The Treble Wore Trouble (The Liturgical Mysteries) (20 page)

 Chapter 24

A sky the color of rotten eggplant hung low over the town as the rain splattered down like raisins sprinkled on the oatmeal of humanity by an angry God.

"Get me outta this weather," groused the leprechaun.

"Shaddap," said Pedro, then turned to me. "Don't I remember some rule about not getting your winkle wet?"

"Nah," I said. "That's them wicked witches you're thinking about. You want to kill a leprechaun, you have to roll him in a tortilla and cover him in chipotle."

We were in Sarsaparilla, Mexico, a little town that just about lived up to its motto: Este lema está en español.

"Where to?" Pedro asked the winkle.

"Try the church," was the grumpy answer.

"This one?" I asked, looking up at a mud-covered building with a bell tower. "Santa Hortensia Vaca Cara?"

"Pah!" said Fluffernutter. "How many churches do you see? It's the only one built over Mayan ruins. Besides, St. Hortense the Cow-Faced was born in Ireland."

"I doubt it," said Pedro. "I heard that you leprechauns lie like pixies."

"Nah, that's them mermaids you're thinking about," said the winkle. "Leprechauns are bound by Faerie Law never to tell a lie."

"Yeah?" I said. "Well today is the Feast of St. Quetzalcoatl, 2012. The end of the Mayan calendar. What's going to happen?"

"I can't lie, but I don't have to tell you, either. You must guess!" laughed Fluffernutter O'Brannigan, doing a little dance.

* * *

"I suppose that Varmit's down in Greensboro?" Nancy said. "The funeral's at eleven, I hear."

"Yep," I said. "I called him last night when I got home and told him to come in and talk with us when he got back. He said that he'd be back late this afternoon, but I don't really expect to see him until tomorrow."

"If then," said Nancy. "Are you going to Greensboro?"

"No. Rosemary and Herb are going. Some other folks from the congregation are taking the church van. I think that Martha Hatteberg is even skipping her Bible Study to take a carload of choir members."

"That's good," said Nancy. "Any sign of the Indians?"

"I haven't seen them since Sunday morning, nor heard any reports. You?"

"Nothing," replied Nancy. "I guess we wait on Varmit, then. He's our only suspect, as far as I can tell."

"Yeah," I said. "There're still a couple of things that bother me, though."

"Like why did he kidnap Rahab if he was going to kill Muffy anyway? The half-million would more than cover his debt to the casino and his bankruptcy besides."

"Like that," I said.

* * *

A police presence at a tent revival in Valle Crucis was certainly not called for. Even if it was, it was certainly not in our jurisdictional scope to provide it. Still, Noylene had cornered me in the Slab and made me promise to be there. She couldn't be there due to a conflicting date with the Carolina Neighborly Commission on Beauty, of which she was the chairperson. CarNCOB (as it was known) was a self-appointed group of Watauga County beauty stylists whose mission it was to inform the people who they felt needed their services as to their deficiencies. This was accomplished, in the most part, by standing outside the Walmart Supercenters and handing out "tickets" to the store's unfortunate customers. These tickets cited the offending shoppers concerning their transgression, and gave them a 50% discount at any one of the sixteen beauty and stylist shops to which the members of CaRNCOB belonged: one time, void where prohibited, good on a Tuesday from nine to eleven, by appointment only, color not included. Walmart did not care for the generosity bestowed upon its shoppers by the Commission, and more than that had summoned the police on several occasions. This meeting, called by Noylene, was to set up a more clandestine way of entering Walmart — maybe involving disguises or else hiring girl scouts — in order to present the more heinous of the offenders with said tickets.

Truth be told, I would be at Brother Hog's revival anyway. Baby Evangelists don't come around every day.

It happened, then, that on Thursday evening, Meg and I traveled the twenty miles or so to Valle Crucis in the late afternoon. We stopped in at the Mast General Store and did a little shopping, then found a nice place for a bite to eat, and finally made our way out to the meeting place.

