Light to the Hills: A Novel (23)

“Glory be,” shouted a man in the corner.

“Have mercy, Lord, give us eyes to see,” begged another. This one, Sass thought she recognized. She was a Gunnison—one of the Marys? She’d heard Mama talking with a neighbor woman of the husband near getting arrested for running moonshine, but he’d managed to elude the law so far. The Gunnisons lived along two fingers of Lost Creek near the base of the mountain. The parents, Ida and Dean, had been both fertile and unimaginative, or perhaps more accurately, just tired. They had had six children, all the boys named John and all the girls named Mary. It was a tangle figuring out which was which, so they went by double names or second names: Mary Jane, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Jo, John Mark, John Warren, Little John.

Sass was astonished. In the space of thirty minutes, the room had been transformed from a quiet haven in the woods to a rollicking party for Jesus. Fern sat snug against Mama, taking everything in, and Hiccup had untangled herself from Mama’s neck and clapped her hands in delight. Sass craned her neck to look up where the old man had fixed his gaze. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see an angel in white floating near the rafters, so filled with the Spirit was the room.

As quickly as the rush swept through them, it subsided, leaving a prickly feeling on the skin and a breathlessness, like knowing it was due to come a storm. The preacher and his wife stood together up front, heads bowed.

“If anyone has need of prayers of intercession,” he hummed, “make your way up and be heard.”

Mama passed Hiccup to Fern and stood up. Sass’s mouth hung open as she watched her mama walk to the front, her hands in tight fists by her sides. The Wicks bent their heads near hers as she murmured to them, and every now and then, her voice cracked and warbled. Finally, they parted, and Mama sat down in front.

“One of our community has come to us today to entreat us to pray for healing. Y’all know this family’s son has been struck down in the mine with a serious injury. Regular doctoring hasn’t been enough, and they fear for his leg. Many of y’all have been there and know the path this soul is walking.”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s right.”

“Surely do.”

“Well, we’re gonna ask the good Lord to send healing to this boy, to see fit to mend the broken. Sometimes we get struck down, but we don’t get discouraged. We get defeated for a turn, but not crushed. The Lord will lift us up, where we will dance on our bruises and feel nothing.”

The prayer over, Mama nodded quietly and glanced back through the crowd to her offspring, lined up like birds on a roof.

Jack Wick gestured for her to return to her seat. Several of the women squeezed her hands in solidarity as she walked by. Not many families passed through the mines unscathed.

Jack Wick had turned his back to the congregation and was sliding a wooden box off the shelf at the front. As he placed it on the front bench, a low hum began in his throat, which was soon taken up by the congregation.

“Beady.” He nodded to his wife, who stood and started to sing.

“On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross . . .” Their untrained voices lifted and wavered with the notes, their voices mingling in a practiced harmony that had no need for the finery of a piano. The low rumbling bass of the men vibrated in the floorboards, and the higher lilt of the women lifted toward the rafters. Sass sang along to the familiar hymn, bobbing one foot to keep time and following the shape notes to mark the melody.

When the last notes died, Jack held up a hand. “Book of John says the Word became flesh and dwelt among them. This was no ordinary word, not something you could spell out with letters. His words have power, and we have a whole book of ’em.” Jack shook the tattered Bible that lay on the wooden pulpit. “Even more than that, more than words of creation and words of scripture, God saw fit to give a Word of life—His very own son.”

“Preach it, Jack.”

“We ask and ask of the Lord, and He generously gives. Sometimes, He shakes His head at our foolishness and determination to have it our own way. Surely sometimes the Lord must look down with a headache and think we’re dumber than a sack of hammers. Sometimes, He needs to be sure we are headed in the right direction, that our faith is sure.”

“Yes sir.”

“He offers a test of faith. If we are worthy, if our faith is true, He will stand in our corner.” A hush fell over the room. Jack opened the wooden box he’d set on the bench, the lid hiding its contents. Sass couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard the distinct buzz of a rattle.

“The Gospel tells us the faithful will be able to take up serpents and not be harmed, that they can drink deadly poison and not fall ill. These are the tests we should pass if we think we are worthy to approach the throne.”

In one swift motion, Jack’s arm darted into the box and came out holding a four-foot rattler behind its head. Its body whipped and twisted as it swung in the air, trying to find solid ground.

Cricket nudged Sass with a sharp elbow. “This man’s crazy as a soup sandwich,” he whispered. “His roof ain’t nailed tight. That bugger hits the floor, and I’m out the door. You’re gonna want to be right on my tail.”

He didn’t have to convince Sass. She clutched Fern and was ready to run if the preacher set the snake free to roam. She remembered her encounter just a week and a half ago with the rattler in Gingko Holler, and how the book woman had sent it flying with her pistol shot. Understanding dawned on her. The book woman! She’d told Sass’s father her parents’ names, and now Sass suddenly remembered them—Jack and Beady Wick. The man up front with a rattlesnake wrapped around his forearm was Miz Rye’s father. She studied them with new appreciation. The way she’d killed that snake, Sass never would have guessed Miz Rye was raised keeping them as pets.