The Witch of Tin Mountain(61)

She looks up at Bellflower with adoring eyes as he pries her hands from his arm. He gestures toward the piano with his sharp chin, and Val obediently goes to the piano and sits. She starts pounding out the opening chords to a hymn. I never even knew she could play.

With the townsfolk distracted by the music, I slowly move forward.

Once I’m near the front, Val lays off the music and Bellflower takes his place behind the podium. A hush falls over the tent.

“Good people of Tin Mountain,” Bellflower intones, his flint-dark eyes sliding over the crowd. “I have heard a rumor there may be witches in our midst.”

My pulse quickens. At first, I think he’s seen me. But as his gaze scrapes past me, I realize this is all just part of his act. I release a shaky breath, settle my hip against a tent pole, and draw my scarf tighter around my face.

“The book of Exodus has much to say about the dangers of consorting with witches,” Bellflower continues. He stalks back and forth on his makeshift stage. He enjoys this. The attention. The power. “Whether you believe in darker powers or not, the evidence of evil is all around us. This drought,” he says, throwing his hands wide, “is a sign of sinister influence. What other plagues might follow? I received most unfortunate news this morning. The baby boy I healed from a pernicious colic last week has died. His dear mother found him in his crib yesterday morning. There will be more deaths, my brethren. Just as there were fifty years ago. Some here are old enough to remember.”

A few of the elderly people nod sagely.

Bellflower places a hand over his heart and drops his head in mock sympathy. “These plagues are no coincidence, my friends. Evil lives in Tin Mountain. It was brought upon this land by witchcraft and divination—the devil’s tools. Evil wears many guises.” He shrugs. “Some beautiful. Seductive and sweetly innocent. But no matter how appealing evil may seem on the outside, the destroyer seeks always to undo the work of the good. Witches are the Enemy’s helpmates.”

My hands ball into fists at my sides. He’s using his illusions of healing and godliness to convince people to turn against us. How many more people will he fool—how many more have to die—before they see him for what he is?

“But I have good news, my children. Witches aren’t the only ones who have powers.” He ceases his pacing. “I was given a greater gift, in my youth. My dear, sweet mother was afflicted by a witch’s curse. From my earliest memory, she was racked with fits that bent her back and sent her into such painful spasms that she begged for the mercy of death. I prayed fervently for her to be healed. And one day . . . one day, I was heard.” Fake tears glisten in Bellflower’s eyes. He pulls in a deep breath and lets it out.

I can tell he’s covered this ground before. The speech is practiced and polished, like he’s repeated it over and over for years. I wonder how much of it—if any of it—is true.

“An angel came to me, in the night. He touched me and made me a promise. If I would help purge the world of witchcraft, he would heal my mother, and give me the gift of healing so that I might bless others. Friends, that angel made true on his promise. And I have made true on mine. I have spent my entire ministry chasing down evil and delivering those oppressed by the dangers of witchcraft.”

He bends to pick up one of the tin pails. At first, I think it’s just an offering bucket, but I hear a faint rasp of movement coming from inside. “You have seen me heal. You have seen me prophesy, and tonight, you’ll defy death with me.” Bellflower thrusts a hand into the bucket. He lifts a snake—a copperhead, its brilliant brown and orange body twining up his arm. “To drive out evil, we will dance with the devil’s serpents, brothers and sisters.”

Aunt Val starts playing the piano again—a wild, careening version of “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” I move forward with the rest of the crowd with a spiteful determination to expose him for what he truly is.

The other congregants reach into the buckets and take up snakes—there are water moccasins and rattlesnakes, too—and start dancing with them. The music gets louder and the tent heaves with people drunkenly spinning in circles and speaking in tongues as they sway.

I tie my scarf tighter around my face, covering everything but my eyes. Curiosity propels me to the altar. I reach inside one of the buckets, feeling the dry, cool softness of a snake’s scales slither over my hand. I grasp the copperhead, and hold it close to me, humming to it, trying to calm its frantic thrashing. It strikes me anyway, as is its nature. But I don’t feel the sharp sink of fangs like I should—only a pinch.

I tickle the snake under its chin. It lets go, then strikes again, its jaws closing over my thumb. I turn the snake and look inside its mouth. I knew it. There are two gaping holes where its teeth should be. It’s been mutilated. That bastard has pulled out its fangs. A snake represents original sin, but the only sin here is Josiah Bellflower’s charade.

I pull in a deep breath and the heat in my bones begins to sing. As if he can feel the shift in energy, Bellflower turns to me. I push the scarf off and stalk toward him, unafraid. Aunt Val must see me, too, because the music dies, and the wild dancing slowly comes to a stop. The tent goes quiet. I turn in a slow circle, brandishing the snake in front of me before I bend to gently release it.

“It’s all a lie. Look at your snakes. He’s taken their fangs. They aren’t biting you because they can’t. There’s no miracle here, just meanness and a good pair of pliers.”