Black Noon (21 page)

In the days that followed, Keyes did his best to avoid the company of Deliverance. He succeeded to the extent that if they were together there was someone there with them. He avoided the shed area altogether, day or night. He spent as much time as possible with Lorna, except for an evening drink with Caleb and Joseph, while Bethia stood watch over Lorna upstairs. Usually it was not more than a half hour or so in an aromatic room redolent of pipe tobacco and traces of patternless blue smoke, while Joseph was rocking, half asleep between sips of brandy.

“Caleb, may I ask you something that's a bit contradictory here in San Melas?”

“I hope I can provide a satisfactory answer, m'boy. Go ahead.”

“It didn't take long to notice that there was not one . . . ‘saloon,' here in town, yet you have no qualms about keeping a stock of brandy—by the way—ver y excellent brandy, in your home . . . actually there are two questions. Are you the exception, since you're the mayor, or do the rest of the citizens, also, lay up a supply in their households?”

“You're right, of course, Jon, there is no saloon here. But the Good Book contains no prohibition against an occasional libation, does it, Joseph?”

“‘. . . eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart.'”

“Ah, but a ‘saloon' as you call it, without a family setting can soon lead to, well . . . you don't need much imagination to imagine to what. So we thought it best not to strew our citizens' pathway with any such temptation. Would you care for a refill?”

“Well . . .”

“A ‘cup of kindness' to quote the Scottish poet. Just one more cup?”

“All right, just a touch.”

Caleb smiled as he poured.

“I mentioned ‘family setting.' We strongly believe in family. There is no such thing as divorce in our faith. It's strictly till death do us part.' Unfortunately, that's what happened to my beloved Amantha, when she was much too young.”

“I'm sorry, Caleb. Amantha, I'll remember her in my prayers.”

“Very good of you. You know, Jon, these farewell drinks are getting to be a splendid ritual.”

“Speaking of rituals, I've got to work on the sermon for Sunday. Only two more days, and the church is in good enough shape to . . .”

“Not quite . . . and I'm going to ask one more favor after all you're done.”

“Of course. What can I do, Caleb?”

“What do you know about Summer Solstice?”

“Summer Solstice? Not much. Actually, very little. I'm not much on astronomical manifestations. Isn't it the longest day of the year?”

“That, and much more to us, to our religion . . . the most hallowed of all days, except for the birth. Let me explain briefly as possible, if you don't mind.”

“Please do.”

“Summer Solstice: Latin,
‘sol'
for sun.
‘Sistere,'
or stand still, but dating back before Neolithic times—from dwellers in caves, to the clusters of civilizations, across the sands of mystic Egypt, the gardens of Babylon, the span of the Ottoman Empire, to the glory of Alexander, and the grandeur of Rome with the coming of Christendom, when it was—and still is—celebrated as Saint John's Day, also known as the Feast of Saint John. Quite a coincidence, isn't that, Reverend?—maybe even more than just a coincidence.” Caleb relit the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “Jon, we celebrate the outer and inner fire of each of us, at the altar of light and gratitude. It is the hallmark of brighter and better things to come. I cannot tell you how much each Summer Solstice means to us . . . and on this occasion you have been sent to us. You see, this year the Summer Solstice falls on—not this coming Sunday, but on the next, June twenty-sixth. We've done without a Sunday service in the church since it burned down. Please let's wait for that service in the new church until the twenty-sixth. It will be completely finished by then and maybe Sam will be back with the doctor, and likely even Lorna will be well enough to attend. You've done so much. Will you do this as a final goodwill gesture for all of us?”

“Caleb. How could I refuse?”

To Keyes that next week seemed to have more, many more, than seven days.

