The Preacher's Marsh Page 9

  “We have to get you out of here. There’s no other way. You have to go now, into the swamp. You can’t be here when they come, and you can’t come back – not soon, maybe never. When they come, people are going to be hurt. Our lives are going to be turned upside down, but Isaiah has enough sense not to kill off his workforce. Sheriff Thomas won’t be able to stop them, but I think he’ll do what he can. If they find you, though,” Gideon turned to his son, “they’ll string you up. No one will stop them, and no one will blame them. I can’t let that happen.”

  The younger man nodded. His anger was boiling up again, but he kept it just below the surface of his mind. He knew his father was right, but he couldn’t think about it. If he remembered Bart Pope’s leering, hate-filled face, or the things he’d said, he’d never be able to concentrate enough to get out of town. He’d never be able to walk away and live.

  “But what about you?” he said at last. “What about mother? What about Desi?” He nodded at his sister.

  The older man lowered his head, and then raised it again. His gaze was level, and his voice was steady when he answered.

  “Your mother and your sister will go with you,” he said. “At least for now, it’s the only way. They will come soon. Maybe as early as this afternoon, but I don’t think so. It depends on how bad the boy is hurt. If he’s up and drinking by tonight, that’s when they’ll come.”

  “What will you do?” young Gideon asked. “Will you come with us?”

  “I can’t do that,” his father replied. “I have a responsibility here. Even if they didn’t count on me for spiritual guidance, these people never asked me to bring all of this down on them. A long, long time ago in a little town in Illinois, I made a decision, and this is a continuation of that. It’s mine to do. You’ll need your mother to guide you in the swamp…without her you won’t need the Popes to end your life.”

  “I don’t want to go, Papa,” his daughter said, stepping forward. Desdemona reached out for her daughter’s arm, but was shrugged off.

  “I want to stay with you. It’s not me they’re after and …”

  Isaiah looked up as well, and Reverend Swayne felt the knife of his guilt stab deeper into his heart. He knew the two, Isaiah and his daughter, were all but betrothed. It would be a matter of weeks, maybe even days, before the boy asked his blessing. Now it was out of the question. As much as he would love to have Isaiah for his son, he couldn’t allow it at the cost of his daughter’s life, or worse. And there were worse things possible. He knew only too well the depths that the men of Old Mill could stoop to.

  “You must go,” he said. “You must go with your mother, and your brother, and it must be now. Take what food and water you can, take whatever you need. I will hold services tonight. I’ll bring everyone together, and we will stand as one. I don’t know what, if any good it will do, but it’s the only answer I have. We’ll pray, and we’ll wait, and what comes will come, but I have to know that the three of you will be safe.”

  His wife glared at him from the shadows. He knew she was angry – he felt it radiating from her like heat from a flame. He also knew she was frightened, not for herself, and probably not for him, but for their children – and for all the others they cared for. She didn’t argue. She stepped forward, grabbed her daughter by the arm, and simply said, “Come.”

  She turned and slipped out the door so quickly she might have been a shadow passing, and reluctantly, with a tragic glance over her shoulder, her daughter followed. Gideon stood, but Elijah held him back.

  “Not yet,” the man said. He rose, as well.

  “You go with them into that swamp,” Elijah said, “and you don’t stop. You get far enough from here to be safe, and you take care of them.”

  Gideon nodded. Elijah shook him. “I mean it.”

  “Elijah,” Reverend Swayne said, stepping closer.

  “No sir,” Elijah said, stepping back. “You let me talk. You need to hear this, and there may never be another chance to tell you. I love your daughter. I would go now and take her away and make sure she is safe, but my mama is here. My friends are here. Sarah is here. I can’t leave them any more than you can leave them but I want you to know – I love Desi; I’ve loved her so long now I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know I’d spend my life with her.

