When Death Draws Near (17 page)

“We'll be startin' soon,” called out a man in his forties with a shaved head, blunt features, and mustache and beard.

I glanced around for Aynslee in the approaching dark, finally spotting her with Sarah in tow like an eager puppy.

Standing, I dropped my dishes into the garbage bag. Ruby joined me, shoving the last of a piece of pie into her mouth. She stopped, dropped the plate, and reached for her neck.

“Ruby?”

Her eyes opened wide and she clutched her throat with both hands.

“Ohmigosh!” I leaped behind her, reached around her abdomen, and made a fist with my right hand. “Hang on, Ruby. I've got you.” Wrapping my left hand over my right, I yanked backward and up as hard as I could.

Ruby started to slump against me. No one was around. No shouts of discovery.

I gave the Heimlich maneuver a second time. Then a third. The world retreated, my harsh breath the only sound.

Ruby grew limp.

Struggling to hold her weight, I jerked on her abdomen again.

The woman coughed, then took a deep breath.

Releasing my grip around her middle, I steadied her until she was more solidly on her feet.

She panted a moment, then finally said, “Girl, you saved my life.”

“I'm just glad I was here. Please, Ruby, don't say anything.” I let go.

She turned and looked at me, placed her hand on my cheek, glanced over my shoulder, then moved toward the gathering.

I glanced behind me to see what had drawn her attention. Blake charged up and stared at me. “She okay?”

I nodded.

He turned and followed Ruby to the gathering.

I waited until my pulse came back to normal, then trailed after Blake.

For the first time I noticed one end of the field had a natural rise where a card table had been placed. A Bible, a glass soda pop bottle with a rag stuffed in the top, and a jar of clear liquid rested on the surface. On either side of the table were portable speakers.

Speakers?
My gaze followed the cables leading to the speakers. On the far right side of the clearing, all the four-wheelers, most with off-road trailers, were parked. The speaker cables led to a generator still resting on a trailer.
Apparently primitive only goes so far.

The worshipers were grabbing folding chairs and creating rows in front of the rise, leaving a large area between the front row and the “pulpit.”

Four men strolled to the front, each carrying a variety of hinged boxes, and placed them behind the table.

The snakes had arrived.

AYNSLEE HAD FOUND TWO FOLDING LAWN CHAIRS
and was watching the throng. “What took you so long?” she asked.

“Um, a bit of a problem with . . . a piece of pie.” I needed to be able to see faces for my later drawings, so we sat to the side
where I had a clear view of the participants. Sarah joined us, dragging a chair as close to Aynslee as possible.

I stared at Sarah for a moment, then stood and looked at the worshipers.

My stomach did a quick flutter. Professor Wellington said they believed the children attending this homecoming revival would be forced to drink poison, handle fire, and hold snakes.

With the exception of Sarah and Aynslee, there were no children. Maybe they were together in one of the larger tents?

That didn't seem likely. I bent over and whispered, “Aynslee, when you were with Sarah, did you see any other children?”

“No,” she said slowly. “Sarah took me around the camp,
showed me the tent they set up for us, and then we ate dinner. I didn't see any kids at all.”

Before I could formulate what to do next, the bearded man moved to the front. From the restless movements of the group, this appeared to be the preacher. A gray-haired woman with a tambourine and three men with guitars joined the preacher.

I sat down and leaned forward.

The preacher gave a signal and the generator coughed to life. Four bare lightbulbs dangling from a wire stretched overhead cast a wan light over the preacher and worship team. He picked up a wireless mic, tapped it a few times, then covered it with a white handkerchief. “Are ya ready to worship?”

The congregation leaped to its feet, shouting, “Hallelujah” and “Praise God!” The woman with the tambourine took the mic and began singing, enthusiastically accompanied by the guitarists. People joined in, clapping in time or raising their arms.

I didn't have a clue what they were singing, so I just clapped along.

After the first song ended, a second started. A man raced to the open space between the chairs and pulpit area and started dancing with steps vaguely like Irish clogging. A second, younger man quickly joined him in the front and spun in circles.

Smoke from the campfires drifted around the worshipers like streamers of chiffon. The electric lights turned the smoke into a swirling, jaundiced fog.

Almost everyone was standing. Two women on my right jerked, spun, and shouted words I couldn't understand. Another man moved to the front and ran from side to side. Ruby looked like she was crying, hands overhead, mouth moving.

The preacher grabbed the mic. “Hallelujah! God's not dead, He's still alive! Do you feel it?”

I could see the need for the handkerchief over the mic. He didn't just shout, he sprayed his words. The music tempo increased. More men rushed to the front, jumping, spinning, running. Most of the women were to the side, locking arms or waving hands overhead.

The preacher handed the mic to the tambourine woman and joined the cloggers.