There in San Melas, he recalled and relived, most of his life, before, and since meeting, then marrying Lorna—from farm boy—to law school student—encountering Custer—to soldier, war—wounded at Yellow Tavern—and Reverend James Mason—to becoming a man of the ministry—and husband—the journey toward Saguaro as far as the punishing desert would allow—the rescue by Caleb, Joseph, and Deliverance, taken to San Melas—Lorna's sickness—the menace of Moon—the “miracles” of the crippled Ethan—and the mine—the vision of the burned and battered man in the mirror—Moon's death and the first time he heard the sound of Deliverance's voice—her allurement and the torment of his own guilt—Lorna's relapse—sending for a doctor in Tres Cruses—and waiting for the Summer Solstice service in the resurrected church—just more than a week—in the kind of time not made in calendars.

By now, that, too, had passed.

June twenty-sixth. The day of the Summer Solstice. The longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

In San Melas the spotlight of the sun streaked over the rugged peaks of the distant mountains with a glowing brilliance onto the hardpan of desert.

Caleb Hobbs had not exaggerated the effect that the Summer Solstice service would have on the citizens of San Melas. Mayor Hobbs had made the announcement at the town hall meeting, and the news met with a most enthusiastic response, gratitude, and appreciation. The word spread like a welcome breeze. There was even a bulletin posted on a pillar outside of the Bryants' store, where notices were placed to inform passersby of special events. The news was on everyone's smiling lips.

In those last few days Caleb Hobbs was even more at ease than usual, as if he actually took on the role as captain of a ship, enjoying his pipe, while in peaceful waters, entering a safe harbor.

The sinewy Joseph continued his rocking with a dreamy, contented smile on his elfin face.

Bethia was her usual efficient self, always there, quietly in the background, ready, willing, and capable of performing her duties.

In the meantime, Keyes had worked and reworked his sermon. Writing and rewriting—even taking long walks while rehearsing and rephrasing the message.

And he had spent hour after hour at the bedside of Lorna, hoping, and yes, praying for any sign of improvement—but if anything, the sign pointed in the wrong direction. If the doctor did not arrive soon, it was apparent that her condition would continue to deteriorate until the inevitable end.

But during those last few days it was almost as if Deliverance were deliberately avoiding Keyes. It was she who departed when he entered—and entered when he left—as if her absence might become more enticing later.

That morning of the Sunday Solstice service, he caught a glimpse of her as she was prepared to leave, and it seemed to him she was not dressed for a church service, but more as she had appeared to him in that first dream—more like a pristine vision in white.

Beneath the towering, sun-splayed cross, from inside the church with the fresh smell of paint and gleaming newly polished pews, came the spiritual chorus of uplifted voices.

Caleb stood behind the pulpit singing, his voice, even louder and more distinguishable than the others in the congregation, which consisted of every man, woman, and child of San Melas.

Keyes was seated to the side of the pulpit holding his Bible and the papers on which he had labored over his sermon. His face was flushed with despair, his eyes desolate but occasionally glancing up to the parishioners who filled all the benches. Joseph in his shiny Sunday suit, William, Pricilla, and young Ethan Bryant—still absent was Sam Hawkins, who had yet to return from his mission of mercy—and Bethia, who tended to Lorna, too weak to rise from the confinement of her bed—but all the rest were there with devout faces gazing eagerly toward the pulpit. All except Deliverance, whose eyes never left Keyes . . . her slim, serene figure, dressed in Circean garb, was distinct from all the others.

Caleb clutched each side of the pulpit, this time without his faithful pipe, and began to speak with supernatural earnestness.

“Fellow citizens of San Melas, my friends, and fellow wayfarers—we have come here today to dedicate this new edifice on this day of our deep piety, the Summer Solstice—and at the same time to express our appreciation to a man who came to us only recently—a man for whom we have waited a long time—but more than a man, a presence who has wrought what many of us believe to be a wealth of good fortune. Yes, a man who has made this day possible.

“Although his beloved wife is ill and cannot be with us, except in spirit, he has come to give us the first sermon within these walls . . . and regretfully the last sermon that we will hear from him.”

Caleb looked admiringly at Keyes then back to the congregation.

