The Reverend

The reverend and his family were gunned down in the summer of 1869. A hard rainfall ensured that the reverend, his wife, their daughter, and the parishioners of the Church on the Hill—all save for the caretaker, Missus Claire—stayed in that Sunday morning. The reverend led his family in prayer as they huddled by the candlelight. Lightening flashed and thunder rolled as the door was kicked open. Lightening flashed again. Two men stood silhouetted against the rolling sky. They were sopping wet. The rain smeared lines of dirt and muck down their face. The skinny one shot first. 

            The first bullet fired hit the reverend in the shoulder. He had been seated at the table and was facing the door. The force of the gunshot shattered his collarbone and sent him and the rickety chair sprawling backwards. The reverend’s wife screamed and rushed to grab her daughter. The larger cowboy’s bullet screamed from the barrel of his pistol and into the wooden slat of the ceiling.

            The reverend’s wife clutched her daughter to her breast. The cabin went silent, save for the sharp, fear-laden breaths and the soft moans of the reverend.

            A brilliant streak of white-hot pain radiated from his shoulder, and he jolted from unconsciousness. The skinny one had his thumb stuffed into the bullet wound in the reverend’s shoulder. 

Blood pooled around his neck. His head lolled over to meet the eyes of his wife, she was bound and gagged. His daughter was also bound and gagged. The women’s eyes were red and puffy, streaked with tears. The reverend groaned and lolled his head back to the two cowboys now crouched over him. 

            “Church’as empty reverend.” The big one said. “where’s ‘eh moneh? 

The reverend, shocked and bewildered simply said “mo-money? What mon—”

The skinny one stuck his pistol to the reverend’s forehead.

            “Donchu git smart with us fucker” he said and pressed the pistol so hard the tip buried slightly into the skin. “’eh tithe money. We know you got it ‘ere at the house. The lady in ‘eh church said so, din she Lloyd?” 

            “Ayup” Lloyd said. “right ‘fore we shot her eyes out ‘eh back of ‘er ‘ead.” 

            “So where is it?” the skinny one said and pressed the barrel even harder. 

The reverend winced in pain. 

            “Father—” he began to pray. 

            “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” The skinny one shouted. An eerie grin spread across his face. The few remaining teeth were grey. 

            “Yer God’s ‘bandoned ya reverend. Yer God’s left ya all ‘lone with a dead family.” 

            “You can pray t’us, an’ maybe we can find it in our sinful ‘earts tuh letcha live.” Lloyd sneered. 

The reverend tried to look at his wife again, but the barrel of the skinny one’s pistol fixed it firmly in place. 

“There’s a chest. The bedroom.” The reverend finally managed. 

“We see ‘bout that.” Lloyd said. “Hold ‘im there Wayne.” 

Lloyd stood and crossed the kitchen, to the bedroom. The reverend could hear the snap fo the latches and the creak of the hinges. Items clattered across the bedroom floor as Lloyd tossed the chest. 

            “Nuffin ‘ere, Wayne.” Lloyd said after a few minutes of searching.

Wayne cocked the pistol. 

            “Under chest. Floorboard.” The reverend groaned. 

The reverend heard Lloyd get back to work and soon the whine of nail being wrenched from wood filled the air. The reverend was losing blood.

I served you all these years. All these years. To die like this? A silent prayer. 

The Lord works in mysterious ways. A dark voice filled his mind. Yes, he does. Let me kill Job and his whole family just to settle a bet. Mysterious way indeed. Oh yessir.

            “Holy Jeebus!” Lloyd shouted and brought the reverend back to reality. “Wayne, der gotta be fifty dollers or more ‘ere.”

            “Meybe you do git spared, reverend. Meybe you do.” Wayne said. 

Maybe not though, reverend. Unless…unless…

            “Naw. We gotta do ‘im Wayne. ‘ees seen our faces. ‘eel tell the Sheriff.” 

Please. Please don’t let my family die. Another silent prayer. The reverend felt no stirring in his spirit. No Holy Ghost wind or sacred fire. He was going to die. His family was going to die, and heaven was awfully silent on the matter. 

Ask me. I can save your wife. Your daughter too. All you have to do is say yes.

            “You do ‘im den.” Wayne said and handed his second pistol to Lloyd. 

Lloyd grinned a tobacco-stained smile. 

            “Why…?” the reverend asked. The pain was immense. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. “…you have the money. Just leave.” 

            “Leave!?” Wayne cried. He chortled a terrifying laughter. “The money ain’t what we ‘ere fer, reverend.” And Lloyd cocked back the hammer. 

            “Money is haff ‘r payment. Fer killin yer pretty wife and yer darter.” 

Lloyd whirled on his heels and fire a shot into the reverend’s wife’s head. Her body twitched as her brains were scattered across the pinewood flooring. 

Our Father who art in heaven.

Who left you here to rot.

You are a demon. I have no dealings with demons.

And God is having no dealings with you, my friend. I can’t save your wife. Your daughter though…

God will deliver us.

Lloyd spat tobacco chaw onto the reverends face.  “Way-kuh you sonuvabitch!” he chortled a deranged laugh. The reverend swam back to consciousness. 

