His father didn’t look a hell of a lot better as he shuffled into the mess behind his son. The skin hung slack off Reggie’s neck, and the flesh under his eyes was the yellow of an old bruise.
Reggie and Nate got in the chow line. Neither of them glanced in Ellen’s direction.
Micah raised his eyebrows. That them? Ellen nodded.
The Reverend Amos Flesher came in last. The sermon had evidently revivified him—it was as if he had stolen vitality from his worshippers and taken it for himself. He passed down the queue, offering that limp-fingered blessing until he reached the head of it.
Great way to cut in line, Ellen thought sourly.
He took his meal—it was served on a fine china plate, Ellen noted, while everyone else’s stew was plopped into green plastic bowls—to his table at the head of the mess. There was only one chair at it.
When everyone was seated, the Reverend stood. The congregation followed suit.
“Mighty Lord,” the Reverend intoned, “thank You for this bounty You have placed before us. Thank You for this bread, this meat, this wine.”
“What’s he talking about?” Minerva whispered so low that only Ellen could hear. “I don’t see any wine.”
“Your beneficence, dear Lord, is unending. Without You we are nothing. You nourish and sustain all things. You provide food for all Thy creatures. Blessed art Thou, Lord, who feeds and waters His children here at Little Heaven. And blessed is Your mouthpiece, who carries Your divine word to the ears of Your flock.”
“Nifty,” said Minerva.
“Amen,” said Reverend Amos Flesher.
“Amen,” said the congregation.
“Amen,” said Ellen, uncomfortably.
Absolutely nothing, said Micah and Minerva.
A strained silence prevailed during the meal. Few people spoke, and if so, they did so in whispers. Even fewer hazarded glances in the newcomers’ direction.
Ellen watched the Reverend. He had an aggressive manner of eating: he held a slice of bread a few inches away from his face, and instead of bringing it to his mouth, he would dart forward like a predatory bird, snapping off bits of crust.
“We have guests tonight,” said the Reverend once he’d finished pecking at his food.
The congregation turned to them now, as if given permission. It was not unlike a single organism with a hundred eyes turning its concentrated gaze upon Ellen and her companions all at once.
“The Lord has brought them to our doorstep,” the Reverend said. “They fell into the pit dug by Brother Langtree and Brother Fairweather.” He clapped his hands, a dry sound like wood planks spanked together. “Finally! They managed to catch something!”
Laughter from the congregation. Ellen cast a sidelong glance at her nephew, Nate, sitting with Reggie. She caught no spark of recognition in their eyes. Good.
“They will stay with us only as long as it takes the fourth member of their party to heal,” he said. “If that is more than a few days, we will arrange for transport to the outside. The Lord has put this hurdle before us and we must abide.”
He’s speaking like we’re poison, Ellen thought. As though our presence is tainting his perfect utopia.
Dessert was passed around next. Tapioca pudding, as tasteless as the stew. Perhaps the Reverend viewed flavor as a sin? They ate in silence as before.
“Well, whoop-de-doo, what a fun bunch,” Minerva muttered. “What do they do on wild nights, watch paint dry?”
Twilight gathered against the mess hall’s plastic-sheet windows. Wind hissed through gaps in the walls with a zippery note.
Two men entered the mess. They had the look of brothers: the same sharp cheekbones and ferret-thin frames. One had a scoped rifle slung over his shoulder. The other had a revolver holstered at his hip like a Wild West gunslinger.
They moved briskly to the Reverend. All three inclined their heads in conversation. The two men spoke animatedly yet in hushed tones; the gunslinger made a few wild flourishes with his hands. The Reverend nodded and signaled for them to depart.
For a minute, the Reverend sat very still with his eyes closed. He opened one eye once, briefly, and his gaze was trained on Ellen’s table. His jaw worked side to side and his lips moved as if in silent prayer.
In time, he stood. His eyes remained closed. His body trembled slightly. The congregation sat riveted. Ellen caught sight of Reggie out of the corner of her eye. His face was cheese white and twitchy as he stared at Amos Flesher, enrapt.
“There come a test,” the Reverend said in a stagey kind of whisper. “In the life of every man there come a test…”
Nods from the congregation. Yes, oh yes, Ellen could picture them all thinking. The Lord tests the faithful.
“The son of Brother and Sister Rathbone has wandered into the woods.”
A shocked group inhale from the congregation—it was as though they had taken a breath as a single unit.
“Eli?” said a woman in a paisley frock. “Eli Rathbone’s missing?”
The Reverend paused, as if unsure of the boy’s name.
“He is safe,” Reverend Flesher said sharply. He cast a baleful eye upon the woman until she sat down again. “The Lord assures me of this. Brother Swicker and Brother Neeps have been looking for him, along with his parents. But now we all must gather. The light draws thin. The poor boy shall not spend the night outdoors.”
Everybody rose. People were animated now—their bodies moved with the jerky-limbed mania that grips a group of people on the cusp of mass hysteria. The Reverend’s chin was tilted upward, his face set in a mask of forbearance—Ellen wondered: Did he envision the boy’s disappearance as a test for himself?
Ellen, Minerva, and Micah filtered into the square, where the adults were gathering. The children had been sent off to the bunkhouses. A few people had flashlights. Ellen spotted Reggie carrying a lantern that gave off a weak glow, its glass blackened with kerosene smudges. Rags were tied to the tips of scrap two-by-twos and dipped into a bucket of creosote. The jury-rigged torches were lit with a Zippo passed from person to person. This all happened quickly and silently. The two-by-twos, rags, and creosote were all at the ready, as if waiting for this very eventuality.
The armed men who looked like brothers addressed the throng.
“Eli’s folks is out thataway,” the one with the rifle said, pointing at a general area past the fence. “They ain’t seen the boy in a few hours. They thought he was with the others in the play area.”
The man with the holstered gun was smoking a home-rolled cigarette. He flicked the butt into the weeds and said, “A mother ought to keep mind of her kids.” He cast an eye on the group, picking out the mothers in its midst. “Ain’t that a pure fact?”
Nobody spoke against him. The torches crackled, sending up plumes of stinking smoke. The flames flickered on the worshippers’ pale pinched faces.
“We’ll fan out,” said the rifleman. “East, west, south, north. No telling whichaway the boy went, or how far afield.”
“Better not be too far,” his partner said. “The woods are a dangerous place to be at night.”
The rifleman grinned. “Lovely, dark and deep.”
Ellen did not care for these two. They seemed to be taking delight in this. The rifleman then pointed at the outsiders.
“You stay here. This is not your calling.”
Minerva and Micah were already holding torches. Micah levered his torch back on his shoulder until his face grew dark. “Your call,” he said.