“… If he entered the mines to seek companionship, however, he did not find it. Deepwater Number Nine Coalmine supervisor Barney Davis recalls that he was a listless worker, did not participate in union activities or attend meetings, was not well liked.” [Barney Davis: “He didn’t get along with anybody. Nobody wanted to work with him. Even his escape from disaster last January was a sign of this isolation. There were seven guys barricaded in that room. Six of them were together and they died. Bruno lay a ways off from them, and he lived. Maybe he had more oxygen, since he didn’t have to share it with anybody. The only guy in the mine who took pity on him was his working buddy Ely Collins. Reverend Collins.”] “Ely Collins, an evangelist preacher of the Church of the Nazarene, was one of those six men who died, trapped in that same space with Giovanni Bruno … but not before he had managed to write a brief note to his wife, Mrs. Clara Collins.” [Clara Collins: “‘I disobeyed and I know I must die. Listen always to the Holy Spirit in your Hearts. Abide in grace—’”]
And then the dams began to break, the mountains to crumble, the walls to fall, all the fountains of the great deep to burst forth, and the windows of heaven to open …
“… God in His mercy … a white bird … found him in a … Virgin Mary … message from the tomb … attractive softspoken girl born … unavailable for comment … able to pass on this good news to all the world …”
Has she slept again? Was she awake before? The chill is gone, the tunic lowered. The house is silent. Silent? Marcella rises.
Miller woke, still on his back. The room was dark, but for the image pitched by the television set, enough to enable him to make out the bluish billowing terrain of Happy’s bottom beside him. Something was missing. Announcer: “When it’s time to relax, time for a smoke, enjoy the real American flavor, the natural mildness, the kingsize satisfaction …” He, leaning out: “Aha.” She: “Don’t rock the boat.”
Marcella finds the house empty. Signs throughout of a sudden departure. Even her mother and brother are gone. Gone! A cry leaps to her throat. Can it be? It is coming! They forgot her! They have left her behind! She runs out the door. Gone! They have all gone! She is alone! Alone in the darkness! Wait! Wait!
The television off, bedlamp on, cold drink beside him, enjoying a smoke, belly down and Happy Bottom astride, giving him a really tremendous rubdown, he mused: “You know, the appeal of Noah is not the Ark or the rescue.”
“No?”
She was being sarcastic, but he went on. “They just added that stuff to make the story credible.”
“Aha.”
That was worse than sarcasm, that was outright mockery, but still he went on. “No, it’s the righteous destruction, that’s what it’s all about. We’re all Noahs.”
“Why”—as though astonished—“that’s true!”
And still he went on. “So, see, the excitement of the disaster is over unless new destruction is possible. If Noah has three sons, one and preferably two have to become corrupt, so that we can—”
Abruptly, she backed off and cracked his ass mightily, a kingsize belt that made him drop his smoke — grabbed it up, but not before he’d put a neat brown hole in the sheet. And then she cracked the other cheek and said, “And this is the sign of my covenant!” At which time, in view of the way things stood, he stubbed out the cigarette.
Running on the mine road, she can see their fire ahead. On the Mount. She hardly feels the ruts stabbing her bare feet, hardly notices the night’s damp chill, ignores the binding cramp in her chest, the lightness in her head. Will she be on time? Oh wait! And then she seems to see light, even to feel—yes! it is coming! Surging up behind. She races desperately against its advance. The light grows, gathers, enlarges. Ahead of her, always just ahead of her, spreading, filling the—the fire on the Mount is out! She cannot make it! Oh please! She sees her shadow as the light sweeps down on her from behind. She tries to enclose herself in its sweep. She spreads wide her arms to hold it back. Suddenly: lights spring up before her! out of nowhere! lights on all sides! flooding the world! she in its center! It comes! she cries. God is here! she laughs. And she spins whirls embraces light leaps heaving her bathing in light her washes and as she flows laughs His Presence light! stars burst sky burns with absolute laugh light! and
4
For I am the least of the apostles,
that am not meet to be called an apostle,
because I persecuted the Church of God.
But by the grace of God
I am what I am….
Abner Baxter stood brooding and crestfallen in the ditch over the battered body. Blood glistened yet in dark drools from mouth to ears, and the bright glitter had not yet departed from her open eyes. How many cars had struck her, he did not know, but he knew one that had. Lights sliced damply now through the night air and the country silence was laced with the shrieks and moans of men and women alike. A doctor pronounced her dead, and a great threnodial plaint went up. The prophet knelt to kiss her and rose with blood staining his lips, his face drawn with grief. A woman, the doctor’s wife, indeed the very woman who two months before had inveighed against him in the prophet’s house, now scourged him with lacerating cries of “murderer!” and “fiend!” and a hostile passion smoldered and grew in that great multitude. Compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, Abner found that the will to resist had left him utterly. He had left his wife Sarah blubbering in the car, had marched boldly back down the mine road, past the shocked and stricken faces, in the ruthless beams of light, down the road to where he’d struck her, had seen her from the lip of the ditch lying at the bottom like a crumpled bird, lights from wrecked cars illuminating spectrally her small body, and with strength still, and with calm presence of mind, had strode down into this ditch, here to arrive standing still while others bent over her, here to see her twitch and die … and now it was done. Sister Clara Collins stood there, across the body from him, watching him. The doctor bent over the girl still, along with that Wosznik fellow and several others. Of his own people, Abner alone was there. Which was as it should be. The others wept. He would have too, perhaps, but something restrained him: a sense of propriety maybe, as though … as though he had no right. Those terrible texts which had been troubling him these past weeks, those passages which spoke of the rebellion which must precede Christ’s return, now sprang forth in his mind, augmenting his affliction. Apologies formed on his tongue, but he seemed incapable of speech. He stood by the dead child in the midst of that mantling hysteria and execration and waited — for what? Perhaps: to be slain. “Monster!” shrieked that maddened woman. “Butcher!”
“No, friends! We’re all murderers!” From a quarter least expected: it was Sister Clara Collins, ennobled, it would seem, by her own great griefs, and thus less undone by this present one, who now spoke forth boldly: “We all killed her with our hate and with our fear!” And he recognized the magnitude of it, the greatness of spirit, and he was stirred in the soul and much amazed. She stared then at his face, and Abner gave her much to read there, if she could but discern it. “Abner,” she said softly, softly though her voice carried far in the night air and stilled the lamentations, “this awful thing is a judgment on us — Please! Join hands with us now and pray!”