  “Now this happens. I lived my entire life one field away from that family, those white devils with their lying preacher and their evil ways, and I survived. I lived, and you lived, and we stood here, Gideon, together. We’ll stand together tonight, but I’m telling you now, so you’ll know. When it’s over – when I’m sure that things have settled into whatever comes next, and the danger has passed, I’ll be going too. Wherever she goes, I’ll follow. Wherever she lives, that is where my life will begin, and end.

  “So you,” he turned to young Gideon, who stood pale and trembling under the sudden verbal assault, “will get them out of here safe. I want you to tell her for me, because if I tell her, she won’t go – or I will – and it will end badly. Tell her I love her, and that I’ll come for her. Tell her I’ll watch out for your pa, and that we’ll be together, just like I told her. Together forever. Now get out of here and don’t stop. Don’t look back. Don’t wonder what happened, or think about stopping.”

  The boy turned then, and dashed from the church. He didn’t look back, not at his father, the building, the clearing, or at anything. His eyes ran with tears and his mind raged. He didn’t want to escape. He didn’t want to run into the swamp, he wanted to run into the fields and scream his defiance to the Popes, daring them to come and take him. He wanted to fight, and feel the pain, wanted to be pounded until he was senseless and the guilt building inside him faded to a dull, throbbing ache, or was wiped away completely.

  He crashed through the trees. Others watched over him, following him, closing in behind and keeping track of his progress. He nearly ran headlong into his mother, who stood very still in the center of the trail, waiting. At the last possible moment, she spoke his name.

  “Gideon.”

  He saw her, and he saw his sister, and though he tried to run by them, to crash into the trees and into oblivion and let the swamp swallow him whole, his strength failed him. She spoke his name, and it was as if the breath had been slammed from his lungs, or he’d run into a tree. He stumbled, and he fell to his knees at her feet. She stood looking down at him for a moment, then stepped forward and pulled him close against her.

  Desdemona stared back over his shoulder toward the church. Her eyes misted, and though her features betrayed none of her pain, it screamed for release. She closed her eyes and she sent her breath into the trees, sent it to the church and to the man she loved, the man who’d stolen her heart. The man whose God she’d come to trust, only to be betrayed in the end. So quickly. Like dry leaves in a fire, crumbled to dust in the space of an instant as if it had never been.

  “Come,” she said. She turned, and after a moment Gideon struggled to his feet. He saw that his sister had a heavy bag over her shoulder and another at her feet. She held it out to him without a word, her eyes warring between fear, anger, and something much deeper. She looked so much like his mother in that instant that he had to shake his head and close his eyes to clear the image.

  The three of them diverged from the trail together. The swamp was about a mile distant, but that was only the trailing edge. It stretched up into Virginia and sidelong, skirting fields and other towns, farms and plantations. There were inlets and pools, bogs and marshes, places no man had ever walked and lived to talk about, and it was all that awaited them.

  The news would spread further than Old Mill. When they didn’t find Gideon in the camp, the sheriff would be forced to send out word to the surrounding farms. The boy's likeness would be displayed in general stores, on city streets, in taverns. They’d know him by name and they’d be looking for him, fair game. A nigger they could beat and not get into any trouble for it. Someone to take out the war, and the changing world they all shared on
. He was a marked man, and even the swamp might not take him far enough away to outrun it – but he had to try.

  After an hour, he stopped.

  “Wait,” he said.

  His mother turned in anger and was about to speak; then she saw his eyes. His sister turned as well, staring at him. All emotion had gone from her features. Only her eyes smoldered.

  It was his sister he addressed.

  “Elijah told me…he said…”

  “I know,” she replied, biting the anger from her lips. She didn’t want to be angry with her brother but she teetered on a madness that could send her over the edge of a very thin fence, and it could throw her in either direction. “I know, Gideon. He loves me. I love him too.”

  “He’ll come,” Gideon said simply. “When it’s over – when it’s safe – he’ll come.”

