Neither of us saw anything wrong. I think I was the first to smile. We approached and shook hands.
“Gannon, my boy,” said the Preacher. He let go of his axe to clasp my hand, a centuries-old sign of trust. “How’s your brother doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
Reverend John Thomas was tall, even taller than I was, but thinner and twenty years older. He wore a long weather-stained cloak that matched his big, weathered hands. The cloak’s original color was a matter of conjecture, but now it was a deep brown. It hid most of his clothing within its shadowy interior, but visible below the hem were a heavy pair of well-worn boots. Around his neck he wore a stiff white collar and an equally stiff-brimmed fedora sat on his sharp-featured head. His appearance, garb and attitude would have fit the world better a century earlier. But then again, maybe his time had finally returned.
“Every time I see you, I know some of us are more blessed than others.”
“Just a bit of luck, sir,” I said, sheathing my saber.
“No,” he said very seriously. I looked at his hawk-nose and met his burning eyes under the fedora’s wide brim. “No, not luck. There were nearly four thousand of us in Redmoor and the surrounding hills last year. I’ve been keeping a tight tally. I now estimate there are about fifty of us left. By All Hallows Eve I would think there will be half that. But you boy, you will be one of those to survive if any do.”
Anyone under thirty was a boy, in the Preacher’s mind. This bothered Vance, but not me. He turned and walked back toward the cabin’s rickety wooden porch. Pondering his grim words, I followed him. I thought of Monika, and how I could get her out of Vance’s reach, and if there was somewhere to run to. Less than fifty left? Were we all doomed?
Both of us heard a sound in the woods then. It sounded like the voice of a girl. It wasn’t quite a giggle, nor a shriek, but something in-between. We paused and turned in unison. Both of us stood there scanning the trees. I quietly drew my saber.
The Preacher shouldered his axe. It rode there easily and naturally. I had seen him swing it, and he had an art with it that came from chopping perhaps a thousand trees to kindling.
“Come forth, lost one,” he said loudly, but gently. His tone wasn’t challenging, but rather filled with pity. He took a step toward the trees. Something moved in there, something that scuttled from one tree trunk to duck behind another. I glanced over my shoulder and eyed the cabin roof and thought about last night and my own cabin roof. I stepped forward too, wanting open space all around us. These things usually charged in close. I held my heavy saber high, but did not fully extend my arm, as I wasn’t sure from which quarter the attack might come.
“Come forth, that ye might be judged,” the Preacher boomed now, his voice a sonorous volume that filled the quiet clearing. Another shape, pallid in color and moving low to the ground like a running dog, moved between different trees on the other side of the clearing.
“How many are there?” I hissed aloud. Sweat ran down my arms and made tickling lines all the way to my elbows.
The Preacher ignored me. He stepped two more paces toward the trees and raised out his arms in a beseeching gesture. In one hand he held his Bible, in the other his axe, with his knuckles wrapped high up around the haft of it. “Come home,” he called out to the woods. “I offer you peace, if nothing else.”
The woods were silent. There was no more movement. We waited for several minutes, but still nothing came at us.
The Preacher nodded. “They will wait, so we will wait.”
He turned and went into the cabin. I followed him with many glances over my shoulder.
Five
It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom inside the cabin. Heavy blankets blocked out all the windows. A single lantern hanging over the Preacher’s desk illuminated the interior. He saw me looking around at the blocked windows.
“A theory of mine. They are attracted to the light and sounds of human habitation-the wandering ones, that is. Not all of them are lost like those outside, some have great purpose. I’ve started calling the purposeful ones seekers.”
Seekers. I thought of Billy, and of the meter man who had gotten my dad. Had the meter man harbored some kind of hatred for everyone on his route? Or was he just following some last shred of memory from his past life? I recalled that he had taken pains to go after every dog he met. I filed away the Preacher’s theory of seekers and blacked out windows in my growing mental cabinet of survival notes.
Sitting across from him at his desk, I made my report. I told him about Monika and Billy and the three-pointed hoof-prints. As I did so, I pondered how he and a few others in our community had become our leaders. There had never been a vote, or even a discussion. The natural leaders of the group had simply started with suggestions, and soon, in these desperate times, everyone else had followed them. The good Reverend John Thomas was one of our natural leaders.
He nodded in thought when I finished my report. “In the immediate sense, this is good news. We have a new young female in our group-a net gain of population. However, considering the indications as to what is going on in the outside world, things are not so good.”
I showed him the newspapers from Louisville and he pored over them with great interest. I joined him, and we spent half an hour of reading them over and discussing them, like two generals reading over the secret plans of the enemy. The Preacher got up and poured us the coffee he had been brewing. I sipped it carefully; he always made it strong and black. There was never even a hint of my usual preferred sugar or cream, but somehow, I still liked the taste when he made it.
Outside, I thought to hear a skittering sound. It was followed by strange series of padding steps across the porch. It sounded like a dog had jumped up and ran off the porch into the yard. But I knew the Preacher didn’t have a dog. He glanced toward the front door, paused, and when nothing happened, he pointedly ignored it. I followed his example and did the same.
“The breakdown of electronics appears to be centered in this region,” he said. “As are some of the first reports of strange events,” he said. “Very good thinking to bring this in. It supports everything I’ve been puzzling over for the last week or two.”
“And that is?”
“That we are in the center of this, or at least a local center. If you read the reports, they are almost all about changelings in our area. But in other areas, there are different effects.”
“Yes, like the one from England about the shining little men.”
“And reports from California of marching rocks and trees.”
“Yes.” I suppressed a shudder. The thought would have been humorous a few months ago, but now that I had seen so many fantastic things, I was glad I wasn’t facing boulders with huge maws, or trees with grasping branches that lurched, rather than walked, after their tiny, soft, fleshy victims.
“I’ve come to some theories, after poring over many texts, both old and new,” continued the Preacher. He tapped his Bible meaningfully as he said this. I knew, however, he was a broad reader. Lining the walls of his cabin were hundreds of dusty volumes, mostly non-fiction, covering a startling array of subjects.
“I think there must be a source, or sources, to all of this and I’ve found places to start looking.” He spread out an old map on the table between us. The corners were yellowed, stained and there were tears along the fold lines. There were some colored pencil lines drawn here and there around the borders of Redmoor. “Fifty years ago, Lake Monroe was a valley. They dammed up one end of it and built the biggest reservoir in Indiana right here.”