Hog's old tent had been set up at the Valle Crucis Conference Center, and we could see at once that Brother Hog had lost none of his sparkle during his two-year hiatus from the tent revival circuit. The blinking, yellow arrow on the four-by-six-foot portable marquee standing perpendicular to the entrance of the Conference Center pointed the way, proclaiming in large, illuminated, clip-on letters, "Bro. Hogmanay McTavish's Gospel Tent Revival." I'd forgotten that Brother Hog had a following in these parts, and, when word had spread across the mountains of his return to preaching the Word of God and that his son was joining him, the faithful and the lost alike poured out of the hills.

We'd arrived early, around six, and the tent was still empty, most of the visitors choosing to have their supper picnic on the grounds before the service. It was like a tailgate party sans alcoholic beverages. There were cars everywhere, people were plopped into fold-up camp chairs, tables were set up and loaded with food, everything from fried chicken to prosciutto roll-ups. Sweet tea seemed to be the drink of choice and we were offered many a cup as we wandered through the fair-like atmosphere. Several ladies were handing out tracts and Meg politely took them whenever they were offered.

"Look at this one," Meg whispered, handing me one titled
The Passover Plot.
She was busy thumbing through
Here Comes the Judge.

"
Thanks," I said. "Look at this crowd, will you?"

"How many do you think?" asked Meg.

"Three or four hundred at least, and there's still an hour 'til show time."

"Standing room only, I guess," said Meg. "We'd better get a seat early."

Brother Hog had a couple of revival tents. His smaller one would seat about three hundred. This one was larger. I estimated about five hundred chairs plus a stage that had a large pulpit, room for a local, gospel-music group, and his electronic organ. Hog had a 1964 Hammond B3 and that's what he liked. He told me that it had that old-fashioned "come-to-Jesus" sound. He was right. The Hammond B3 had a very distinctive flavor, its sounds mixed by sliding drawbars mounted above the two keyboards. Add a couple of Leslie rotating speakers and you had an organ that could bring the flocks into the fold quicker than a sermon on the last days.

Contributing his reverent, jazz-gospel stylings to the service was Hog's old compatriot, Robert E. Lee. Robert E. was one of the best in the business, having provided the special music for the likes of the Letty Sisters, Bishop Daniel Nutt, the Amazing Ichthus and his Prophesying Fish, and The Chopping Team (lumberjacks with chainsaws and a Gospel message!). Like his namesake, Robert E. was a soldier, a Soldier for Christ, and when duty called Robert E. answered. This was duty.

"Hey," said Meg, "there's Pete!" She waved across the field toward the tree line and Pete, seeing us, waved back. Then from behind an oak tree appeared Moosey and Bernadette. Moosey had hold of a leash and on the end of the leash, strapped into a nylon harness, was Portia the truffle pig. She was circling the large tree, rooting here and there.

"They've got Portia with them," Meg said.

"Let's go see how they're doing."

"Fine with me. We've got a few minutes. I want to get a good seat."

Pete was puffing on a cigar when we approached and didn't seem to be too concerned about what Portia was or was not digging up.

"Hi, guys," he said. "Just thought we'd bring Portia out here for a quick dig."

"Why here?" Meg asked. "If she finds something, you'd just have to give it to the Conference Center."

"Not worried about it," said Pete, flicking a long ash into the leaves, then grinding it out with the toe of his shoe. "We're just giving her a little taste. Moosey and Bernadette have been coming by every day to see her and hounding me like crazy, but you know what? She really likes these kids. Seems to do just what they ask her. I wanted to give it a try, and Ardine's here anyway for the revival, so I don't have to take 'em home afterwards. They're going to stay for the show."

"We heard that there's a baby preaching," said Moosey.

"Yeah," said Bernadette. "The one with the tail."

"He don't have a tail anymore," said Moosey. "They snipped it off when they snipped his wiener."

Bernadette looked incredulous. "They snipped his wiener?"

"'Course they did," said Moosey, matter-of-factly, enjoying the upper hand for once. "Ma said it was a condiment."

"Covenant," I corrected.

"Right," agreed Moosey, then pulled Bernadette aside and whispered, "I'll tell you all about it later."

"Has Portia found a truffle?" asked Meg.

