the younger man took his knife from its sheath. Wesley began to whimper, and the Reverend patted his head. The man's dagger began to shadow Grace's chin. The tip of the blade flipped up her lace collar, and she let out a small, involuntary gasp. The young man laughed, and the Reverend had no choice but to step forward and speak more forcefully.
"Gentlemen, we have no claim on that cow. If you have a dispute, it is with the owner. We wish to pass in peace. We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and intend to follow the exhortation of live and let live. We assume that you will do the same."
The older man's face tightened. "Lord Jesus?" he asked.
The Reverend's eyes grew bright. "Yes, you have heard of him?"
"Lord Jesus, king of the Ghost Men?" the older man asked.
The Reverend turned to Grace. "How remarkable. They know of Him and the Holy Ghost already." He looked to the men, and the edges of his lips rose in a genuine smile.
Surely, the miracle of salvation could cleanse even the filthiest of louts. And the Reverend was fast surmising that louts indeed they were: the smoke smoldering on the horizon seemed irrefutable evidence of what these hooligans had torched along the way.
The older man suddenly began to shout again. He let out a hideous cackle followed by a long, low growl. Staring down into the Reverend's blue eyes, he spat at his chest. The man thrust his saber at the sky. "No Lord Jesus! Death to Lord Jesus!"
He released a stream of sounds the likes of which the Reverend had never heard before. He felt certain the man was the devil incarnate, screaming with every intention of waking the gods— both his and theirs. The Reverend had met with fury and treachery before. He knew that to stand in the face of it, to neither turn one's cheek nor one's back but to straighten the shoulders to face one's fate, was the only way to illustrate the true strength of the Lord. He stared into the man's wild face, ignoring the spit and the curses and the swords.
Grace began to whimper and held tighter to his waist, pressing Wesley against him, too, until the child clung to his father's back like a frightened monkey.
"Please," she said, "let us alone. Take the blasted cow, we don't care. Let us be. Certainly, we have done nothing to harm you."
These words seemed to infuriate the older man beyond all else, and he threw his thick leg down over the horse. He landed with a thud on the ground, his fur boots sending up a cloud of dust. He raised his sword over Grace's head and began chanting in words the Reverend did not understand. Not words so much as sounds, rocking and keening, as if he had experienced a great loss. The older man bowed his head in soulful prayer. After a long, low moan, he looked up and clapped his hands.
The younger man appeared before the Reverend and thrust his hand into the minister's breast pocket. He snatched the white handkerchief neatly folded there. His grimy fingers held it aloft, whipping it in the breeze. The thing unfurled as he waved it in circles, and the older man laughed, although not as maniacally as before. He seemed somehow calmed by the sight of the small white flag on the breeze.
The Reverend was relieved that his wife did not insist on further communication. It was best to remain as neutral as possible. The dangerous men seemed to be releasing their fury, and perhaps that meant they would move on soon. In the meantime, the barbarians appeared positively light-hearted now. As the younger one waved the handkerchief, the two joined arms in a little dance. They each held a corner of the cloth aloft and spun around it like peasants at a festival, two simpletons rejoicing over the harvest. The Reverend managed to pat Grace's arm in feeble encouragement. The older man appeared to be humming to himself. Then, as abruptly as their prancing had begun, it ended. The older man clapped
"Gentlemen, we have no claim on that cow. If you have a dispute, it is with the owner. We wish to pass in peace. We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and intend to follow the exhortation of live and let live. We assume that you will do the same."
The older man's face tightened. "Lord Jesus?" he asked.
The Reverend's eyes grew bright. "Yes, you have heard of him?"
"Lord Jesus, king of the Ghost Men?" the older man asked.
The Reverend turned to Grace. "How remarkable. They know of Him and the Holy Ghost already." He looked to the men, and the edges of his lips rose in a genuine smile.
Surely, the miracle of salvation could cleanse even the filthiest of louts. And the Reverend was fast surmising that louts indeed they were: the smoke smoldering on the horizon seemed irrefutable evidence of what these hooligans had torched along the way.
The older man suddenly began to shout again. He let out a hideous cackle followed by a long, low growl. Staring down into the Reverend's blue eyes, he spat at his chest. The man thrust his saber at the sky. "No Lord Jesus! Death to Lord Jesus!"
He released a stream of sounds the likes of which the Reverend had never heard before. He felt certain the man was the devil incarnate, screaming with every intention of waking the gods— both his and theirs. The Reverend had met with fury and treachery before. He knew that to stand in the face of it, to neither turn one's cheek nor one's back but to straighten the shoulders to face one's fate, was the only way to illustrate the true strength of the Lord. He stared into the man's wild face, ignoring the spit and the curses and the swords.
Grace began to whimper and held tighter to his waist, pressing Wesley against him, too, until the child clung to his father's back like a frightened monkey.
"Please," she said, "let us alone. Take the blasted cow, we don't care. Let us be. Certainly, we have done nothing to harm you."
These words seemed to infuriate the older man beyond all else, and he threw his thick leg down over the horse. He landed with a thud on the ground, his fur boots sending up a cloud of dust. He raised his sword over Grace's head and began chanting in words the Reverend did not understand. Not words so much as sounds, rocking and keening, as if he had experienced a great loss. The older man bowed his head in soulful prayer. After a long, low moan, he looked up and clapped his hands.
The younger man appeared before the Reverend and thrust his hand into the minister's breast pocket. He snatched the white handkerchief neatly folded there. His grimy fingers held it aloft, whipping it in the breeze. The thing unfurled as he waved it in circles, and the older man laughed, although not as maniacally as before. He seemed somehow calmed by the sight of the small white flag on the breeze.
The Reverend was relieved that his wife did not insist on further communication. It was best to remain as neutral as possible. The dangerous men seemed to be releasing their fury, and perhaps that meant they would move on soon. In the meantime, the barbarians appeared positively light-hearted now. As the younger one waved the handkerchief, the two joined arms in a little dance. They each held a corner of the cloth aloft and spun around it like peasants at a festival, two simpletons rejoicing over the harvest. The Reverend managed to pat Grace's arm in feeble encouragement. The older man appeared to be humming to himself. Then, as abruptly as their prancing had begun, it ended. The older man clapped