screaming into his eyes and indescribable pain in the arm he’d slept on all night on the hard metal bed of a pickup truck. He groaned as he pushed himself up and stretched out.
He heard the sound of the heavens opening up and the angel chorus singing. Only it was actually singing coming from a church not too far away. He could see the steeple. The windows must have been open. But still, how was the sound carrying so far? It echoed off the hills like light fragments through a prism.
Rye climbed out of the truck and turned to face the church. He started walking toward it, drawn to the music, so pure and ethereal to his foggy head. He cut through alleys between businesses, crossed Main Street, and followed the road that led uphill toward the massive steeple. The walk helped get his blood flowing to all the right places. The headache worsened, but his joints ached less. The steepness of the road gave his leg muscles and lungs a hell of a workout.
The music grew louder until at last, he reached the top of the hill, and the volume tripled in intensity. The church sat in a little dip in the land, nestled in the hill like a baby bird in a nest. Its congregants had gathered outside, proceeding with their worship service in the warm spring outdoors. There were some chairs set up, mostly inhabited by elderly men and women and mothers with young babies. Everyone else stood or sat on the ground or lounged on large rocks or surface tree roots.
Rye gaped. Ladies wore dresses as colorful as the spring flowers that had already begun to bloom. Men dressed in suits lent their bass voices to anchor the high trills of the women’s song in the completely a cappella chorus. Most of them held maroon colored song books with matching ribbon bookmarks in their hands.
As a child, Rye had gone to church with his grandma on occasion, just out of obligation and because he had no choice. But the memories were vague and nothing like this.
The song ended and a tall, stern man who looked to be about a hundred fifty years old rose. He had on a black suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. His head was bare, and steel grey hair hung to his shoulders.
“Welcome, church!” he shouted, his voice shockingly powerful given his slight stature.
The church murmured in reply.
“And welcome, sir!” the preacher said.
It took Rye a moment to realize he’d been spotted and that the preacher was addressing him. Rye rather stupidly glanced around to make sure he was the one being addressed, and then he simply nodded and offered a salute.
“Won’t you join us, young man?”
Rye was standing a good thirty yards off to the side and thought that was plenty close enough. “Uh, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”
“The Lord says, ‘For where two or more are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’ God’s presence is here amidst this gathering. Join us.”
Rye wondered if he was still drunk and maybe hallucinating. The scene was so surreal. But all those people were now turned to face him, and he realized he either needed to sit with them or turn tail and run. He was about to do the latter when a lone figure rose from the crowd. She wore a dowdy skirt that was too big for her and a blouse that matched but did nothing for her figure. Her hair was in a ponytail and her eyes were boring into him like twin drill bits.
Cora McKay stepped through the crowd, approaching him steadily and with great purpose. Rye merely watched in awe, curious to see what that purpose would be. Her steps brought her before him, within inches. She moved, and for some reason he expected a soft touch. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him toward her so that he was bent closer to her face. “For fuck’s sake, sit down and stop making a scene,” she hissed.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the crowd, though she didn’t return to the group she’d been sitting with. Instead, she led him to a large tree root at the edge of
He heard the sound of the heavens opening up and the angel chorus singing. Only it was actually singing coming from a church not too far away. He could see the steeple. The windows must have been open. But still, how was the sound carrying so far? It echoed off the hills like light fragments through a prism.
Rye climbed out of the truck and turned to face the church. He started walking toward it, drawn to the music, so pure and ethereal to his foggy head. He cut through alleys between businesses, crossed Main Street, and followed the road that led uphill toward the massive steeple. The walk helped get his blood flowing to all the right places. The headache worsened, but his joints ached less. The steepness of the road gave his leg muscles and lungs a hell of a workout.
The music grew louder until at last, he reached the top of the hill, and the volume tripled in intensity. The church sat in a little dip in the land, nestled in the hill like a baby bird in a nest. Its congregants had gathered outside, proceeding with their worship service in the warm spring outdoors. There were some chairs set up, mostly inhabited by elderly men and women and mothers with young babies. Everyone else stood or sat on the ground or lounged on large rocks or surface tree roots.
Rye gaped. Ladies wore dresses as colorful as the spring flowers that had already begun to bloom. Men dressed in suits lent their bass voices to anchor the high trills of the women’s song in the completely a cappella chorus. Most of them held maroon colored song books with matching ribbon bookmarks in their hands.
As a child, Rye had gone to church with his grandma on occasion, just out of obligation and because he had no choice. But the memories were vague and nothing like this.
The song ended and a tall, stern man who looked to be about a hundred fifty years old rose. He had on a black suit, white shirt, and bolo tie. His head was bare, and steel grey hair hung to his shoulders.
“Welcome, church!” he shouted, his voice shockingly powerful given his slight stature.
The church murmured in reply.
“And welcome, sir!” the preacher said.
It took Rye a moment to realize he’d been spotted and that the preacher was addressing him. Rye rather stupidly glanced around to make sure he was the one being addressed, and then he simply nodded and offered a salute.
“Won’t you join us, young man?”
Rye was standing a good thirty yards off to the side and thought that was plenty close enough. “Uh, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”
“The Lord says, ‘For where two or more are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’ God’s presence is here amidst this gathering. Join us.”
Rye wondered if he was still drunk and maybe hallucinating. The scene was so surreal. But all those people were now turned to face him, and he realized he either needed to sit with them or turn tail and run. He was about to do the latter when a lone figure rose from the crowd. She wore a dowdy skirt that was too big for her and a blouse that matched but did nothing for her figure. Her hair was in a ponytail and her eyes were boring into him like twin drill bits.
Cora McKay stepped through the crowd, approaching him steadily and with great purpose. Rye merely watched in awe, curious to see what that purpose would be. Her steps brought her before him, within inches. She moved, and for some reason he expected a soft touch. Instead, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him toward her so that he was bent closer to her face. “For fuck’s sake, sit down and stop making a scene,” she hissed.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the crowd, though she didn’t return to the group she’d been sitting with. Instead, she led him to a large tree root at the edge of
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