"I don't think so," said Pete. "But she's been digging around."

"Let me ask you this, Pete," I said. "If Portia
did
find a truffle, how would you know? Do you know what a truffle looks like?"

Pete considered the question for a moment, then said, "I know what they
smell
like."

"Fair enough," I said. "Unfortunately, the only thing you'll get to smell is our pig's sweet, sweet, truffly breath after she gobbles them down."

"You make a valid point. This evening I shall do some research on the internet and maybe print out a few pictures."

"Once you know what they look like," I added, "the trick will be to get the truffle before she eats it."

"I'm on it," Pete said, taking a long puff on his stogy.

Chapter 25

"No one's here," I said, staring up at a stained glass window depicting the patron saint of the church, Santa Hortensia Vaca Cara. A woman aptly named, I thought. Her face was as long as a country preacher's sermon on Nehemiah, which wouldn't have to be that long, but would seem like it. The patron saint's bovine visage was serene, though. Serene and udderly rapturous. Then I heard it: music that chilled me like a winter wind whipping through the ragged underpants of despair.

"They're in the parish hall," said Pedro, shivering
and hiking up his underpants.

* * *

It wasn't long before the crowd began to move into the tent and find their seats. Unlike St. Barnabas, or any church that I knew of, the seats in the front filled up first, no doubt to get a good view of the featured speaker of the evening,
Rahab Archibald Fabergé-Dupont — billed as Rev. Rahab McTavish to save confusion and because Brother Hog didn't want to have to explain why little Rahab was born out of wedlock and therefore didn't have his own last name, a minor point, to be sure. The "Reverend" title tacked to his name was legal enough. I'd shown Hog how to get the baby ordained on the internet. I also pointed out that Rahab could be a bishop for just ten dollars more, but Hog didn't want him to get the big head. "Plenty of time for that later," he said. "Besides, I don't want him to outrank me."

Brother Robert E. Lee cranked up the organ for the pre-game show. He wandered through the old favorites —
I Come to the Garden Alone, Blessed Assurance, The Old Rugged Cross, Love Lifted Me,
and a host of others. He moved from one to the next seamlessly, changing keys, changing registers, doing palm slides, glissandos, and adding the pitch bends and vibrato for which the Hammond B3 was famous. As the congregation settled into their seats, the True Branches Gospel Bluegrass Band took the stage and played a few of their signature tunes, including
I Fell In A Pile of Jesus and Got Love All Over Me
, and
Heaven Stays Open All Night
.
The crowd loved it and they received a standing ovation. Meg and I had managed a couple of seats in the fourth row and stood with the rest. Next was a testimony given by
Nelson Kendrick, who'd had a recent near-death experience and had been led by this episode to share with us the hierarchy of angelic beings. He was well-informed because he'd gotten his information from the archangel Raphael himself.

"My word," exclaimed Meg. "He's got charts!"

We were enlightened as to the many spheres and their residents, including seraphim, cherubim, thrones, dominions, virtues, principalities, angels, archangels, and a "host" of others.

It wasn't a bad lecture, quite frankly, but nothing I hadn't heard before, or that couldn't be gleaned from reading St. Ambrose, Hildegarde, John of Damascus, or St. Thomas Aquinas. Nelson's model was most closely related to the Dante archetype in
The Divine Comedy
. I wondered if Dante had the same teacher as Nelson.

B
efore we knew it, we'd been sitting in our seats for an hour. Then, as Nelson finished up and started packing away his visual aids, Robert E. Lee began the warm-up. It was a sing-along, of course. Hymns and songs that everyone knew.
I'll Fly Away, This Little Light of Mine, Count Your Many Blessings.
The crowd sang with gusto, no big screen or song-sheets needed. The band joined in and before long the mountains were ringing with the sound of five hundred voices.
He Leadeth Me, Sweet Hour of Prayer, Power In The Blood.
Clapping now. A few of the more fervent were spinning in the aisles, eyes closed, their hands raised high. Then Brother Hog took the stage.

