Appalachian Galapagos (14 page)

And yet the location and existence had escaped history.

His examination was postponed as the hymn ended. The congregation sat, the small rumble filling the missing space that the song had so recently filled. He heard the sound of the Faith-Be-Quick Stick striking the floor again and all was silent.

"The prophets hath foreseen this day.
'Tis
a day we all knew would come, my brothers. Just as it came twenty years ago," Brother Cletus said. He smiled widely, his sharp cheekbones rising towards the heavens. Narrowing his almost feral eyes, raising his hairy eyebrows gravely above his flashing spectacles, he continued. "Brothers, thou may approach the shell of the Living Earth."

Two men in the front row of pews stood and approached. With nary a glance at the three kneeling men, they passed and approached the altar, where they stood to either side, mute witness to the holy event about to transpire.

Stepping down from the pulpit, Brother Cletus removed a long dagger from the depths of his robe to match the one held by his brother. Kneeling down before the Bigfoot, he said a mumbled prayer, allowing his free hand to smooth the hair along the beast's breast, the long hair running through the cracks in his fingers. Closing his eyes, he brought the dagger to his lips and kissed it gently, his tongue sliding out and over the edge of the blade until several drops of his own blood appeared and collected upon the cool metal surface.

"And the Lord God, committed himself upon the mount and said to the appealing masses,
I do this for you. I do this for your sins
," the words of the preacher were soft, yet filled the expectant vacuum.

Then, with a great intake of breath, his hands gripped the hilt of the dagger, lifted it to its vertical limit, then arced down until the blade was buried deep within the dead beast's chest.

Lukas managed to make eye contact with Frank and they exchanged a
What the Fuck
look. One of the Brethren noticed them, however, and shot them what could only be taken as a deadly promise, his previously placid countenance creased with the imminence of their danger. Both of them looked down, then raised their heads once again.

Elbow deep into the great hairy breast, Brother Cletus soon had the heart within his fist, his tear-filled eyes turned towards the ceiling of the church, thick, congealing, black blood dripping from the heart and onto his face.

He turned, and with the help of the two brethren who each gripped an elbow, walked into the aisle.

"Bring me the Holy Receptacle."

The two men grabbed the spittoon and placed it directly in front of him.

Brother Cyrus approached and bowed before the seeping heart, then, sliced the organ open with his own blade. A dark liquid descended in a thin unbroken stream, vanishing into the hidden depths of the spittoon. All present watched, including Frank and his friends, as the heart emptied itself. Finally, the slow
drip
drip
came to an end and the heart was lowered reverently into the brass container's depths.

The preacher turned slowly and touched his blood-stained hand upon each of the foreheads of the kneeling men. A small patch of blood was left behind like the ash from the Wednesday before Easter. Then he moved past and behind them. He retrieved his stick and slammed it once again onto the stout wood floor.

On signal, the congregation's mouths rose in song. But, when as before they sang to Heaven, this time they sang to the spittoon. As one they stood and in turns, entered the aisle, a line forming as they sang.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound.

That
sav'd
a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

Each member of the congregation began to file by the spittoon. Heads bowed, they would say a prayer and hold out a wrist. Cyrus, dagger in hand, drew the slick edge quickly across the proffered skin and watched as the small floods of blood were added to the Holy Receptacle's hidden mixture.

'Twas
grace that taught my heart to fear,

And grace my fears
reliev'd
.

How precious did that grace appear,

The hour I first
believ'd
!

Thro' many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come.

'Tis
grace has brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

Frank began to pray in earnest. Never before had he believed in God more. Things were getting out of hand. The only reason they hadn't made their break for the door was because they were uncertain whether or not they'd be able to make it. And as a group, they refused to leave anyone behind. Although this Three Musketeer promise was silly, they would keep to it, and by abiding, one of them was condemned.

They had spoken about that as well.

And they had a plan.

Sure, they were trapped, but traps could be reversed.

Frank smiled broadly, his teeth flashing. He lifted his head to the ceiling and joined the hymn. It wasn't long, before his own voice merged with that of his two best friends.

The Lord has
promis'd
good to me,

His word my hope secures.

He will my shield and portion be,

As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease.

I shall possess, within the veil,

A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,

The sun forbear to shine.

