Part 4 (1/2)

”I come from the University of Kentucky,” John said through his green box. ”I am an anthropologist.”

That caught Jeremiah's attention. An anthropologist? This did not bode well. The fair folks of Harlan had been living in their utopia of isolation for over forty years. Due to the inaccessibility of the countryside and the fright caused by the Collapse, the only people who had visited the world outside these mountains were the raft captains looking to sell timber for supplies. That meant Larson and Cullen, him, and his dead buddy Maxie Henson. Many of the folks around these parts had never seen a Shadow, let alone such fancy things as newspapers, bathrooms, or people not born and bred in Harlan.

”Your church is wonderful,” John said. ”We do not have these back at the University, or anywhere else.”

A world without the Word of G.o.d? No wonder He sent the Collapse on us, foreseeing our heathen ways. ”Praise Jesus,” was all Jeremiah could muster in response. The typically loquacious man found himself silenced by the visitor.

The Shadow stepped up to the pew and looked out over the church. ”I would like to hear you sermonize.”

”Yes...yes, I mean, of course. Tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. sharp. The bell can be heard for three miles off on a clear day, I reckon.”

John nodded and continued on to the front of the little church until it reached the holy cross hanging from the wall. ”This is a lovely religious artifact. How wonderful it is,” it said.

”Praise Jesus,” Jeremiah said again.

A child ran into the church, breaking up the shared moment of reverie. It was little Mikey Smith from down Baxter. Mikey usually helped clean the building before services. ”Hey Preacher, momma's made a blackberry pie and....” He'd spotted the Shadow behind the pulpit, watched as it lovingly stroked the cross. The boy's face turned white.

”It's okay, Mikey. We have a visitor from Lexington,” Jeremiah said. ”This is John.”

Like a frightened squirrel, the kid made a skidding turn in his sandals and sprinted back out of the church, hollering for his momma.

Jeremiah felt a twinge of worry tickle his nerves. He remembered the calling of the spirits. ”Now I don't want to be unseemly in G.o.d's house, John, but I think you best be heading back down the river. Nothing but trouble to be found here for your kind.”

John turned around and looked at the preacher. Those eyes, so beautiful. Jeremiah recalled a snippet of a fairytale he'd once heard...My, what big eyes you have....

”You ask that I leave? But there is so much to see and doc.u.ment. You know that I bring no harm to you.”

”But it's not safe.”

”Preacher Jeremiah. I want to wors.h.i.+p with you.”

Jeremiah swallowed hard as he heard the sudden commotion build outside the church. That didn't take long. Larson and Cullen, the town's raft captains-and the town's de facto leaders-came stomping up the wooden steps. Once inside, they slammed the door shut behind them hard enough to rattle the church bell. Both carried shotguns.

”I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.n, Cullen, it's one of those little grey freaks.”

”Mr. Larson,” Jeremiah admonished, ”you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain!”

Larson leveled his shotgun at Jeremiah. ”Shut your mouth, old man. You know how I feel about you and your church. Scaring people with your talk of h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, but you know what, I've seen h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, I see it every six weeks when me and Cullen go up the river, so I don't want to hear a G.o.dd.a.m.n word out of you.” Larson's stone-cold gaze froze Jeremiah's tongue.

Cullen carried a ridiculously large double-barreled shotgun. At present, it was pointed at John's head.

”Why you here, Grey?” Larson asked.

”To study,” John answered.

Cullen and Larson laughed. ”We don't want no studying. Why you think we're stuck a.s.s-deep in these here hills?” Larson said.

”I do not know,” John said. ”Appalachian cultural history shows a tendency toward xenophobia.”

Cullen looked at Larson. ”Xeno-what?”

”You got two choices, Grey. Tell us why you're here and die quickly. Or don't tell us and die a slow, agonizing, painful death.”

”I am an anthropologist,” John said. If the alien showed fear through its voice, the box didn't register it.

”A what?” Larson asked Cullen. ”I got to tell ya, it might be fun to set this one loose in the woods. Ol' Blue hasn't had a good hunt all year.”

The pair laughed and poked each other in the ribs.

Larson nodded at Cullen. ”Cover me while I tie this ol' boy up.” The husky riverboat captain grabbed the alien and forced its arms behind its back. He drew out two feet of hemp cord from a baggy pocket and tied John's arms together.

”Is that necessary,” Jeremiah objected. ”He's not here to harm n.o.body. He came to wors.h.i.+p.”

Larson pushed John forward until all three stood in front of the preacher. ”You old fool, when was the last time you been up the river? Twenty years? You have no idea what's changed in that time, what the Greys do. You haven't seen the rows of crucified children along the crumbling highways. You haven't witnessed the execution of women by flogging in the public squares. Next time you get to thinking this Grey isn't here to harm n.o.body, you think about that, will you?” To accentuate his point, Larson lifted the nearest of the pews and knocked it over. Hymnals and Bibles clattered across the floor. ”Come on, Cullen.”

They left, pus.h.i.+ng the tiny alien in front of them.

Preacher Jeremiah climbed the rocky steps leading to his grandson's hovel. Like most of the community's dwellings, Jake's home was built into the side of a steep, forested hill-the ground flattened with only the strength and will of men, women, and tools. The mud-hut wasn't much to look at, but all the same, Jeremiah felt that old vice of pride reach into his heart and swell. The boy had done well with his life.

Jeremiah, paused, caught his breath and rattled the straw curtain that served as the door during the spring season. He wanted to kneel over, put his hands on his knees and gasp, but it wouldn't do for them to see him like that.

Jake's wife came to the door. She pushed the curtain back and invited the preacher inside.

”Howdy, Jeanette. How's the family?” The mundane was a great stress reliever in times of crisis.

”Oh, you know how they are. Momma's down in her back, does nothing but sits in that old rocker of hers and cusses at the flies and wasps. She just ain't been the same since Daddy died.”

Jeremiah nodded, sadly. ”I reckon not, Jeanette. Not many of us are when we lose someone close.”

”Jake is down at the creek gathering water,” she said, getting to the crux of the visit and away from the depressing talk.

Jeremiah liked the young woman. Strong at heart, not one to dwell on past sadness. ”I need to see him, it's kind of urgent. Think you can give him a holler?”

Jeanette smiled. ”Of course, just a second.” She disappeared behind the curtain and went outside. A few seconds later her deep voice rolled out across the hillside.

”Thanks,” he said, as Jeanette came back inside. She poured him a cup of ginseng tea and took a seat at the table with him. Jeremiah played with the cross he wore on a leather strap tied around his neck, a nervous habit he had picked up during his many trips...and prayers...while managing the boat upriver during the harsh winter seasons.

As he finished the last of the tea, a strapping young man appeared with two aluminum pails filled with water. ”Care for a drink, Granddad?”

”No thanks. I need to ask a favor.”

”What's that?”

”I need you and Jeanette to ride downriver with me.”

Jeanette let out a noise that sounded like a bark. Jake set the buckets down and frowned.