  She turned her head bitterly, and he was across the small clearing in a second, gripping her tightly by the shoulder.

  “He’ll come. He’s a good man, and he loves you. If he doesn’t come, I’ll get you back to him. I promise.”

  “You’d better not let your tongue get you in any more trouble,” she said. She shouldered her bag. “You’ve done enough.”

  ‘Desi!” her mother almost hissed the word, and the girl reeled as if slapped. She didn’t turn to her mother, though. She kept walking. After a moment, Gideon and his mother followed.

  By the time the afternoon shadows grew long, they’d reached the outskirts of The Great Dismal Swamp and, without hesitation, crossed that dark border and disappeared from the world.

  * * *

  As shadows fell over the tiny clearing, the church filled steadily. They streamed in from all directions, the old, the young, some who worshipped with Gideon every week, and some he’d never seen except in the fields, or at a meal. Others had come from surrounding farms, or deeper in the swamp, men and women who hadn’t worked the fields in years, but felt the need to be a part of what was happening on this one night.

  They knew Desdemona. She had birthed their children, healed their sickness and spoken over their dead. When they were frightened, or needed comfort, it was she who cast the bones and lit the candles, or brought sweet smelling incense and sang the old songs. They had come to respect Reverend Swayne. Maybe they even loved him, but it wasn’t for him that they came. The younger Gideon was Desdemona’s son. He didn’t share her gifts, or her site, but he shared her blood, and they owed her – many of them their lives. They might not be able to keep the Pope’s away from the church, or the clearing, but they could make it as difficult as possible to get away with murder.

  They tasted it on the wind. Lookouts had watched the Pope House for hours. Lights blazed in all the windows, and a number of men had been seen coming and going. Loud voices had been heard more than once, and just before sunset, Bart Pope had staggered out to the edge of the cotton field. He wavered, either still hurt and dazed, or falling down drunk, and he stared straight across the field toward the church. He screamed at them, but they were too far away to hear. Isaiah came and dragged him back to the house, but not before it became clear that, if he had to come by himself, Bart Pope would be visiting the camp that night and he’d be out for blood.

  The church was lit with hundreds of candles. Some were held by those seated in the pews. Some lined the windows, still more sat on the small altar Gideon had created, working the planks by hand and smoothing them with a plane made from broken straight razor. It was the one thing in the ramshackle building that had been crafted with great care. It held the holy items Gideon had carried with him all the miles from Random Illinois. It held his Bible. With the candle flames dancing around the room, the open pages of that worn volume grew to huge shadows on the walls. Gideon stood behind the altar, his head bowed in prayer, waiting until the church was full.

  He hadn’t spoken since his family fled into the swamp. Even Elijah, and then Sarah, who had shown up to join them, hadn’t been able to bring him around. He’d thumbed through the old Bible, running his fingers slowly across verses here and there, reading inscriptions from the ladies of his old congregation, or appearing to read them. His mind was a million miles away, following three sets of footsteps to a place he might never be able to follow.

  The world had shifted so suddenly it took his breath, and his concentration, and he stood there as the pews filled and the air in the room grew heavy and close. A low murmur swept through those gathered, but he didn’t try and decipher the words. There were too many, spoken too softly, and none of them could help. Nothing could help.

  He sent his mind back across the years, through the trees and down to the edge of the slick green water. He dredged up memories of the candles and incense, the smoke and the power he’d sensed there, just beyond that dancing smoke. It seemed like a dream to him. Though he remembered it vividly, the flash of Desdemona’s hands, the chanting song and the bones tumbling through the air in slow-motion arcs to embed themselves in the dirt. He glanced up and scanned the faces before him.

  He stood very straight, suddenly alert. There was a hole in his memory that he had to fill, a thing he had to know that he’d never asked. He couldn’t believe, thinking back on it, that it had never occurred to him before, but he latched onto it now. He couldn’t do anything more to help his son, or his daughter, and his wife was gone from him, but there was something he could distract himself with if he could only find the right person.

