Chapter 30
Jonathon finds Ollie tending to his horse, a muscular chestnut bay. He watches for a moment as Ollie caringly strokes the animal with the palms of his hands, then begins to firmly massage the massive leg muscles with his strong fingers. Big muscles, big pain, Ollie had once told Jonathon. They can’t speak, you know, so it’s up to us to look out for them.
The horse sighs.
Jonathon is fascinated that his troubled friend can be so tender with animals and so cruel to people. From their conversations on the trail, he gathers that Ollie despises the self-proclaimed
men of God
in particular because they are supposed to look out for their suffering flocks, but too often end up fleecing them instead. Big pain, big opportunity. He suspects, though, that Ollie’s bigger problem is with God Himself.
Inspired by Ollie’s thoughtfulness to his horse, Jonathon steps across the straw-covered ground and begins to deeply massage his black mare. The horse winces.
“Start out gently,” Ollie says. “and you’ll find where the pain is. She’ll let you know when you can work it a little harder.”
“How’ll she do that?”
“She won’t kick you.”
“Oh.”
Jonathon gently skims his hands over the animals flesh. “Seems like a pretty nice girl.”
“Keep doing that and she’ll be in love,” Ollie replies.
“I was talking about Alice.”
“Alice? Yeah, she’s nice. A good conversationalist.”
“Uh-huh. She seems to like you.”
“She’s a preacher. Wants to save me, I suspect.”
“Maybe.” Jonathon finds a sore spot in his animal’s rear leg and begins to work it gently. “Are you going to tear her down like the other preachers?”
Ollie sternly faces Jonathon. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the preacher back in Albany.”
“He deserved it, you can’t say that he didn’t.”
“And the liquor stands and the mobs.”
Ollie silently turns back to his horse, his fingers kneading deeply into the throbbing muscles.
“I’m talking about the vandalism,” Jonathon says. “The drunks cursing in front of the children. The innocent people hurt. And the manipulation. Ollie, can’t you see it? The very thing you hate in these preachers you’re guilty of yourself.”
Ollie’s horse screeches in pain, then kicks and stomps as Ollie’s fingers probe too deeply, too angrily. Ollie backs away with a flushed face and wheels to face Jonathon again. “I have my reasons,” he says, restraining himself.
“Sure you do. Everyone has reasons.”
Now that Jonathon has finally spoken up he can’t stop. His pent-up anger explodes with sarcasm. “So what’s your reason here? Maybe I know. You’ve never shown up a woman preacher. Got some goods on her?” God, it feels good to lash out like this. “When will you take it to her, Ollie? Tomorrow morning when she’s at the pulpit? Or maybe you’ll wait, it’ll hurt worse the more she likes you. What is it this time, she a whore?”
Ollie lunges at Jonathon. They crash into a wooden railing and fall into the prickly straw, wrestling, Ollie on top. Jonathon rolls him off and jumps to his feet, but Ollie grabs a leg and pulls him back down, cracking Jonathon’s head on a spot of bare ground. Ollie clambers back on top, sitting on Jonathon’s chest and raising his fist to strike a blow to the face. But he hesitates as he sees Jonathon open his eyes and look up at him.
Jonathon says, “Hit me then. Take it out on me like you do the preachers.”
Ollie lowers his fist, grabs the front of Jonathon’s shirt with both hands and shakes the man like a rag doll.
When it is over, Jonathon says, “It’s still not enough, is it? Never will be. You can’t punish God by punishing His creation.”
Ollie releases Jonathon’s shirt, bends over to look him in the eye, then says, “Don’t ever call her a whore!” He stands up and storms out of the stable.
Jonathon shouts after him, “Trust me, it’s easier if you don’t believe in God!”
Outside the stable Ollie dusts himself off. The sun is setting and people are starting to migrate toward the tabernacle tent for the great Gordon Cranston show. Still breathing hard, Ollie wonders at his own behavior. What was it that set him off like that? Jonathon’s insubordination? The ambush of accusations? Perhaps the insult to a lady’s honor?