But God, who called me here below,

Will be forever mine

Three times the hymn was repeated, until every member of the congregation had bled. Finally, Frank, Jimmy and Lukas were forced to their feet, where they too, contributed, the hot slice of the blade painless—nothing like the previous attempt to have faith beaten into them.

And then the singing stopped.

All heads turned to the three men.

It was time to choose...and to become.

Tennessee
Sippin
' Whisky...Smoky Mountain Sacrament...Bring Out The Holy Spirit...Appalachian Dust Devils...Not Another One...Cry-Fest...A Rastafarian Cousin It With Adam's Family Values...Castration or Consecration

Cyrus moved to the altar and placed the dagger upon the now empty shell of The Living Earth. He crossed himself, then bent down and opened a small door in the altar's base. When he stood and turned, a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee
Sippin
' Whisky was held reverently in his hands. His concentration was intense as he stepped back into the aisle. Slowly, he broke the seal and spun the cap with two firm fingers. Removed, he placed it in the hand of a member of the congregation sitting to his right. He held the bottle aloft and used it to make the sign of the cross in the air. Finally, he tipped it over and allowed the dark brown liquid to enter the Holy Receptacle.

"And the Lord our God said the night before he was so heinously
traitorized
,
this is my body. Eat it in remembrance of me
. And the assembled host ate."

An
Amen
grumble from the congregation punctuated the words of the preacher.

"And the Lord our God said the night before a man condemned him to death because of fear and greed,
this is my blood. Drink this in remembrance of me
. And the assembled host drank."

Another
Amen
, this one louder.

"We implore and beseech Thee, Oh Lord, to send forth the Holy Spirit and His Power upon this Bread and Chalice and convert them into the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ."

The men of the congregation began, first from the back of the room, then joined by several in the middle, until all were shouting, "Bring out the Holy Spirit."

"Bring her out."

"It's time for the Holy Spirit."

Frank and his friends turned their heads, searching for what the men were talking about. But there was nothing except the congregation, the preacher and his wild-haired twin. Certainly not anything resembling a
her
.

Then a pounding came from the door of the church. Three hard thumps, and upon the last, the congregation silenced. The sound of the congregation turning towards the door, the only sound in the room.

Slowly, the door creaked open. A night wind swept into the church and spun the incense into small Appalachian dust devils.

Frank's breath caught in his chest. Jimmy and Lukas inhaled sharply. Silhouetted against the blackness of the kudzu night, filling almost the entirety of the large door stood another Bigfoot. A low orange glow illuminated the eyes of the unmistakable female monster that the congregation had called The Holy Spirit.

It stepped completely into the church in one long stride. A trailing hand caught the door and slammed it closed.

A few whispers of
The Holy Spirit
could be heard threading through the host of standing men. They were immediately hushed, however, as the Faith-Be-Quick Stick struck the ground hard.

The sound caught the attention of The Holy Spirit whose gaze went immediately to the figure lying upon the altar. A low keening began from somewhere deep inside her. Her large eyes rounded then formed into thin slits then rounded again. Her lips sagged and the keening grew in pitch and intensity. In six bone-shuddering strides, she moved to the pulpit, shoved Lukas aside and placed her immense clawed hands upon the empty breast of The Living Earth.

And she cried.

Her keening slipped into hoarse sobs. They came quick and furious, leaving her barely enough time to breathe. Frank felt the sadness as a growing lump of coal within his chest. He watched as the congregation, still standing, lowered their collective heads. They held their hands down at their sides, shoulders sagging. More than a few shook with tears. Frank felt his own eyes expand and begin to tear.

He wanted the sound to go away. He wanted himself to be away. He had been tortured and threatened with death, yet this...this devastation of a spirit that he was unwillingly witnessing was somehow far worse.

He was filled with shame.

Shame for killing her mate.

Shame for feeling little compunction at the creature's death.

Shame for attempting to sell the body to the tabloids.

He didn't fight it. He embraced it. The growing lump within his chest exploded in a blubbery sob and his shoulders began to violently shake as he cried.

For half an hour he poured his emotions upon the floor. Openly sissified, he eventually dried up, exhausted. He glanced at his friends. They too had felt the power of the Holy Spirit's grief. Each stared dully at the floor in front of them, red puffy eyes staring back into a time they could never change.

Finally, the collective Cry-Fest was interrupted by the preacher who, once again, stabbed the floor with his Faith-Be-Quick Stick.