The Blood of Heaven (4 page)

To be out from under this glaring behemoth I went around to the open back of the first wagon and saw another smaller boy within, laid on his back amid the provisions, groaning and swathed in sheets. The boy rose up, revealing burns rippling from his neck to fingertips, and looked for a moment at me before squeezing shut his eyes and letting out a long high keening wail that sent me scrambling back around to be knocked aside by the big one on his way to help the smaller.

The fathers came to attend him also and I followed mine, watched the bandages be changed and the salve applied to the wailer, whose name was Nathan.

These were the Kempers: the father, who mine called Deacon, styled himself a student of the Lord, having given up meager but regular holdings in the Cincinnati port and leaving behind other sons at the family merchantry; the two remaining were the one with hambone knuckles and the glare, Samuel, and the screamer, Nathan, who now had the wagon rocking with jolts of struggle impressive for one so young and infirmed.

They were Virginians all, by birth; true Christians, it seemed; and were joined immediately to us as providence, prophecy, and the Will of the Lord. At least that was how Preacher-father saw it, and I couldn’t help but see it also what with the boys being of similar age and motherlessness as me. I would have embraced them right off if it wasn’t for Samuel eyeing me so.

Once the boy Nathan had been doctored, Deacon Kemper carried him out of the wagon, laid him on the ground, then brought us around to the back of the second wagon. Inside were the goods he planned to sell the Chitites, though he ignored the pewters and spindles and lamps and bolts of cloths, and showed us his arsenal instead. Firearms for Preacher-father were no different from hammer or spade, but this Deacon Kemper gathered them unto him like best-loved blood relations. It would be his sons who taught me to appreciate the other kind of fire, the kind kept in muzzle and in bore, as something more than a means to bring down meat or man. For the Kempers, firing a gun was to shout up a prayer so loud as to hear the echoes of God’s answer reverberating in all the corners of His mouth. Deacon Kemper explained all of this while he showed us his pieces, finishing by saying, How could we not be like those first and greatest preachers and go well-armed?

My father heard all this with eyes alight, saying, Yes! Amen! Yes!

I braved the secretly stabbing elbows of the elder son to get a better look. Not even bruises to my ribbage like a spurred-on horse could stop me from gaping wonderstruck at that collection. I could see that Preacher-father was ashamed of our lost rifle when he asked how much a worthwhile hunting piece might be.

Forty dollars, Deacon Kemper said.

How if we worked it out in trade?

My friend, Deacon Kemper smiled, I would be delighted to make a gift to a fellow man of God. He reached into the wagon and drew out a long Kentucky rifle and handed it to Preacher-father, who held it close and accepted it without even a look.

Bless you, he said. There’s not much tithes about out here.

Not another word, my friend.

My father clutched his gift and Deacon Kemper grew more excited in showing off his bestiary: two more Kentucky rifles, a brace of shotguns—some plain and some ornate—and short-stocked busses which could be loaded with slugs or pebbles or Indian corn and fired to wound and scare, muskets, short-arms, and finally a pair of pistols in a pine box lined with velvet. All supplied with kegs of powder and crates of shot packed in straw.

How’d you come by those dandies? Preacher-father asked.

There are stories to them all, said Deacon Kemper.

I mean the boxed pistols. They look like a dueling set.

Ah, said the Deacon. Don’t we sons of Virginia know them well?

I never fought any, myself.

Only once, for my part. Deacon Kemper shut the box. I was at seminary in Richmond.

So that’s what they teach at seminaries, eh? my father laughed, a miracle in and of itself.

Deacon Kemper grinned and said, Not so much as that.

How’d you end up a Baptist—escaped the Church?

The duel and my conversion are all of a piece the same story. I was, as I said, at seminary. It was a high-minded place, with nigger footmen for our rooms, and Greek and Latin always on our tongues. This was six years before the Revolution. I was drunk on the plushness of my surroundings and went roughly with my fellows into town, raising rich boys’ hell among the populace. I was a model sinner, yes. Going to chapel reeking of sick. A port-wine swiller and a brandied fool. So I had some reputation when I first met Ruth, my wife and their mother, who is now gone, snatched from this world while I was away with General Clay in Pennsylvania. Were you in the war?

Yes, said Preacher-father. But not for long.

Well, her father had some misgivings about my character, which we settled one day on the field with these very pistols. Of course I was expelled, but still I absconded with enough books to continue my education. On that, does your boy read?

He can.

Well, I have a few saved by if he’d like to.

I marveled at this offer while Samuel stealthily mashed my foot under his boot.

You won’t read shit, he whispered.

My thoughts were of shooting fathers down for the sake of love, looking warily at my own, who presently gasped and said, That’s a hell of a parable you got there. If you said you didn’t preach for the Lord I’d call you a liar.

I appreciate it, said the Deacon. Particularly coming from a man like yourself.

I have to say, though—Preacher-father bowed his head—that the people hereabouts are poor and, if you don’t mind me saying, I can’t see you selling much to them.

It’s nothing, said the Deacon. Though I hope you don’t think we came here just to sell.

Lord, no. I only wanted to warn you.

My friend, that’s precisely the reason we’re here. To warn. I’ve given up a steady trade to ride the outlands and tell the people of the coming wickedness.

My father looked bemused and asked which wickedness it was.

Wickedness, brother, like you’ve never seen. A whole slew of people, blinded, man, woman, and child. They’ve been traveling since Cincinnati, where I met them and knew their evils from the start. They follow a prophet of falsehoods and there’s not a girl they wouldn’t steal or barter off you to make a bride of her. And they do try desperately to draw others in.

But what are they? I said.

The fathers both glared at me and Samuel took me by the shoulder as they returned to talking.