What is certain is that his emotions are careening recklessly, and why not? The opportunity to fulfill his mission is finally at hand, yet he has stupidly allowed his rage, the fuel of his revenge, to be softened by a woman preacher. His only friend in this wilderness of souls has accused him of dreadful but true things, and Ollie feels the stirrings of remorse, yet he is compelled to continue. He fears that Jonathon may be right, that there is no end to the course that he is on, and no satisfaction to be derived from it, yet he doesn’t care. He is Frankenstein’s monster, assembled in some blasphemous workshop from these conflicting parts, horrified by his own ugliness, fearful of his profane purpose, possessing a terrible capacity for both tenderness and great cruelty, and driven at last by his own painful paradoxes to find and destroy his Creator. And he is powerless to stop.
He knows that he must battle on, but he also knows that if he does not act now, this evening, he may lose his resolve. Alice has proven to be a powerful antidote for his rage.
Carrying Alice’s copy of
Midnight March to Freedom
, he walks to the tabernacle tent, which is almost full. He sees Alice standing outside the main entrance, obviously looking for him. With a pencil plucked from his pocket he quickly writes a short note on the title page of the book, then finds a boy about to enter the tent and bribes him with a shiny coin to deliver the book to someone inside. Finally he approaches Alice, who looks at him brightly at first, then detects his turmoil.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she says honestly, pulling a shaft of straw from his hair and taking his arm. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with an angel.”
The gathering dusk has brought a chill. Alice’s hands warm him, make him remember other loving hands in other places at other times. He is comforted by her presence, but he knows it will only last for a short time. Already he mourns her loss.
Tonight will be very difficult for him.
Alice takes a deep breath, gulps the night air, and scans the magical landscape that surrounds them, a sight that has eluded Ollie in his distress. As if trying to pull him into the beauty of his surroundings, Alice smiles and continues to drink in with her eyes the near-mystical setting. Lamps, pine torches, fireflies and stars mingle into a light-filled otherworldly vision. The surrounding tents glow like moons, illuminated from within. The grounds are sprayed with the soft light of tree lanterns and the flickering blaze of fire altars, six-foot high platforms topped with earth and pine-knot bonfires that warm the fluttering leaves of overhanging trees. Like serpents in the moonlight, tree roots rubbed raw by the feet of the crowd seem to wriggle with a phosphorescent gleam. In this wild yet solemn night-scene anything and everything seems possible.
Alice leads Ollie into the tent. The air inside is heavily spiced with the woodsy scent of sawdust and freshly cut timber. Spruce boughs tied together as a furry green cross hang behind the rough-sawn pulpit. A piano with a slightly flat E above middle C softly plays a hymn intended to calm the incoming crowd, which unfortunately ignores the music in favor of their own bubbling stream of expectant laughter and friendly greetings. If one knew no better it would seem as though this were a reunion of one immense family.
Alice finds a spot on a bench twelve rows from the speaker’s platform “for the twelve apostles,” she says. The chairs on the platform are taken, and Ollie’s eyes center on the man to the right of the pulpit, Gordon Cranston. How many years has it been since this cowardly Judas had abandoned Anisa and Ollie for a handful of silver paid over the years? How long has Ollie waited for this moment? Gordon seems barely to have aged. He is still strikingly handsome, though perhaps ten pounds heavier, with a dab of silver in his hair.
Ollie is suddenly aware that his hands are shaking. He is nervous! His hunter’s heart is pounding; the long-awaited prey has finally stepped into the clear.
“Are you all right, Ollie?” Alice asks.
“Yes—just a bit excited.”
“I know what you mean. I always expect miracles.” But she is talking about something altogether different.
Ollie watches as a boy approaches Gordon with Alice’s copy of
Midnight March to Freedom
. Gordon smiles at the boy but is clearly puzzled as he takes the book and opens it to the title page on which is scrawled Ollie’s message in Farsi.
Anisa is dead. I have come for you
, it reads.
