bible says is true—there’s nothing new under the sun.”

  Lunk mumbled something about Ecclesiastes.

  “How about other suns?” Stella said.

  Elder Rayburn laughed. “You can’t surprise God. He created everything.”

  “But God didn’t tell us everything.”

  “But He did! Everything we need is right there in the Bible. It’s whole and complete—we like to say that it’s a holy book, not a book full of holes.”

  He thought that was pretty clever. Stella said, “What about the seven thunders?”

  “The seven—?”

  “It’s in Revelations.” She glanced at Lunk. “Chapter ten, verse four.”

  “That’s true,” Elder Rayburn said. “However—”

  “So what was it that was so scary that God couldn’t let it be written down?”

  “I don’t know that it’s anything scary. Maybe it’s glorious. There are undoubtedly many things we aren’t meant to know.”

  “But y’uns are basing your decisions on a book that’s incomplete. It’s told you there are holes. How do you know God hasn’t been telling somebody else new scripture—a new New Testament?”

  Mary Lynn squeaked.

  Elder Rayburn said, “You sound like a younger and prettier Joseph Smith.”

  Don’t “pretty” me, Stella thought. “You can’t know,” she repeated.

  Elder Rayburn thought for a moment. Members of the congregation hadn’t moved any closer, but none of them had moved away, either.

  “The Bible said that there will be false prophets,” Rayburn said. “I think it’s much more likely that unscrupulous men would make up things for their own benefit, rather than God suddenly deciding He had more to say. We already have our salvation—we don’t need anything else.”

  “But what if God—?”

  “You’re confused,” he said, cutting her off. “I don’t know what kinds of things Motty’s told you, but I welcome you to come back to church and listen. Not for your salvation—that’s assured, if you’re one of the Elect—but for your edification.”

  She wanted to shout at him: You don’t know what I know!

  Elsa was staring at her. Mary Lynn had covered her mouth with her hands. And Lunk was saying nothing in her defense. And why would he? This was his father, his family, his religion.

  Elder Rayburn said, “You’re welcome back anytime, Stella.”

  * * *

  —

  lunk insisted on walking her home. She was too mad to speak, but that didn’t stop him from yammering at her. Kept saying “That sure was something” and telling her she was like no girl he’d ever met. “Daddy’s never talked to me like that.”

  She heard the envy in his voice. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like I was worth talking to.”

  Oh, poor Lunk. Jealous of an argument.

  Suddenly she felt sorry for Lunk’s entire congregation. All that talk about God, and they never got to see Him. Their whole religion depended on faith—faith that He was real, that He was coming back. But for her, and for Motty and her mother before her, belief wasn’t required, any more than she needed to believe in gravity for the rain to fall. The God in the Mountain just was.

  Lunk reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull away. If he was startled by the rough scars he didn’t mention it.

  She thought, Could he be the one? Could I tell my secret to him? It was delicious to think about. She might do permanent damage to his Baptist brain. But if he wasn’t broken by her secret, she would have someone who wasn’t Motty or Hendrick to finally talk to.

  When they’d almost reached the curve that would put them in sight of Motty’s house, Lunk said, “Stella Wallace, would you let me kiss you?”

  Damn it. She’d already told him she’d try anything once. And she was curious. “Make it quick.”

  His lips were dry. It didn’t feel like much. Lunk, though, was staring at her with shining eyes.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  He tried for a second one and she slapped him lightly with her Bible.

  “I have to protect my immortal soul,” she said.

  He laughed like that was the wittiest thing he’d ever heard. God damn, she thought. He’s giddy.

  * * *

  —

  two weeks later, on a frigid night, Stella awoke, blood whooshing in her ears and her heart beating fast. She’d been dreaming—but of what? Sweat dampened her neck. Her body knew something her mind had already forgot.

