Mistress Flemgulge nearly fell off the pew when Reverend Lots swayed
up to the pulpit like a ship in a tempest. He gripped a single sheet
of paper with a hand palsied by age. The Reverend was nearly as old
as she was, and Mistress Flemgulge was as old as the wooden bones of
the church itself. He had not spoken in St. John's in a decade.
All conversation ceased. Some were anxious to hear his words.
Others were more concerned that he would shatter into a cloud of dust
and broken bones on the red and gold carpet of the nave.
"The Lord saw fit to give us a dark side," he began.
The silence of our collective shock was a blessing as his voice was
tremulous, and seemed to disappear into the heavy timbers above us.
"Satan's side. The side of brimstone, and fire. The side of
temptation."
I thought back to the night before when I had caught a hidden
glimpse of Prissy Handen through a square of naked window. She had
been in the midst of disrobing. I could not remember smelling any
brimstone, though I was not sure what sort of odour it had.
"The side of carnal desire," he continued. "Of
knowing the heat of another's flesh. Of tasting their salt. For
pleasure, and pleasure alone." My mother looked over at me, then
back at Reverend Lots, and then back at me. I strained to hear every
word. Each syllable was like the thrumming of an insect's wings
beside my ear, and just as hard to catch.
"Does he not know there are children here?" Mother
hissed. Father blew out a long breath, moustache twitching under
closed eyes.
"And just as He gave this side to all of us, so did He to
Rev ..." Lots cleared his throat, which turned into a long,
wracking cough. "Mister. Mister Sullust." He cast his eyes
Heaven-ward, mouth gaping and dark. "Mr. Sullust has spat in the
face of Creation." Here his face twisted into a grotesque
caricature of incredulous horror. "He entered the body of Widow
Jeggins. He, my fellow followers of Christ, has fallen into his
temptation. Into the Devil's side."
"Children," Mother said. Father harrumphed again. Or
was it a snore?
"Easy for you to say, Lots," said Mr. Chum in the
front, a slight man with a thick, plaid blanket over his lap. Mr.
Chum had given much of his sizable fortune to St. John's. He since
had suffered from a stroke that, according to Mother, had removed his
'filter.' "Even the Devil wouldn't try and tempt you."
Mistress Flemgulge laughed in spite of herself, and Reverend Lot's
face darkened.
However, he knew better than attempt to remonstrate
Mr. Chum. Instead he looked back down at his notes and traced the
path of his sermon with a finger that reminded me of a winter branch.
The Reverend mouthed a couple of words, but shook his vulture's head
every time, until he made it to the bottom of the page.
"Mr. Sullust will not be returning. We do not have a
replacement."
"Widow Jeggins would probably give a better description of
Sullust's sin, Lots. We'd all learn our lesson then," Mr. Chum
said. "Where is she?"
Mistress Flemgulge's cackling laughter followed Lots as he
tottered down from the pulpit and into the recesses of St. John's.
You really have a way with words Patrick. I loved the description for the woman's bones as old as the wooden structure of the church.
ReplyDeleteYour characters are great and vivid too. I seem to stop by about once a week, and there are bunches of new stories to read. It's nice to see!
Ben V.