“W-w-w—"

“Why? That whatchu tryin teh say reverend? Why? Man named Callaway. Told us where t’ find ya. Told us ‘bout the moneh. Said it be no less’en twenty-fye dollers.” 

Jacob Callaway was the only man scorned for the Church on the Hill. He had come to the reverend one fall afternoon and begged for some money. 

            “Please, sir. My family is starving. I promise we’ll pay ya back…it’s just, we’ve fallen on hard times see and my wife she be naggin me somethin fierce and I told her I’d look for a job but I ain’t been having much luck see and…”

            “Son.” The reverend said. It was condescending. The reverend was only twenty-six but still fancied calling those in his parish and those who came for the church’s aid “son”. Calloway felt this and bristled.

            “Don’ you be callin me son! I ain’t your son.” 

            “Now I meant no disrespect, sir.” And the reverend was careful to emphasize sir.      

            “Fuck you.” Calloway spat. “Fuck you and your no disrespect. My daughter is sick. My wife is coming down wit something awful. Think it mightbe cholera. Now I’m willin the ferget the disrespect, but we ain’t got money for a doctor mister. Please.”

The reverend dismissed him with a simple “I’m sorry” and went inside the church. 

That Sunday, as the service was in full regale, the doors were kicked open. Calloway held what looked to be a small sack of potatoes in his arms. His eyes were bloodshot from too much drink and too much grief. 

            “Reverend Lee!” He wailed. “Look whatchu did teh my darter!” He thrust the body, wrapped in sheet toward the podium. The parishioners sat in stunned silence. The air was thick with anxiety and anticipation. A few men placed their hands on the butts of their pistols. 

            “Mr. Calloway. I am truly sorry for your loss. But as God sees the heart, so He sees that I had no business in calling your daughter home. Now I am more than willin to pray with you later, but the Lord God does not trifle with men interrupting His preachin.”

            “Fuck you. And your God.” This elicit a gasp from the crowd. Several women clutched hand to breast in shock and terror. Calloway spat a glob of tobacco onto the floor. “I’ll see you soon reverend. You and your pretty wife.” 

He left.

            “So Calloway’s too scared to gun us down himself?” Lee asked the two cowboys.

            “Naw.” Wayne said. “Cholera git him too. He’s dyin’. But he wanted teh make sure y’all went ‘fore him. Lloyd, if yer so inclined, would you send ‘is darter to ‘er mother?”

It’s not too late. I make no dealing with the devil. God’s will is his—You are one dumb son of a bitch. God has abandoned you. I, however, take no side either way. All you have to do is say yes. Just one word. No.

            Lloyd swallowed hard. 

            “Wayne I-un-know if I can kill a kid.”

            “We gun down a dozen men a piece. Don tell me you git soft on me now.”

            “We gun down men is my point. No kids. I ain’t never kill a kid ‘fore”. 

            “Aw hell, Lloyd!” Wayne cried and grabbed the pistol. He cocked back the hammer.

Make it quick. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. God will provide. He needed my wife. His ways are mysterious, but my daughter is innocent, the Lord will—a gunshot exploded and sent the reverend’s daughter to her eternal glory. 

The grief was incalculable. Pain like the reverend had never felt washed over him in a tidal force. Every cell in his body burned. It felt as if he was being squeezed. 

I am sorry, reverend. Lee was too grief stricken to respond. 

            “Now, you have any qualms ‘bout killin this ‘ere sonuvabitch?” Wayne chided.

            “Naw Wayne. I’ll do ‘im.” Lloyd mumbled. 

Though his face was flushed red with embarrassment, Lloyd readied the sawed-off shotgun and held it with a steady hand. He pointed it down at the reverend’s head. 

            “You may say yer prayer now, reverend.”

One word. I can stop it from happening. One word. Your wife and your daughter…they can be avenged. One word. 

            The reverend, overcome with a grief so heavy that only few men know it, looked from Lloyd to Wayne, Lloyd to Wayne, Lloyd to Wayne in slow painful sweeps. He breathed heavy and said, “I will let my words be few.” 

            “Alright then.” Lloyd said and cocked back the hammer.

            “Yes.” The reverend said through gritted teeth. His eyes were full of fire and fury. Rage rolled inside of him like a boiling pot. His God abandoned him, and so he resigned to abandon his God. He spent too long walking the golden tightrope of religion. Always careful, yes, so very careful to mind each step and cross his t’s with Christ hung on them. He gave up drink. He gave up women. He gave up every vain thought. He did this for a dead carpenter, who now, at the end of the line, was nowhere to be seen. He breathed slowly and repeated: “Yes. Yes! You hear me you sonuvabitch!? Yes! Yes goddammit!” 

Yes. Yes. Yes, indeed. And the dark voice began to laugh.

Lloyd squeezed the trigger. The reverend’s face disintegrated into a wet mass of blood and brain and gore. 

Black. An empty space, where distant wails echoed and overlapped creating one madness inducing scream. The reverend was here, in the dark. He was wailing and screaming himself. Screaming grief for his family. They were not here. They were somewhere else. It had happened somewhere in eternity past, and several seconds ago all at once. Time was absent here. This was a land of nothingness. A land of no-thing. There in the dark, amidst the constant howling and sounds of flesh squelching and ripping, was a dark clotted chuckle. The reverend could hear nothing else.