Brother Cy said with a dismissing sweep of his arms. “Do not forget the seeings of Sister Mirrim or the words of Child Samanda. And do not forget to consider a small donation—a pittance that will allow us to bring our message to others like yourselves—as you depart.”
Brother Cy leaped from the stage and stood beside the tent’s entrance. Seemingly from nowhere, his broad-brimmed pastor’s hat appeared in his bony hand, and he thrust it out before him. A few people tossed in a handful of change or a crumpled bill as they shuffled past. Onstage, Child Samanda led Sister Mirrim toward the curtain. As they stepped through a slit in the ratty velvet, Travis caught a fleeting glimpse of a dim space beyond. He blinked, for it seemed to him that a number of figures gathered behind the curtain, tangled in a queer knot of crooked legs, sinuous arms, and curved swan necks. One of them, a young man—or was he old?—peered back at Travis with nut-brown eyes. Something sprouted from his forehead, something that looked almost like … antlers? Then the gap in the curtain closed. Sister Mirrim and Child Samanda were gone. Travis supposed it was all simply a trick of smoke and shadows, yet he found himself thinking of Waunita Lost Owl’s
delgeth
all the same.
He realized then he was the only one left inside the tent except for Brother Cy. He hurried to the exit. Avoiding thepreacher’s piercing gaze, he dug into the pocket of his jeans, found a creased five-dollar bill, and dropped it in the hat.
“Thank you, son.”
Travis said nothing. Head down, he reached for the canvas flap covering the exit.
“Your battle will be harder than most, son, if you choose to fight it.”
Travis turned around and laughed. It was a hollow sound. He rubbed his right hand. “You mean I have a choice?”
A knife-edged grin cut across the craggy landscape of Brother Cy’s face. “Why, we all have a choice, son. Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying? That’s what this is all about.”
Travis shook his head. “But what if I choose the wrong thing?”
“What if you choose the
right
thing?”
“How will I know?” Travis said. “Sometimes I don’t even know right from left. How can I possibly choose?”
Lamplight gleamed off Brother Cy’s eyes. “Ah, but you have to, son. Light or dark. Sanity or madness. Life or death. Those are our choices, those are the battles we must fight.”
Travis tried to absorb these words. Was there more to Brother Cy than he had guessed? Without really thinking, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the iron box Jack had given him. He held it toward the preacher.
“You know, I think the man who gave this to me saw the same darkness you do. Maybe … maybe it would be better if you took it.”
Brother Cy laughed, a great booming sound. Then his laughter fell short, and his stony face went grim. He took a step backward, as if loath to so much as touch the box. “No, son. That which you carry is not for the likes of me. It is your burden to bear now, and no other’s.”
Travis sighed. He had been afraid the preacher would say something like that. There was nothing more for him here. He slipped the box back into his coat pocket and opened the tent flap.
“Wait, son!” Brother Cy said. “You need a token, something to bolster your faith, something to remember when all seems too dark, and home seems too far away.” He reachedinto his hat, pulled out a small and shiny object, and pressed it into Travis’s hand. It felt cool against his hot skin.
“Thanks,” Travis said, unsure what else to say. “And I hope you stop your darkness, whatever it is.”
“It’s not my darkness, son. It belongs to all of us.”
In a disconcerting instant, the smoky world of the tent was replaced by one of empty gloom. Travis gasped. He stood outside the revival tent now, although he did not remember stepping through the door. He lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers. On his
Brother Cy leaped from the stage and stood beside the tent’s entrance. Seemingly from nowhere, his broad-brimmed pastor’s hat appeared in his bony hand, and he thrust it out before him. A few people tossed in a handful of change or a crumpled bill as they shuffled past. Onstage, Child Samanda led Sister Mirrim toward the curtain. As they stepped through a slit in the ratty velvet, Travis caught a fleeting glimpse of a dim space beyond. He blinked, for it seemed to him that a number of figures gathered behind the curtain, tangled in a queer knot of crooked legs, sinuous arms, and curved swan necks. One of them, a young man—or was he old?—peered back at Travis with nut-brown eyes. Something sprouted from his forehead, something that looked almost like … antlers? Then the gap in the curtain closed. Sister Mirrim and Child Samanda were gone. Travis supposed it was all simply a trick of smoke and shadows, yet he found himself thinking of Waunita Lost Owl’s
delgeth
all the same.
He realized then he was the only one left inside the tent except for Brother Cy. He hurried to the exit. Avoiding thepreacher’s piercing gaze, he dug into the pocket of his jeans, found a creased five-dollar bill, and dropped it in the hat.
“Thank you, son.”
Travis said nothing. Head down, he reached for the canvas flap covering the exit.
“Your battle will be harder than most, son, if you choose to fight it.”
Travis turned around and laughed. It was a hollow sound. He rubbed his right hand. “You mean I have a choice?”
A knife-edged grin cut across the craggy landscape of Brother Cy’s face. “Why, we all have a choice, son. Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying? That’s what this is all about.”
Travis shook his head. “But what if I choose the wrong thing?”
“What if you choose the
right
thing?”
“How will I know?” Travis said. “Sometimes I don’t even know right from left. How can I possibly choose?”
Lamplight gleamed off Brother Cy’s eyes. “Ah, but you have to, son. Light or dark. Sanity or madness. Life or death. Those are our choices, those are the battles we must fight.”
Travis tried to absorb these words. Was there more to Brother Cy than he had guessed? Without really thinking, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the iron box Jack had given him. He held it toward the preacher.
“You know, I think the man who gave this to me saw the same darkness you do. Maybe … maybe it would be better if you took it.”
Brother Cy laughed, a great booming sound. Then his laughter fell short, and his stony face went grim. He took a step backward, as if loath to so much as touch the box. “No, son. That which you carry is not for the likes of me. It is your burden to bear now, and no other’s.”
Travis sighed. He had been afraid the preacher would say something like that. There was nothing more for him here. He slipped the box back into his coat pocket and opened the tent flap.
“Wait, son!” Brother Cy said. “You need a token, something to bolster your faith, something to remember when all seems too dark, and home seems too far away.” He reachedinto his hat, pulled out a small and shiny object, and pressed it into Travis’s hand. It felt cool against his hot skin.
“Thanks,” Travis said, unsure what else to say. “And I hope you stop your darkness, whatever it is.”
“It’s not my darkness, son. It belongs to all of us.”
In a disconcerting instant, the smoky world of the tent was replaced by one of empty gloom. Travis gasped. He stood outside the revival tent now, although he did not remember stepping through the door. He lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers. On his
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