The smoke stung my eyes and burned my nose. I blinked rapidly, focusing on faces.

The music slowed, but the frantic movement didn't. Now more people were talking in tongues than singing with the worship team. Gradually the pastor made his way to the raised pulpit and retrieved the mic. “Aaaaah, thank Ya, Jesus!”

A chorus of “thank Yous” echoed his sentiments.

“Let us pray,” the preacher said. The congregants found their way to their seats but remained standing for the prayer. I took my cue and stood as well.

Once finished, everyone sat. For the first time since I arrived, I could hear the frogs and crickets of the forest. The moon rose behind the trees, turning the branches into fingers reaching for the sky. The falling leaves whispered to each other in a chilly breeze. I snuggled into Blake's jacket, inhaling the hint of hay and aftershave.

The pastor opened the Bible on the table and began reading one line at a time. He'd then pause and the congregation would repeat the words. “For we are the circumcision, ha! Which worship God in the spirit, ha! And rejoice in Christ Jesus, ha! And have no confidence in the flesh, ha!”

Like a verbal exclamation mark, the “ha” was a burst of air at the end of each statement, lending a cadence to his sermon. His voice rose. “God is Spirit, ha. Do you know that, brothers? Do you know that, sisters? Do I hear an amen on that?”

Various people rose to their feet shouting, “Amen!”

“Those who worship Him, ha. Do you worship
Him
?”

Once again the congregation stood, arms waving, lips moving.

“Do you worship in spirit and truth, ha?” The pastor charged to the open area between the congregation and the pulpit. “Do you feel the Spirit? Ha!” he yelled into the mic. “The Spirit
moves
, ha! Hallelujah, praise God, ha!” He ran back and forth, jabbing his finger at the crowd, punctuating his words. “We're in revival, ha. God's Word says He'll pour out His Spirit upon all flesh, ha.” He spun and clogged, joined by several other men. “Now the Spirit is here, ha. Do you feel His Spirit, ha?”

The pastor stopped his clogging and glided to the snake boxes.

My toes curled and creeping ripples crossed my shoulders.

He reached into the box and grabbed two rattlers with one meaty hand, then hoisted them overhead. Easily over four feet long, they stretched forward and upward, their tongues flicking in and out.

I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. Aynslee had her hands in front of her eyes but peeked through her fingers. Sarah imitated Aynslee but peered through her fingers at my daughter.

He wrapped one snake around his neck and began clogging again, the second rattler dangling like a limp scarf from his hand. A younger man stopped twirling and reached for the
snake. The pastor passed him the one in his hand, then removed the one around his neck and continued to dance.

The tempo increased. Another man pulled more snakes out of a box and held them up. Dust joined the campfire smoke and swirled around the dancing worshipers. A woman lit the rag stuffed in the Coke bottle. The tang of kerosene touched the air. She passed the flame under her chin and outstretched arm. She didn't flinch, nor did the flame seem to burn her.

Again the music changed, slowing down. One by one, the handlers returned the snakes to their boxes. The woman extinguished the flame and placed the bottle on the card table. The pastor returned to the earthen pulpit, sweat pouring down his face and dampening his shirt under his arms.

“Praise God.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Do I have an amen?”

The congregation shouted enthusiastically as they returned to their seats.

I lowered my feet to the ground and rolled my head from side to side to relax my neck muscles.

“My brothers and sisters in Christ.” The pastor waved his arms, urging the congregation forward. “Are ya hurtin'? Do you have Christ?”

This was the altar call. As people went forward and gathered in groups for prayer or dropped to their knees in front of the rise of earth, I studied their faces. I identified six who were the primary snake handlers. Itching for a pencil, I concentrated on the individual features. My gaze then shifted to the rest of the congregation. I spotted Blake in the last row.

He was staring at me.

Quickly I turned to the front and slid down in my chair.

I could still feel his gaze burrowing into the back of my head.

Jumping to my feet, I whispered to Aynslee, “I'll be right back.” I strolled over to the group praying closest to me, making sure they were between Blake and myself, and put my hand on the nearest shoulder. It wasn't until Ruby reached up and took my arm that I realized it was her. A woman near the center led the prayer, while other voices murmured agreement or spoke in tongues. I peeked through the bowed heads but couldn't see Blake.

The prayer continued, this time with Ruby speaking. “Lord, I ask You to cleanse Sister Gwen.”

My head shot up. They were now praying over me.

Ruby gently propelled me forward until the prayer group surrounded me. Hands touched my arm, head, and back. “Touch her, O Lord. Free her . . .”

My face burned, my eyes spilled over.
God already knows the outcome. Why are you praying for me?

A large hand slid across my back and cupped my neck.
Blake.
I knew without looking.

Breathing became difficult. Was he praying over me or giving me a warning?

After an eternity, the prayer ended.