Hog was resplendent in his white, three-piece suit. His face fairly glowed as he stood at the pulpit and surveyed his audience. He was back in his element. Brother Hog was a preacher first, last, and foremost. Of that there was no doubt.

"Brothers and Sisters," he thundered, raising his hands into the air, as if lifting a giant, weightless, walrus aloft. "Let us praise God Almighty!"

Robert E. pounced on the keys like a chicken on a June bug. The organ leapt to life to the sound of gospel licks God loves to hear. The crowd was on its feet again jumping and shouting and hollering up a storm. Hallelujahs rang through the tent. Meg and I got to our feet as well, more out of nervous acquiescence than a need to hop.

"Perhaps we should have chosen seats nearer the back," I said quietly, as we finally sat back down.

"No kidding," whispered Meg.

Brother Hog preached in turn on salvation by grace, accepting baptism as a sacrament, the dangers of boasting, being born again, the parable of the Great Banquet, and Abraham's promise, with a healthy dose of the Book of Daniel thrown in for good measure. Punctuated with riffs from the organist, he wrapped it all up in about forty-five minutes. By the time he was finished, sweat was running in rivers down his red face. The pocket handkerchief in his left hand that he'd been using to mop his features was wringing wet. The microphone in his right was slick, and every so often he'd had to shake drops of water off it. Now he was spent, but it wasn't over.

"I know you all have come tonight to hear the Gospel proclaimed," he said, his voice low, but amplified through the speakers so no one missed a word. "And there's someone I need you to meet."

"Rahab!" shouted a voice from the back. "Hallelujah!"

Brother Hog nodded. "Yep. My own little boy, Rahab McTavish.
It wasn't long back that my wife and I discovered that this child has been touched by the Lord. He is a
preaching baby
!"

"Yes!" shouted a woman two seats down from Meg. She bounced to her feet and waved both hands over her head in exultation.

"The Holy Spirit is here tonight!" roared Brother Hog.

The organ swelled, just chords now, and people shouted and danced wherever they could find a spot to move their feet. We heard glossolalia — speaking in tongues — coming from different parts of the tent. Then he was there, on the stage: Rahab, the Baby Evangelist.

He was dressed exactly like his father in a white, three-piece suit, white shoes, and a tiny, white belt. In his left hand, Rahab held on tight to his copy of
Baby's First Old Testament, KJV,
with his pudgy fingers. Into his right hand, Brother Hog placed a black wireless microphone and pushed him gently to the front of the stage. The crowd became quiet. "Sit down, we can't see," came a voice from behind us. Slowly, from the front to the back, the congregation found their seats.

Rahab stood looking at the crowd, his chubby face split by a gigantic smile. He knew what to do, exactly what he and his father had practiced over and over in their doublewide. He put the microphone to his mouth and hollered, "Eenanah malata hasha alanaya!"

"Shwaaa!" went the organ as Robert E. Lee's fingers danced over the keys dipping into those holy chords that only the blessed know.

"Hallelujah!" erupted the crowd, back on their feet again, clapping and dancing. "Praise the Lord!"

"Sit down, we can't see!" yelled voices from the rear of the tent.

The organ backed down a little, and little Rahab began his strut. Up and down the front of the stage he paraded, stopping every few steps to proclaim another truth. "Uliamba magashami andjesta!"

"Interpreter!" came a voice from the crowd. "Brother Hog, we need an interpreter!"

"Thus saith the Lord," shouted Hog,
"you will be hearing of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not frightened, for those things must take place, but that is not yet the end."

"A prophesy!" shouted a man's voice. "A prophesy from the baby!"

"Or maybe from St. Matthew," I muttered.

"Canum acheniko ofonamachi!" hollered Rahab.

"For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes."

"Hallelujah!" came the shouts.

"
Miliamba andjulu!"

"But do not fear!" continued Hog. "There is salvation in the Savior."

This continued for about ten more minutes, with Brother Hog interpreting the unknown baby tongues for all he was worth.

"Wa, wa, wa, wa, wa," chanted Rahab finally, his head bobbing side to side, now entranced by the sound of his own voice over the loudspeakers. "Ba, ba, ba, ba!" Hog knew it was coming. A two-year-old has a relatively short preaching span and, although Rahab had done better than Hog had hoped his first time out, the boy had reached his limit. Hog scooped the baby up, lifted him into his arms, and clicked off the microphone.