Ollie watches Gordon’s eyes widen then dart from left to right as if seeking out the author of the thinly veiled threat. Gordon is clearly shaken. As if praying, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Ollie surveys the tent and sees Jonathon squeezing into a seat in the fourth row. Suddenly the solemn piano begins to pound out a rousing song. Gordon and the others seated by him leap to their feet and begin clapping their hands, keeping time to the mesmerizing beat of the thundering bass chords. The audience rises almost in unison and within a few seconds several thousand voices begin to sing the words. The sopranos wail, the tenors harmonize, and the baritones beat out the stirring words:
You will see your Lord a-coming
On the resurrection morning,
While the band of music
Will be sounding through the air.
The song ends with cheers and hallelujahs, and the crowd settles into their hard benches once again. One by one the dignitaries on the platform stand and take turns thanking the crowd for coming, exhorting them, making announcements, leading a hymn, singing a solo, giving testimonies of how Jesus turned their sinful selves into sanctified temples of God just in time, for
Judgment Day is right around the corner!
As the final speaker begins to introduce Gordon Cranston, the main event, a drunken man in soiled overalls staggers down the center aisle and begins to yell, “Gladys! Gladys, where are you? Get your damn butt outta this tent ya hear?”
Jonathon looks across the sea of penitents at Ollie, wondering if he had orchestrated this disruption. Standing at the pulpit, the speaker—a frail, boyish minister from a neighboring town—raises his hand and meekly invites the man to be quiet.
“Religious snake oil!” is the reply. The drunkard, a fierce bull of a man, begins to lurch toward the platform like a prosecuting attorney about to make his case. He launches into a loud and profane tirade about religious charlatans and the weak minds of those who are swayed by them. Unprepared for such an outburst, the speaker backs away from the pulpit. A woman in the audience, presumably Gladys, falteringly stands up as the drunkard passes her row and begins to sneak out, pausing at the back of the tent where she can make a quick escape if needed. All faces are turned toward the ranting drunk who slowly makes his way toward the pulpit.
Suddenly Alice stands and steps into the center aisle to intercept the tormenter. Surprised, he stops a few feet from her. Alice opens her arms as if to embrace him. His vaporous red eyes burn into her and he gestures as if to holler something at her but no words come out, just a raspy rattle. He tries again to speak but his words seem swallowed up by Alice’s outstretched arms. He turns to hurl angry words at the crowd but emits only a feeble screech. The tent is absolutely silent. The man grips his throat, terrified with the realization that his voice has been stolen. Again he tries to speak but only a strangled column of air escapes his throat.
Dumbfounded, the drunkard lumbers menacingly toward Alice. Ollie rises to protect her, but before he can step into the aisle the man falls into Alice’s arms weeping like a baby, his enormous hands limp at his side. Alice calmly strokes the back of the man’s wooly head, whispers something into his ear, and the man slumps to the ground as if felled by a musket shot.
“As the prophet Isaiah wrote, ‘the LORD hath poured out upon you the spirit of deep sleep, and hath closed your eyes,’” Alice says, kneeling over the man. “And the wicked shall be silent in darkness; for by strength shall no man prevail.”
It takes five men to lift the fallen drunkard. As they carry the sagging body to the front of the tent, Alice stands and in a joyous voice says, “Did not Paul admonish us? He wrote ‘be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit, speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs…”
The piano begins to play
Amazing Grace
and three thousand voices join in song as Alice, her voice rising above the impromptu choir, finishes reciting the scripture: “‘making melody in your heart to the Lord; giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ; submitting yourselves one to another in the fear of God.’”
As the song ends, the sleeping man is laid on his back before the first row of benches and Alice takes her seat next to Ollie.
“What happened?” Ollie asks her.
Alice does not answer; she is looking upward, toward heaven, silently mouthing words to some unseen presence.
A prayer, perhaps.
As if replying to Ollie’s question the boyish preacher, having courageously stepped back to the pulpit to lead the singing, confidently says, “It seems that God did not want our service to be interrupted by blasphemy.”
Hallelujahs fill the tent.
At last Gordon is introduced to the crowd. As he approaches the pulpit he is clutching the copy of
Midnight March to Freedom
as if it were a Bible. He stares out at the expectant audience and, glancing at the sleeping man, says, “Before Jesus ascended into heaven he spoke to his disciples saying, ‘These signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils.’ Sister Alice, God be with you.”
A chorus of
Amens
soars through the dusty air.