flicker.
Mrs. Evans gasps, and her husband makes a rumbling, scared noise in the back of his throat….
We all stand up and go into the living room. A door bangs loudly. A shrill, animal noise whistles out from the next room, followed by the sound of something burning. The Evanses grab each other. Father Nerve holds out his arms and prays to the god. Flecks of dust, and then corn and seeds, fall from his fingertips. This, I know, is another invention of the twins—two cylinders filled with grain that begin to spill when Father Nerve’s arms are fully extended—but it looks very dramatic.
The sounds of the fire get louder and louder. We all move through the house, praying. In the master bedroom, Father Nerve gets down on his knees and presses his hands onto the middle of the bedspread.
“There is a poison here,” he says, and a black oil begins to ooze up from the sheets.
Mrs. Evans screams and presses her head against her husband’s chest. “We’re sorry,” she moans. “We’re so sorry.”
We all return to the kitchen, which is now in disarray—plates are smashed, dishcloths are torn, and the table is upended. The twins have really outdone themselves. Mrs. Evans looks faint, and her husband isn’t in a much better state.
Father Nerve raises his hand to the sky and shouts the words of the fourth prayer, the prayer calling for the end of all things. When he finishes, the house becomes silent.
“We are done here,” says Father Nerve.
“Th-thank you,” mumbles Mr. Evans, looking at his ruined kitchen.
“You and your wife need to leave the house now. We must bless each room to ensure the evil does not return. Go to your children and reassure them that everything will be fine. Tell them that the god is merciful and that the hole is closed. Your crops will be healthy this year.”
The Evanses stumble out. I wonder how it feels to be them right now, to have the might of the god exposed to them, to really see (as far as they know) evidence of the evil that has plagued them. They are so fortunate.
I hope they know that.
W ITH THE Evanses gone, Father Nerve performs his blessings while the twins and I run around the house, removing all trace of the accessories. We’re finished in twenty minutes, so we go out to the car to wait for Father Nerve. As usual, I have to sit in the middle of the backseat while the twins sit on either side of me—a tight squeeze. We aren’t allowed to sit in the front passenger seat because, until we turn eighteen, we’re still considered children in the eyes of the faith.
“That was a good one,” says Ro.
Ray nods. “Very lucky with the timing on the light. I wonder if we could rig up an effect like that with a remote. Click a button and the light starts flashing.”
“Nice job with the kitchen, Enna,” Ro adds, poking me in the leg. “Even I was surprised. We didn’t see you leave.”
“I didn’t do anything to the kitchen,” I say.
“Ha-ha,” says Ray. “You know how Father Nerve feels about liars, don’t you?”
I’m not lying. I can’t tell if they’re messing with me or not. I put my hands together in my lap and bite my lip. Looking out the car window, I can see Father Nerve leaving the house.
“Come on, Enna, before the old man gets back,” says Ro. “Which one of us do you want to marry?”
Ray grins. “We know you’ve been thinking about it.”
It’s true. There have been some discussions about who I will marry when I come of age, but that’s four years away—well, three and a half. The twins are the same age as me, and we are companions of the same Father, so I suppose it’s inevitable that I will marry one of them. I’m not sure if I want to, though. Not because I don’t love the twins but because I don’t believe I’ll make a good wife.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s up to Father Nerve and Father Piedmont.”
“But if you had to choose,” Ray presses.
“I’m never going to choose,” I say, “so why even
Mrs. Evans gasps, and her husband makes a rumbling, scared noise in the back of his throat….
We all stand up and go into the living room. A door bangs loudly. A shrill, animal noise whistles out from the next room, followed by the sound of something burning. The Evanses grab each other. Father Nerve holds out his arms and prays to the god. Flecks of dust, and then corn and seeds, fall from his fingertips. This, I know, is another invention of the twins—two cylinders filled with grain that begin to spill when Father Nerve’s arms are fully extended—but it looks very dramatic.
The sounds of the fire get louder and louder. We all move through the house, praying. In the master bedroom, Father Nerve gets down on his knees and presses his hands onto the middle of the bedspread.
“There is a poison here,” he says, and a black oil begins to ooze up from the sheets.
Mrs. Evans screams and presses her head against her husband’s chest. “We’re sorry,” she moans. “We’re so sorry.”
We all return to the kitchen, which is now in disarray—plates are smashed, dishcloths are torn, and the table is upended. The twins have really outdone themselves. Mrs. Evans looks faint, and her husband isn’t in a much better state.
Father Nerve raises his hand to the sky and shouts the words of the fourth prayer, the prayer calling for the end of all things. When he finishes, the house becomes silent.
“We are done here,” says Father Nerve.
“Th-thank you,” mumbles Mr. Evans, looking at his ruined kitchen.
“You and your wife need to leave the house now. We must bless each room to ensure the evil does not return. Go to your children and reassure them that everything will be fine. Tell them that the god is merciful and that the hole is closed. Your crops will be healthy this year.”
The Evanses stumble out. I wonder how it feels to be them right now, to have the might of the god exposed to them, to really see (as far as they know) evidence of the evil that has plagued them. They are so fortunate.
I hope they know that.
W ITH THE Evanses gone, Father Nerve performs his blessings while the twins and I run around the house, removing all trace of the accessories. We’re finished in twenty minutes, so we go out to the car to wait for Father Nerve. As usual, I have to sit in the middle of the backseat while the twins sit on either side of me—a tight squeeze. We aren’t allowed to sit in the front passenger seat because, until we turn eighteen, we’re still considered children in the eyes of the faith.
“That was a good one,” says Ro.
Ray nods. “Very lucky with the timing on the light. I wonder if we could rig up an effect like that with a remote. Click a button and the light starts flashing.”
“Nice job with the kitchen, Enna,” Ro adds, poking me in the leg. “Even I was surprised. We didn’t see you leave.”
“I didn’t do anything to the kitchen,” I say.
“Ha-ha,” says Ray. “You know how Father Nerve feels about liars, don’t you?”
I’m not lying. I can’t tell if they’re messing with me or not. I put my hands together in my lap and bite my lip. Looking out the car window, I can see Father Nerve leaving the house.
“Come on, Enna, before the old man gets back,” says Ro. “Which one of us do you want to marry?”
Ray grins. “We know you’ve been thinking about it.”
It’s true. There have been some discussions about who I will marry when I come of age, but that’s four years away—well, three and a half. The twins are the same age as me, and we are companions of the same Father, so I suppose it’s inevitable that I will marry one of them. I’m not sure if I want to, though. Not because I don’t love the twins but because I don’t believe I’ll make a good wife.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s up to Father Nerve and Father Piedmont.”
“But if you had to choose,” Ray presses.
“I’m never going to choose,” I say, “so why even
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