I turned. No one stood behind me, but I could still feel the heat of Blake's hand on my neck.

The tambourine woman had the mic and belted out a heartfelt rendition of “Amazing Grace.” I rejoined Aynslee and Sarah on the lawn chairs.

“What's wrong with your face?” Aynslee asked.

“You mean, besides having on no makeup, being dirty, and getting some horsehair smeared down the side?”

“You look funny.”

I felt funny, but now wasn't the time to analyze my emotions. Being married to Robert and with our turbulent divorce, I'd become very good at stuffing down feelings. I shrugged, hoping she'd drop the subject.

The evening's service wound down. A few believers were in front of the pulpit, some on their knees, but the bulk of the folks were moving off into the dark toward the tents. “Come on, Mom, I know where we're sleeping.”

She wove around the chairs, tents, campfires, and attendees to a blue-and-white tent near the stream. Blake stood by the opening, a propane lantern in his hand.

My steps faltered for a moment. “Um, did you want your coat back?”

“Eventually. For now, you need a light.” He handed me the lantern.

I took it. Our fingers barely touched. Heat flooded my face and I looked away.

“Would you, ah, would you like to go for a walk?” he asked. The lantern glinted on his sun-bleached hair, and his lip twitched with the tiniest smile. A hint of a five-o'clock shadow edged his strong jaw.

My rear end and thighs ached from riding, eyes burned from campfire smoke, and stomach churned from digesting squirrel stew. “Sure.” I handed the light to Aynslee and gave her my most devastating mom stare.
Don't you dare say a word . . .

She smirked at me. “Don't stay out too late.”

I gritted my teeth.
This has to be Robert's influence on my daughter.

He nodded to the right. I stuffed my hands in the coat
pockets and moved in that direction. The different tents lit up as the worshipers settled in for the night, and the full moon offered a blue tint to the landscape. We didn't speak until we reached a place where the stream pooled, forming a medium-sized pond.

My hands became sweaty, and I pulled them out and wiped them on my skirt. Why did I walk out here? Blake didn't trust me. He probably just wanted me alone to grill me on my purpose for being here.

The stream burbled pleasantly, and the fragrance of some flower perfumed the air. The moonlight glinted on the watery surface, and an occasional splash told me fish were seeking a bug dinner. Cool air fluttered through my hair.

Glancing at Blake, I found him studying me. “Do I have something on my face?” I reached up and checked.

“No. No.”

It just figured. Finally, here I was under a romantic moon with the best-looking man in the state, if not the East Coast, rich as King Solomon, and I was dressed in a puke-green blouse, long dirt-brown skirt safety-pinned at the waist, no makeup, and smelling like a horse.

“Did you just snort?”

Oh yeah, the icing on the cake. I just snorted
. “I . . . uh . . . had something in my throat.”
Smooth, Gwen.

“Well, Gwen—”

“Yes?”

“I'm just wondering what your story is.”

“My . . . story?”

“You have a daughter, but no wedding ring. You're not a member of this group, but here you are.”

“I told you why I'm here.”

“Where did you learn to ride a horse like that?”

“A long time ago I rode green broke horses. As rusty as I was, I was just happy to stay on. Now my turn. Did you put me on Rowdy to keep me from coming here? Hoping I'd get bucked off?”

He moved closer. Heat radiated off his body. He smelled of a blend of aftershave and campfire smoke.

I didn't care if he answered my question.

“And you saved Ruby's life.” He reached up to touch my hair, then let his hand drop.

“A pleasant good evening to you, is it . . . Blake? Yes. Blake.” The pastor's teeth gleamed in the dim light as he approached. “And you must be the new one.”

“Ah, yes, I'm—”

“No names, please.” The pastor looked over the pond. “Baptism here tomorrow. I wouldn't stay out late.”

“We were just leaving.” Blake motioned toward the tents and said to me, “Let me walk you back to your daughter.”

I didn't want to walk back to my daughter. I wanted more time to see what was next with him.

Careful not to touch me, he waved his hand toward the tents. “Evening, Pastor.”

“God bless you, son.”

The moonlight-on-the-water-in-autumn moment was gone, and I didn't know how to get it back.

Aynslee sat cross-legged on the ground outside the tent. She stood when she saw us. Blake gave a small salute with his fingers, then merged into the night.

“I like him.” Aynslee's eyes crinkled with delight. “Even if you do think he's a Neanderthal.”

A short laugh came from the direction of his retreating footsteps.

I dove into the tent. A cot with a sleeping bag sat on my left, a second sleeping bag on the ground to the right, both with pillows. A paper sack resting on the cot contained two toothbrushes, a comb, a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, a sliver of soap obviously lifted from a motel, and a hand towel. Also included in my travel inventory were two very worn but clean flannel nightgowns. From the generous size I guessed they belonged to Ruby.