Kay Hooper - Blood Sins

So Samuel hung around the town, earning a few bucks sweeping out a couple of downtown stores forgotten by time and then hitching a ride out to the big pasture where a worn tent had been pitched, all the flaps pinned open because it was a sweltering day.

Inside were a few dozen folding chairs and benches, sitting unevenly on the harsh stubble of recently harvested hay. Someone had taken the trouble to rake up whatever manure had been on the ground beneath the tent, but there was nevertheless a pervasive odor of cow hanging heavily in the still, hot air.

Maddox passed out badly printed "programs" that consisted of a single sheet of cheap paper, folded once and filled with tiny, smudged type. His sermon, more or less. The highlights, at least. It was barely literate but filled with passionate belief.

Samuel settled onto a rickety chair at the back, happy that there had been a chicken and two beef casseroles but disgruntled because nobody had brought cookies. He listened to Maddox build slowly to a rant against government officials and established religions and anybody other than himself who believed they had the Answer.

Maddox alone had the Answer.

The Answer he cannily hinted at but never actually provided. Only the godly, he assured them, could hear the Answer.

He was good theater, Samuel thought. The couple dozen townsfolk who had come out to listen fanned themselves with his program and nodded and occasionally threw in an amen to keep the show going.

Thunder began to rumble distantly, then closer, and a hot breeze blew through the tent.

Samuel saw a few people consulting watches and beginning to grow restless, and he saw that Maddox had also noticed. The old man's words began to tumble and fall over one another as he rushed to get his sermon finished and reach the all-important ritual of passing the collection plates, which were, Samuel had noticed, old baskets.

But even with a storm approaching and his audience growing restive, Maddox took the time to ask if any wanted to come forward and offer their own testimony.

Samuel didn't have to look around to know that no one else in the audience was interested. It was too hot to bestir themselves. Besides, it was time to be leaving, what with a storm coming.

He realized afterward that it was God who made him get to his feet and move to the "front" of the tent, where Maddox had been pacing back and forth. God who made him face the audience filled with sweaty, distracted faces. And God's voice that thundered from his thirteen-year-old throat with all the passion Maddox possessed and all the power he lacked.

"God loves you!"

A few of the chairs lurched sideways as the people occupying them jumped in surprise.

"God loves you and wants you to be happy. God wants you to enjoy this life in all its abundance! God sent His son to die for you, for your sins, so that you need never fear punishment. God has chosen you, of all His children, to hear the Truth!"

From the corner of his eye, Samuel could see that Maddox was hardly pleased by having his spotlight stolen, but he didn't really care what the old man felt, because he was enjoying himself. Looking at the sweaty faces, intent now, some of them filled with a kind of wonder, he felt that sense of power that never failed to thrill him.

They listened to him. They believed what he told them. They believed he was special.

He lifted his arms, calling on God to verify the truth of his words and fill this congregation with that truth, and

A freight train hit him.

Samuel opened his eyes to find himself on the ground, the hay stubble poking uncomfortably against his back. Above him was a ring of pale, sweating faces, most of them wearing anxious expressions that also, he realized in surprise, held more than a touch of awe.

"Son, are you all right?" It was Maddox, one of those worried faces. But his also held a curiously calculating expression.

Samuel struggled to his feet, aided by several hands, and instead of answering the question, he found himself staring at one of the men who had helped him up.

"You're going to lose your farm," he said.

The man started in surprise, his face going pale. "What?"

"Next year. Better get ready for it, if you don't want your family to starve."

"Son" Maddox began.

But Samuel was looking at another face, this one younger and less careworn. "She did cheat on you, just like you thought. But she's not the real Judas. Talk to your best friend. It's his bed she's been in."

The man turned on his heel and walked away: he was nearly running by the time he left the tent.

Samuel turned his head and saw a woman's face and, again, without knowing where the knowledge came from, said, "Go see your doctor. There's something wrong with the child in your belly."

She gasped, her hands going first to her face, then to cup her only slightly rounded belly. And then she turned away, nearly falling over one of the chairs in her haste to leave.

Maddox put his hand on Samuel's shoulder and gripped it for a moment. Hard. Addressing the murmuring crowd, he said, "Come back tomorrow, folks. Come tomorrow and listen to more of what this very special young man has to tell us. Come tomorrow, and bring your friends."

As the people began to back away and turn toward the exits, Maddox nodded to a thin dark girl who was perhaps a few years older than Samuel, a girl he hadn't even noticed until then. Silent, she picked up one of the offering baskets and moved among those leaving, collecting dollar bills and even a few tens and twenties.

"Son, you and me need to talk," Maddox said as soon as they were alone.

"What happened?" Samuel demanded.

Maddox pointed to the ground.

Samuel looked down, surprised to find a sort of hourglass-shaped area of blackened earth and burned grass. Exactly where he had been standing. "I don't understand."

Maddox pointed up.

Above their heads and several feet from the center tent pole was a perfectly round hole in the canvas. It was, perhaps, six or eight inches across, and the edges were blackened.

"So hot it didn't even start a fire," Maddox told him. "Just punched right through the tent. Then through you and into the ground."

"What did?"

"A bolt of lightning, son." Maddox grinned, revealing large yellowed teeth. "You've been touched by God."

Samuel thought about that for a moment, absently watching as the dark girl returned with the basket of cash. He didn't feel different, really, except stronger. And the air around him seemed clearer, not so heavy and oppressive.

"So what do I do now?" he asked, curious to hear the old man's answer.

Maddox grinned again. "You're going to come with Ruth and me. This is Ruthmy daughter."

Samuel looked at her for a moment, nodded absently, then looked back at Maddox. "Why would I come with you?"

"Because we're going to start ourselves a real church, son. I've got the know-how, and you, well, you've been touched by God, haven't you? Touchedand given the gift of Sight." He reached out and again put his hand on Samuel's shoulder. "You know we're walking the path together now, don't you, son?"

Samuel studied that grinning face, the greedy gleam in those intense eyes, and wondered idly if Maddox had any idea at all that his path would end in blood and agony.

Not that it mattered.

That was at least a few years down the path.

"So when do we start?" he asked.

Samuel didn't come all the way out of his meditative trance as that particular memory faded from his mind. Other memories flashed by, like the pages of a book blown by a steady breeze, pages showing other tent revivals and small churches that were all but shacks slowly giving way to bigger, better churches. Until finally the church in Los Angeles, where everything had really begun coming together.