the Way. She had accepted the testament long ago. Archer warned that some choices would be diffi-cult. But he reminded the fold that earthly love was only another vanity, another sin. All love must be directed to the Temple of the Two Suns. And none of that love could be wasted on the First Son, Jesus.
Jesus, the plague maker. The damning one. The liar. A mask of light and peace covering a devil's scarred and pocked face. Linda shivered, recalling how deeply the Baptists had brainwashed her. And to think that she'd been making the boys go to their church.
A Jesus trick, Archer had explained. Using David, to trap her. To "save" her. She shuddered and put the apple juice to Ronnie's lips. He strained his head forward and took a swallow, then collapsed back against the pillow. "How are you feeling, sugar?"
"Hurts," he whispered.
"I know, baby. It'll be okay soon."
"I just want to sleep."
"Sure." She kissed him on the forehead, careful to avoid the purpled flesh around his eyes. "Sweet dreams."
Timmy was finished eating by the time she got back to the kitchen. She sent him to wash his face and brush his teeth, and then to bed. She turned on the radio, the local station. A Beatles song was play-ing,
"Strawberry Fields Forever." Sinful. But she was strong. She could withstand this test of faith. Yes, Archer, I am strong. I am worthy. The music can't touch me, because I know it for what it is. She listened as the song segued into its second fadeout, the backward-tape effects filled with secret messages. The taunts and seductive whispers of Jesus. Something about burying Paul, the cursed apostle. Dozens of people across the county, maybe hun-dreds, were being exposed to this depraved Christ-worship. She said a quick prayer to Archer for their souls.
Another song came on. The Culture Club, a band she used to like. Back before she met Archer. "Karma chameleon," Boy George sang. Karma chameleon. More sacrilege, more perverted celebrations of the spirit, another false Way.
The boys would be asleep now. She turned off the radio and silently crept out the door. The sky was charcoal gray in the west, where the waxing moon hung bloated and obscene. But the ground, the earth, the mountains were black as absolution. As near Archer's promised peace as one could hope, at least in this mortal world.
Crickets. The chuckle of the creek. The wind soughing through the trees, hiding the noises of noc-turnal creatures.
She didn't need light in order to see.
She needed only faith.
And darkness.
Archer's darkness summoned her, a beacon so righteously black that it was blinding. She crossed the damp meadow and slipped into the forest.
Zeb Potter cradled the shotgun across one flannel-wrapped arm. He shined the flashlight into the belly of the barn. The cows were banging against the walls of their stall, uneasy lowing coming from their throats. The air was thick with the smell of fresh manure.
Something's scared 'em bad.
Zeb had been getting ready for bed, had taken out his chewing tobacco and his teeth and was deciding whether or not he could go one more night in the same pair of long johns when the bawling of a calf filled the night. A calf could wail its lungs out if it wanted, but hardly ever cut loose without a good rea-son. Most people thought cows were dumb as dirt, but they had peculiarities that none of those genius
"agronomists" from NC State would ever be able to explain. A healthy cow, you hit it in that place just between and a little above the eyes with a sledgeham-mer, and it dropped dead on the spot, ready to turn to steak and hamburger. But a sick cow, you had to hit it five or six times before it went down. And why was that? The sick cow was living to get healthy, but the healthy cow was about as well off as it could hope to be. So the healthy cow didn't have as much to look forward to. Cows knew a thing or two about life. So they always kicked up a fuss when they smelled something bad. Though all the big predators had
Jesus, the plague maker. The damning one. The liar. A mask of light and peace covering a devil's scarred and pocked face. Linda shivered, recalling how deeply the Baptists had brainwashed her. And to think that she'd been making the boys go to their church.
A Jesus trick, Archer had explained. Using David, to trap her. To "save" her. She shuddered and put the apple juice to Ronnie's lips. He strained his head forward and took a swallow, then collapsed back against the pillow. "How are you feeling, sugar?"
"Hurts," he whispered.
"I know, baby. It'll be okay soon."
"I just want to sleep."
"Sure." She kissed him on the forehead, careful to avoid the purpled flesh around his eyes. "Sweet dreams."
Timmy was finished eating by the time she got back to the kitchen. She sent him to wash his face and brush his teeth, and then to bed. She turned on the radio, the local station. A Beatles song was play-ing,
"Strawberry Fields Forever." Sinful. But she was strong. She could withstand this test of faith. Yes, Archer, I am strong. I am worthy. The music can't touch me, because I know it for what it is. She listened as the song segued into its second fadeout, the backward-tape effects filled with secret messages. The taunts and seductive whispers of Jesus. Something about burying Paul, the cursed apostle. Dozens of people across the county, maybe hun-dreds, were being exposed to this depraved Christ-worship. She said a quick prayer to Archer for their souls.
Another song came on. The Culture Club, a band she used to like. Back before she met Archer. "Karma chameleon," Boy George sang. Karma chameleon. More sacrilege, more perverted celebrations of the spirit, another false Way.
The boys would be asleep now. She turned off the radio and silently crept out the door. The sky was charcoal gray in the west, where the waxing moon hung bloated and obscene. But the ground, the earth, the mountains were black as absolution. As near Archer's promised peace as one could hope, at least in this mortal world.
Crickets. The chuckle of the creek. The wind soughing through the trees, hiding the noises of noc-turnal creatures.
She didn't need light in order to see.
She needed only faith.
And darkness.
Archer's darkness summoned her, a beacon so righteously black that it was blinding. She crossed the damp meadow and slipped into the forest.
Zeb Potter cradled the shotgun across one flannel-wrapped arm. He shined the flashlight into the belly of the barn. The cows were banging against the walls of their stall, uneasy lowing coming from their throats. The air was thick with the smell of fresh manure.
Something's scared 'em bad.
Zeb had been getting ready for bed, had taken out his chewing tobacco and his teeth and was deciding whether or not he could go one more night in the same pair of long johns when the bawling of a calf filled the night. A calf could wail its lungs out if it wanted, but hardly ever cut loose without a good rea-son. Most people thought cows were dumb as dirt, but they had peculiarities that none of those genius
"agronomists" from NC State would ever be able to explain. A healthy cow, you hit it in that place just between and a little above the eyes with a sledgeham-mer, and it dropped dead on the spot, ready to turn to steak and hamburger. But a sick cow, you had to hit it five or six times before it went down. And why was that? The sick cow was living to get healthy, but the healthy cow was about as well off as it could hope to be. So the healthy cow didn't have as much to look forward to. Cows knew a thing or two about life. So they always kicked up a fuss when they smelled something bad. Though all the big predators had
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