about what you might expect. There was a lot of Bible-quoting and a lot of prayer-shouting and one very tiny little girl crying. The snakes scared her.
What an irrational reaction. Timber rattlers, in case you don’t know, usually have black or dark brown crossbands on a yellow or tan body. The head is yellowish and unmarked. Every once in a while you find one that’s black, misleading you into thinking you’ve got a river rattler, as they’re called hereabouts.
Makes no difference. Timber rattler or river rattler, you really shouldn’t treat them like toys.
The last adult to handle a snake—a
heavyset bald man with a milky blue left eye—took on two snakes. He slung them over his shoulders, he let one wrap about half its body around his neck, and he shook one so furiously that the thing went into snake psychosis.
Then the two men and the woman stood as a group below the lectern and let the congregation touch them, as if they were anointed figures with divine powers.
Singing all the time. Everybody was singing. I’m not sure, but I think that even the snakes were singing.
True, these people didn’t wear hats, but they did sing their collective asses off. The serpents had not bitten these three and so the trio had proved its godliness and what better way to celebrate than with a slightly off-key electric guitar and twenty-some people (and some snakes) joining in congregational song.
I wondered if the ceremony was over. In a Catholic mass everything depends on the sermon.
If the sermon’s short, you’re home free. A short sermon, you can be out of mass in twenty-five minutes flat. I once got an eighteen-minute mass, in fact, leading to my belief that the priest had the trots and needed to get back to the rectory quickly. But God help you if you get the rambling old monsignor. With him, you should pack a lunch.
I had the same feeling here. The snake stuff hadn’t taken so long—or been all that terrible, since nobody’d been bitten—s maybe Muldaur wasn’t as far gone as I’d feared.
Then the little girl went up and stood next to Muldaur.
She was skinny, pigtailed, terrified. She wore white walking shorts and a blue sleeveless blouse. She looked to be about seven.
“Satan hides even in the hearts and souls of children,” Muldaur said.
And the congregation answered him variously with “Yes, Brother” and “The Lord is the Light” and “I do not fear the darkness.”
And it all changed for me. This whole experience. Until now a part of me was thinking about how I’d tell my friends about this little adventure.
It’d be fun. There’d be a few shivers and a lot of laughs and the comforting knowledge that there really were people crazier than us, after all.
But I hadn’t counted on a child handling a snake.
That orgiastic sense only increased.
A low, steady murmur of prayer and excitement and fear; women moaning, clutching their breasts almost sexually; men’s eyes gleaming with foreboding and sinister anticipation.
“I’m going up there,” I said.
Of all the whispers and rumors these people inspired, this was the most disturbing, that they forced children to handle the rattlers. This was the particular reason why state, county, and local officials were always trying to stop them from holding these services. But nobody knew if they actually involved their children or not. Until now.
“Be careful,” Kylie whispered.
She didn’t try to stop me. She wanted me to go up there.
I started to step into the aisle when I felt something cold and metal pressing against the back of my neck. I’m not a gun guy. But I’ve read an awful lot of Richard S. Prather paperbacks and so I recognize the feel of a shotgun barrel.
“Just stay right where you are,” said the giant who’d let us in. He poked me with the barrel for emphasis.
“God, look at her,” Kylie said, loudly enough for people to hear and turn to glare at her.
“Mom!” the little girl shouted. “Please don’t make me
What an irrational reaction. Timber rattlers, in case you don’t know, usually have black or dark brown crossbands on a yellow or tan body. The head is yellowish and unmarked. Every once in a while you find one that’s black, misleading you into thinking you’ve got a river rattler, as they’re called hereabouts.
Makes no difference. Timber rattler or river rattler, you really shouldn’t treat them like toys.
The last adult to handle a snake—a
heavyset bald man with a milky blue left eye—took on two snakes. He slung them over his shoulders, he let one wrap about half its body around his neck, and he shook one so furiously that the thing went into snake psychosis.
Then the two men and the woman stood as a group below the lectern and let the congregation touch them, as if they were anointed figures with divine powers.
Singing all the time. Everybody was singing. I’m not sure, but I think that even the snakes were singing.
True, these people didn’t wear hats, but they did sing their collective asses off. The serpents had not bitten these three and so the trio had proved its godliness and what better way to celebrate than with a slightly off-key electric guitar and twenty-some people (and some snakes) joining in congregational song.
I wondered if the ceremony was over. In a Catholic mass everything depends on the sermon.
If the sermon’s short, you’re home free. A short sermon, you can be out of mass in twenty-five minutes flat. I once got an eighteen-minute mass, in fact, leading to my belief that the priest had the trots and needed to get back to the rectory quickly. But God help you if you get the rambling old monsignor. With him, you should pack a lunch.
I had the same feeling here. The snake stuff hadn’t taken so long—or been all that terrible, since nobody’d been bitten—s maybe Muldaur wasn’t as far gone as I’d feared.
Then the little girl went up and stood next to Muldaur.
She was skinny, pigtailed, terrified. She wore white walking shorts and a blue sleeveless blouse. She looked to be about seven.
“Satan hides even in the hearts and souls of children,” Muldaur said.
And the congregation answered him variously with “Yes, Brother” and “The Lord is the Light” and “I do not fear the darkness.”
And it all changed for me. This whole experience. Until now a part of me was thinking about how I’d tell my friends about this little adventure.
It’d be fun. There’d be a few shivers and a lot of laughs and the comforting knowledge that there really were people crazier than us, after all.
But I hadn’t counted on a child handling a snake.
That orgiastic sense only increased.
A low, steady murmur of prayer and excitement and fear; women moaning, clutching their breasts almost sexually; men’s eyes gleaming with foreboding and sinister anticipation.
“I’m going up there,” I said.
Of all the whispers and rumors these people inspired, this was the most disturbing, that they forced children to handle the rattlers. This was the particular reason why state, county, and local officials were always trying to stop them from holding these services. But nobody knew if they actually involved their children or not. Until now.
“Be careful,” Kylie whispered.
She didn’t try to stop me. She wanted me to go up there.
I started to step into the aisle when I felt something cold and metal pressing against the back of my neck. I’m not a gun guy. But I’ve read an awful lot of Richard S. Prather paperbacks and so I recognize the feel of a shotgun barrel.
“Just stay right where you are,” said the giant who’d let us in. He poked me with the barrel for emphasis.
“God, look at her,” Kylie said, loudly enough for people to hear and turn to glare at her.
“Mom!” the little girl shouted. “Please don’t make me
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