“I give you the finest, bravest, most decent man who has ever come to us here in San Melas. Reverend Jonathon Keyes.”

Caleb Hobbs nodded to Keyes, left the pulpit, and took his seat next to Deliverance.

Keyes breathed deeply, rose, stood for a moment with the Bible and his sermon in hand, and moved toward the pulpit.

He looked out at the congregation, his face sweating, his fingers trembling, then braced himself against the pulpit. Finally he started to speak, his voice hoarse and hesitant . . . but slowly gathering urgency.

“I am a stranger in your midst and a sojourner among you. And who among us can look into another's heart . . . and know what is there? As I look into your faces . . . faces of trust, of friendship, of belief... I must reveal what is in my heart . . . to you and to myself... for the heart can be deceitful.”

This was, and yet, was not what they had expected to hear. He had not referred to his written sermon, nor opened his Bible, but they sat, enthralled, with eager anticipation. Caleb, Joseph, the Bryants with Ethan, the young towheaded boys, Deliverance, and all the rest, waited.

“On this revered day of the Summer Solstice, the subject of my sermon to you . . . was to be . . . the Ten Commandments. The laws that were handed down for each of us to live by. But now I am setting aside that prepared sermon and speaking from my own heart.

“Because as I stand here and think back . . . on what has happened . . . on what I've done . . .”

He paused.

“. . . I cannot find it in my heart to speak of those Commandments. For I myself have broken too many of the Lord's laws.”

As he spoke those confessional words and looked out, Keyes seemed to discern, not the reaction he expected, but traces of slight smiles on the faces of Caleb, Joseph, the Bryants, including Ethan, and even the towheaded children. Deliverance, and the rest, were all leaning forward, eager to hear more.

He continued, painfully and slowly.

“I have allowed myself to become the subject of your idolatry . . . I have deceived . . . I have lied . . . I have coveted . . .”

He shuddered as his eyes went to Deliverance looking even more beguiling than she did in that first dream.

“. . . I have coveted . . . that which is not mine. I have . . .”

By this time all in the congregation were not trying to conceal their smiles, which had become broader and on the brink of laughter.

“. . . I have killed . . . and I have . . .”

Suddenly, it was as if he were not in a newly constructed church that had been so carefully built with precisely measured and fitted timbers. It was more like an asylum, a bedlam, peopled with inmates who were all deranged except for him. Or was it the other way around? Was it he who was deranged and all of them completely sane?

Then why did they all have that look on their faces—partially amused but mostly wicked?

Was it all in his mind or did the walls actually waver and bend?

Instead of the purifying incense, he breathed in the odor of acrid sulfur.

Even the flames from the candles leaped higher, and instead of yellow and white, the flames blazed a bright red and baneful black.

Had these common, decent, hardworking worshippers turned into wide-eyed smirking mockers in a garden of grace—gargoyles as in a Philistine temple?

He struggled to continue his confessional.

“I have been corrupted!”

The congregation broke out in ruckus laughter. And instead of their mocking faces, there loomed the visage of his wife in front of him obscuring everything else—a face twisted in pain, with eyes burning in agony, a lipless mouth pleading for help but unable to make a sound.

He didn't know what had happened or what was happening, but he knew that he had to get out of there.

He had to be with Lorna before it was too late—or was it already too late?

There came from him an unearthly repentant cry.

“L-O-R-N-A! ! !”

And then he saw the figure of Sam Hawkins with a crooked smile on his contumacious face standing in the aisle near the doorway.

With anguished effort he left the pulpit and stumbled down the aisle toward the unblinking blacksmith.

“Sam! Sam, you've come back. Did you bring the doctor?! Is he with Lorna?!”

Hawkins's expression remained the same, as he spoke.

“Reverend, why don't you go and see for yourself ?”

At first when Keyes tried to move it was as if his ankles were buried in cement.

He summoned all the strength, all the will in his body and brain, then sprang free.

He raced toward the door without looking back, but could hear the callous laughter careening through his head.