  She went out to the front room. The fire had retreated to the coals. Motty slumped in her chair, eyes closed and mouth agape. Her left hand held a glass with half an inch of moonshine in it. A miracle it hadn’t slipped from her fingers. The ashtray was full of the butts of hand-rolled cigarettes.

  Whatever had woken Stella was not in this room. She heard a distant sound, a cry like an infant’s. She went to the kitchen and out to the backyard.

  A great pale shape, a dozen feet tall, crouched beside the pigpen, his hinged legs holding his pale torso aloft like a cocoon.

  The God had left the mountain.

  One of his limbs was extended over the top of the fence rail. The sow was pinned beneath it. It was the animal’s cry she’d heard. Suddenly the limb raised and the sow scrambled to her feet and ran for the darkness under the shelter roof, squealing.

  Stella held a hand to her throat. She hadn’t made a noise, but the God knew she was there.

  He swiveled on complex joints, limbs scissoring—and then he was moving toward her. Stella was paralyzed.

  He stopped in front of her. She gazed up at him, her eyes watering.

  The God hovered over her, and she stood her ground. She realized now that it was Motty and Hendrick’s rules that had filled her with shame. Their religion. Her fear of breaking their commandments had sent her flying from the cave. But those rules had nothing to do with the God.

  The Ghostdaddy loved her.

  The Birches can’t control me, she told herself. I will not be bound by human rules.

  She reached up to his torso. His skin was so warm. The air around her began to vibrate as if she were inside an engine. He shifted so that he sat on an array of back legs, presenting his belly to her. His arms surrounded her.

  She couldn’t speak. She didn’t have to. This wasn’t a communion, like the ones Uncle Hendrick and the men had witnessed. It was something simpler, and better—because later she could recall every moment of it.

  He seemed to gaze down from that eyeless, mouthless boulder at the top of his torso. Her fingers found a long crease alongside that bulge and clung there. His body thrummed. She leaned into him, and now her bones were thrumming, resonating with him. Warmth traveled through her.

  She wanted his hands. She wanted to press her palms to him. She wanted to bind herself to him, feel the rush of his thoughts. She reached behind her, where his limb was pressed to her back.

  Suddenly he tightened his grip and her feet left the ground. The God spun her about, and l
aughter bubbled out of her.

  Sometime later he set her on the ground. One limb pulled back, then another. His smooth chest slipped from her fingertips. She reached forward and found only air. He was gone.

  My God, she thought. My God is a living god.

  12

  1948

  It looked like half of Tennessee wanted proof Motty was dead. Cars and trucks lined both sides of the road and were parked all over the lawn.

  “Fuck me,” Stella said. She made no move to get out of the car.

  “Fuck me,” Alfonse said. “I didn’t expect this many of y’all. I feel like Fleet Walker.”

  “Who?”

  “The Jackie Robinson of Jackie Robinsons.”

  “You can back out.”

  He sighed. “Come on now.”

  “There’s some things I haven’t told you about my family. Strange things. You might hear about a few of them.”

  He raised his eyebrows and dipped his chin, a look that meant, You waited all this way to bring this up?

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’d like to ask you to ride it out, and I promise to explain it all afterward.”

  “Fair enough. Could you open the glove box for me?”

  They’d taken his car, breaking her personal rule. But she wanted him to have an exit in case he had to leave without her. She opened the box and handed him the pistol, a Colt 1911. A serviceman’s weapon.

  He checked the safety and put it in the pocket of his wool topcoat. “You’ll point out which one is Brother Paul?”

  “You’ll know him. He’s so white he’s cellophane. You didn’t happen to bring any of the batch with you, too?”

  “I always carry a flagon of whiskey, in case of snakebite. I also carry a small—”

  “A small snake. Got it, W.C.”

  They traded sips. Climbed out of the car.

  The sky bulged with gray clouds, threatening rain. Her old tweed box coat wouldn’t stand up to much weather, and the black dress—one of her few dresses—was no help. She hated going into battle wearing a dress.