Ginny Gall полностью

“Yes,” the young preacher said, “yes we are. We are all children of God. And it was children of God who did this in the dark of night to another child of God. They performed an act of devilment on their brother.” He pressed his forehead with the heel of his left hand, pressed hard as if pushing back against a pain there. “Now what would make a man — make men — do this?”

“The devil!” somebody cried, a large woman, Maggie Cagel, fanning herself rapidly with her paddle fan. The swish of fans could be heard throughout the room, like the sound of bee wings.

“Yes,” the young preacher said. “The devil. But what is the devil?”

“Tell us,” another said.

“The devil. . and all of you know him. . he’s inside each of you. . is. . trepidation. It’s dread, it’s consternation, it’s fright. Trepidation. That’s right. Misdoubts. . and dismay. . and recreancy. The bugaboo, the bogie, the hobgoblin. You all know that fellow, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You all been scared. Some of you — with good reason — maybe most of you, are scared all the time, scared out of your wits.

“O Lord.”

“But those men the other night. Those men carrying torches and kerosene and guns and knives and axes and a rope. Those men were afraid. They were scared to death. The devil had entered them and scoured out all the holiness. Or most all of it. He had scoured it out and refilled the hole with trepidation. What was it they were scared of? Were they scared of governments. . or guns. . or God?”

“No sir.”

“They weren’t scared of them, you are exactly right. They were scared of this child. . whose broken body lies before us now. This boy who just a few days ago was walking along the road out here picking blue-eyed grass and singing a song to himself. They were scared that this little boy was going to take something from them that they couldn’t do without. What was that something?”

He leaned forward, a look of pain in his face. Nobody had answered.

“I’ll tell you. There’re many names for it. One of them. . is strength. Another. . is honor. Another is courage. Another’s goodness. Kindness. Mercy. Steadfastness.”

The room was quiet but for the faint buzzing and shuffling and clicking sounds of the living world. Rev Wayne looked around, fixed on this or another one. Then his eyes seemed to fix on them all.

“Those men were afraid that this boy, this sweet and generous child, was going to steal these properties from them. But these men were misinformed. This child wasn’t going to steal anything. They had it backwards. This child could only add to them. The good of one adds to the good of the many. But these men could not see this. Their scarediness had taken them over. They had become for this time. . maybe for all time. . the captives of this trepidation. Guarantors of the devil.”

He cupped his forehead briefly in the palm of his right hand, then held the hand before him and looked into the palm and let the hand drift to the pulpit.

“We have come here to pray for and bless and bury this child. And that we will do. We do it prayerfully with hearts weighed down by grief. But this child does not need our prayers. This child shares none of our grief. He is in heaven right now. He has been in heaven since the moment the blow that separated him from this world was struck. He is snug in the arms of the Lord. A blameless, emancipated child. It is these others who need our prayers. Those so consumed by their trepidations and frets that they were led to do evil deeds. Some of you want to flee this horror — hide yourselves. Others want to turn and seek vengeance against those who committed it. Others want justice. Others want simply to forget. But there is no hiding, there is no vengeance, there is no justice, there is no forgetting. There is only the Lord. That hatred we feel rising up like a streaming flame. That trepidity that makes us want to run into the woods and hide under the bushes. That misery. That grief like a block of stone laid upon our hearts. The sweat on our bodies, the aches, the faltering, the falling. There is only the Lord for that.”

He looked around. In his eyes a look of despair.

“So fall,” he said. “Fall to your knees.”

As he said this he fell, like a man shot. His knees hit the planed boards with a cracking sound. He winced and almost keeled over but was able to right himself. His face was drawn, famished, gaunt even. Others had followed him to their knees in a symphony of groans and creaks. The preacher raised his scarred hands and held them before his face as if he was holding in a blessing or curse or the split words of a raveling faith. Slowly he lowered his hands until he could look out over the closed fingers. Then his eyes closed.