The Taker by Alma Katsu Page B

“Is that why you’re here? You have a desire to go to hell? You know there are much more pleasant paths to damnation than listening to devious preachers.”
    There was a message in the glimmer in his deep brown eyes, but one I couldn’t interpret. Before I could ask him to explain, he laughed and said, “Every soul in town looks to be here. More’s the pity that I won’t be staying, but as you say, there’ll be hell to pay if my mother finds out.” He steadied the stirrup and swung back into the saddle but then leaned over me, protectively. “What about you, Lanny? You’ve never been one for preaching. Why are you here? Are you hoping to find someone here, a particular boy? Has some young man caught your fancy?”
    That was a complete surprise—the coy tone, the probing look. He’d never given the slightest indication that he cared if I was interested in another. “No,” I said, breathless, barely able to stammer out a response.
    He took up the reins slowly, seemingly weighing them as he might weigh his words. “I know the day will come when I’ll see you with another boy, my Lanny with another boy, and I won’t like it. But it’s only fair.” Before I could recover from shock and tell him it was within his power to prevent that—surely he knew!—he had turned the horse and cantered into the woods, leaving me to stare after him in confusion yet again. He was an enigma. For the most part he treated me as a favorite friend, his attitude toward me platonic, but then there were times I thought I saw an invitation in the way he looked at me or a wisp of—dare I hope?—desire in his restlessness. Now that he’d ridden away, I couldn’t dwell on it or I’d go crazy.
    I leaned against a tree and watched the preacher make his way to the center of a small clearing in front of the crowd. He was younger than I had expected—Gilbert was the only pastor I’d ever known and had arrived in St. Andrew already white-haired and crotchety—and walked ramrod straight, assured that both God and righteousness were on his side. He was good-looking in a way that was unexpected and even uncomfortable to see in a preacher, and the women sitting closest to him twittered like birds when he gave them a broad, white smile. And yet, watching as he gazed over the crowd, preparing to begin (as confident as though he owned them), I experienced a dark chill, as though something bad was in the offing.
    He began speaking in a loud, clear voice, recalling his visits throughout the Maine territory and describing what he’d found there. The territory was becoming a copy of Massachusetts, with its elitist ways. A handful of wealthy men controlled the destiny of their neighbors. And what had this brought for the average man? Hard times. Common folk falling behind on their accounts. Honest men, fathers and husbands, jailed and land sold out from under the wives and children. I was surprised to see heads nod in the crowd.
    What people wanted—what Americans wanted, he stressed, waving his Bible in the air—was freedom. We hadn’t fought the British only to have new masters take the king’s place. The landowners in Boston and the merchants who sold goods to the settlers were no more than robbers, demanding outrageous usury fees, and the law was their lapdog. His eyes glimmered as he surveyed the crowd, encouraged by their murmuring assent, and he paced within his circle of well-trod grass. I wasn’t used to hearing dissent spoken aloud, in public, and I felt vaguely alarmed by the preacher’s success.
    Suddenly, Nevin was beside me, studying our neighbors’ upturned faces. “Look at ’em, slack-jawed mopes …,” he said, derisively. There was no doubting that he’d gotten his critical temperament from our father. He folded his arms across his chest and snorted.
    “They seem interested enough in what he has to say,” I observed.
    “Do you have the slightest idea what he’s talking about?” Nevin squinted at me. “You don’t