They’re the vilest, like the Gips, he said. And they come after little shits like you in the night.

Enough of that, said his father over one shoulder. They are a religion unto themselves. Their prophet styles himself as having written a latter-day testament. They’ve been driven out of every corner of the eastward country and they’ll soon be heading here. Last I knew they were at the Cape, but I did my work there and they’ll be harried here for sure.

But, brother, what if you miss them?

I trust in the grace of God to deliver them to me.

My father drove him on for more and my ears prickled at the talk of child brides, thinking of the Fladeboe girl huddled out in her hole.

With no one until Sunday to give witness to, they evangelized each other. Deacon Kemper had a good soft voice, a learned voice, and through storm-gray days and howling nights it played counter-point to that voice I’d known all my life. Gentle enough to make you at first distrust him, any man attuned to the rhythms of the Lord could soon discern that his words were lit the same. In this man Preacher-father found, as he’d say, a same-such prophet of the course of John’s baptism with water and Christ’s baptism with fire, and at last we could truly walk the path to righteousness and glory.

Samuel

While the fathers were busy shoring up the particulars of their religion and going off most days to scout for the arrival of the aforementioned pilgrims, Samuel Kemper kept sneaking me blows and waiting me out. I did not give in to his baiting. I tended to my tasks, even fetching water for Nathan, who was something of a salvation for me, as Samuel maintained a prayerful vigil over him, and at such times would be too busy to go jabbing at me. Kneeling, hands clasped at the back-boards of Nathan’s wagon, Samuel would lay graces on his poor scalded brother’s head, only to turn and spit curses at me. He was a masterly cusser, and I was alternately a fuckero, shitbird, cunnytwist and rag, a bullockflap, scroter, piss-leg, cockswill and turd.

When we’d drive out their wagon to make rounds of the Chitites’ holes, Samuel selling what he could for his father or taking food in trade, he liked to run me down all the way to the doorways.

How old are you? he asked once.

I don’t rightly know, I said. Seventeen?

Jesus Christ. I’m twenty-three—I know for sure—and you’re nothing but a new-born spit.

It’s not that much difference.

It Christing sure is for me to be out here with my pa, and damned if I’ll play your caretaker.

Fine enough. I’ve made it this far.

You haven’t made it anywhere, he said even as some holediggers came topside. This place is nothing. I’ll bet you’ve never even seen a town. God knows I should’ve stayed with Reuben in Cincinnati.

Samuel cracked the reins. What ho, neighbors! We’ve got some wares for you to see!

Truth be told, I did try to give him back his prods and gouging as much I could, swiftly secret where I placed my retributions, and with vicious intent. I made sure to hide it from the fathers, for the coals were still on my mind if not my tongue.

We caught each other first in quick and bloody skirmishes on the boards of the wagon, or when we were sent out to the scrub forest for kindling and lengths to expand our shelter, while the fathers worked their voices by the fire. These instances never bore any real satisfaction and we would return to camp only to resume our tormenting of each other.

Sundays Samuel would use being full of the spirit to thrash at me when we were all in the melee of worship. These were good days, though, before the pilgrims came and set the Chit in uproar, because it was at meeting that I could have the upper hand; for on occasion the mood would strike Preacher-father to call me out of the crowd and have me step up on the stone he now shared with Deacon Kemper and wail at the congregation. That time was mine, by God, and I could lead the people to holler and yowl, look out on those pitiful creatures and hold my eyes on Emily, say it all to her directly without a soul knowing, or so I thought.

Sure enough one Sabbath evening, on our way back home, Samuel announced himself with an elbow to my side and said, What’s that puny girl you’re always eyeing? She looks like she’d blow over in a breeze.

The fathers were walking up ahead, Nathan draped over the back of his and watching us.

It’s no business of yours, I said.

Maybe not, said Samuel. If she wasn’t so damn ugly I might try for her myself. But then, I could just tell your precious daddy that you’re lusting.

Do it and you’re dead.

Samuel laughed and clapped me on the back. So you’ve got some fire in you after all, you little shitwaller.

Pilgrims and Backsliders

They arrived behind a late blizzard, so they were either desperate or fools. I liken maybe both. The pilgrims settled in a dip at the northern edge of the woods and, so we heard, were clearing the trees after the Indian fashion, burning them out at the stumps and marking their presence by the tower of smoke always hovering above their camp, and constructing standing houses from the hewed wood. All this was reported by some of the curious holediggers who were already making visits to their place. The people of Chit backslid and it seemed that Deacon Kemper’s warnings were confirmed.

Where’d you come by the pickled egg I see you chewing, Brother Magee? Preacher-father asked a Chitite the Sabbath not a week after the pilgrims’ arrival.

Brother Magee took nervous and gulped his egg down. The folks at the woods, he said. Same place Sister Auger got that cloth for her dress.

That’s a damn lie, cried a woman in paisley. I got this from the Deacon’s boy. You ask him!

Brother Magee, said Preacher-father, you’re ready to vouch for these people?

They’re nearby, he said, and they got things. I don’t mean anything by trading.

He sat in on one of their services! Conny Fladeboe called out.

Magee turned. You been taking their feed for those hogs, haven’t you?

Now understand, Preacher-father said, there’s nothing wrong with being Christian to others. With making trade with fellow newcomers. After all, my boy and I were once new to this blessed place and you all showed yourselves to be the milk of kindness, taking us both in and preserving us through the harsh times, allowing me to be your shepherd. But good brothers and sisters, why not keep your trade with the ones who’ve followed after us, the Kempers. Won’t you open your arms just as wide to them, and not shirk them off for whatever’s come next? Of course you would treat these people Christian. But ask yourselves: How can you treat them so if they aren’t Christian themselves?