"Thank you, Rahab, for your gifts and the gifts of the Spirit," Hog said, his head dropping into a prayerful pose. "You have truly blessed us all tonight." He looked up. "We're going to take up an offering now," he announced, "so you can help us with this ministry, and, as we do, Sister Birtwhistle is going to sing a song for us.
Give!
Give until you can't stand to be blessed any more!"

"Hey," said Meg, "it's Goldi Fawn!"

"Sure is," I said. Keenly aware that Goldi Fawn wrote her own music, I wondered how Robert E. would do. Turns out, he did fine. Goldi Fawn provided him with a lead sheet and
I'm In The
Velcro Arms of Jesus
went off without a hitch.

"Let us pray!" Brother Hog said, getting the high sign from the head usher who held up a fried chicken bucket, one of ten or so, brimming with bills. Hog passed Rahab off to Goldi Fawn and she took him off the stage. The music heightened to a crescendo, then relaxed and accompanied the people back into their chairs where they bowed their heads and finally became quiet, save for the occasional "Amen" and "Hallelujah" that punctuated Brother Hog's prayer of invitation.

We stuck around as the hundred or so folks made their way to the front of the tent for prayer and blessing. Brother Hog had three other ministers on hand to help with the task of getting the sinners right with God and dealing with the various prayer requests. It was a beautiful spring night, so Meg and I took a couple of the folding chairs and set them up under Portia's oak tree, a hundred yards or so from the blazing lights of the tent, and watched shooting stars. We'd both brought light jackets and it turned out to be a good thing. The crowd slowly dispersed, each one shaking hands with Brother Hog and Robert E. in turn, then clapping each other on the back, vowing to see them again real soon. When there were only a few dozen left, Meg and I gathered up our chairs and made our way back to the tent. Hog and Robert E. were slumped in a couple of seats on the front row. Goldi Fawn was still in a receiving line, although there were now only two people left for her to greet.

"Well, thank yeew!" we heard her say as we passed by. "Jesus just gave me that song one day while I was doing hair. I had to stop in the middle of a perm to write it down, and, let me tell you, that woman's hair was never the same." She smiled sweetly. "But it was worth it, don't cha think?"

We put the chairs back in the tent and walked over to Hog.

"Nice show!" I said. "You've still got it, that's for sure."

"Thanks for coming," said Hog. His hair was plastered against his head and his face was still red from exertion. "Noylene would've had my head. Now where's Rahab?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Who has him?" I looked at Meg. She suddenly lost all her color.

"Goldi Fawn has him," said Brother Hog.

"No, she doesn't," I said. "She's over there shaking hands." I pointed to Goldi Fawn, now chatting up her last admirer.

It was Hog's turn to lose his color.

"Goldi Fawn!" he screamed. "
Where's Rahab?
"

Goldi wasn't used to hearing a man scream and was suitably startled. Her devotee jumped as well.

"I ... I don't know. He was here just a little bit ago ..." She screwed up her face in thought. "I was signing an autograph. No, wait ... I handed him to the guy who
wanted
the autograph. Just to hold for a second. I gave him Rahab's diaper bag, too."

"
What?
" screeched Hog. "
Who did you give him to?
"

"I can't remember!" howled Goldi Fawn, now terrified and running toward us in a panic. "Oh, my God! I can't remember!"

"Calm down now," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. "Think for a minute."

She peered at the ground, took some deep breaths, then raised her head and looked me in the eye. "He was about medium," she said. "Not too tall, not too short. Medium brown hair. Longish. He needed a styling, that's for sure."

"A man?"

"Yes. He was wearing a sport jacket. Striped. And a tie." She nodded vigorously. "I remember now! He had a beard. A dark beard. And he was wearing a hat. One of those Panama hats, with his hair sticking out underneath. And sunglasses!" She paused. "Hey, wait a minute! It's nighttime. Why was he wearing sunglasses?"