  He saw her in the second row. She was tucked in beside Elijah, whose broad shoulders towered over her. Gideon Swayne stumbled into his congregation, walking down the aisle and stopping beside the two. All eyes in the room followed him. The voices stilled. Gideon dropped to one knee, reached out over Elijah’s lap, and took Sarah’s hand in his own. She was nervous, but she didn’t pull back. She’d known Gideon most of her life, and she trusted him.

  “Long ago,” he said, finding his lips and tongue dry and his voice cracked. It had been too long since he’d had a drink, or licked his lips. He fought to be understood. “A very long time ago, when I first came here – before this church was built, I went with her – with Desdemona – to the swamp. We went a long way, down the water. She drew a circle, and sang, and she cast a handful of old bones. She told me it was for you – that your mother had asked her, and that she had to do what she could.”

  He stopped, frustrated. He wanted to ask her what the bones had revealed. He wanted to know what Desdemona had told the girl’s mother, and to know if it had been true. He needed to know, very suddenly, that the strength he knew so well, the power that glowed behind his wife’s eyes, was real, and strong. Sarah watched him carefully, but he knew she would not speak. He didn’t know why she was silent, or what had happened to make it so, but he knew God was testing him with this. It wasn’t his faith in his religion that was on the line, but his faith in his wife – in the swamp – in the people he’d come to love and trust.

  He patted Sarah’s hand and rose slowly, turning back toward the altar.

  He had gone only a couple of slow steps when a soft voice cut through the deep silence. He wasn’t sure he’d heard anything at all, and nearly passed it off as a whispered comment from the rear of the room.

  He turned. Sarah stood, gazing at him with wide, soulful eyes. She had a hand on Elijah’s shoulder for strength, and the young man stared at her, his mouth open wide.

  “What…”

  Before Gideon could continue, Sarah spoke again. This time he heard her. They all heard her.

  “She said I had a gift. She said…” the girl hesitated, choosing the sounds and forming them carefully into words. “She said I’d know when it was time to talk.”

  “Now?” Gideon asked. “Why…why now, child?”

  “They’re coming.” She said simply. Her eyes widened as if speaking the words made the prediction true for her as well.

  Gideon didn’t have to ask who she meant. He stood for a long time, just watching Sarah’s pretty face. She returned his gaze, but she trembled, and h
e saw she was terrified. He wondered if she’d always been able to speak, and only waited for the time to be right – for something truly important to say. That it was this – that it was a prophecy of this magnitude, was another tragedy piled onto a day of sorrow. He nodded at her and turned. He shook his head as if waking from a long dream.

  When he turned, he swept them with bright eyes. The lethargy of only a few moments past was forgotten. They were here to help him. They were here to stand at his side against overwhelming odds. Many of them must have been terrified, he knew, but they were here. Energy filled the air, and he drew on it. He stepped to his altar and stood there, lit brightly by the candle flames.

  “All of you know why we’re here,” he said. His voice carried easily. He felt strength and energy pour into him in a way he had only felt once before. He worried, just for a moment, that Desdemona had come back – that she’d been unable to turn away from him, and the people she loved – that she’d come back to fight. He brushed the worry aside. She was gone, his son was gone, his daughter was gone, but he remained. “There are limits to how far a man can be pushed. I know the Good Book teaches us humility. I know it teaches us to turn the other cheek. It also teaches us there is strength in our faith. It also teaches us that we must fight back against oppression. I can’t condone what my son did today, but I can understand it. I can’t change what happened in that field, and I would lay down my own life to have it taken back.

  “This is a dark night. It is going to get darker. They will come – Sarah tells us they are already coming.”

  He stared out the still open door of the church directly ahead of him, down the aisle. More faces gazed in at him from the clearing beyond, and he thought he detected eyes beyond those, as well. There was no way to know how many they were, but the word that came to him was a name.