The Preacher

A preacher of the Word of Rebirth (the Preacher said) travels widely. It is important, you see, that every last settlement and town and hovel on the Network hear the Word—although few listen. Everyone’s conscience is vile, everyone’s conscience is depraved, and the Word seems like poison when first you hear it, because unlike everything else in this fallen land, it isn’t telling you pleasant lies about yourself, but rather, hard truths.

And what that all means is that a preacher sees everything. Murders and murderers. Crimes against women, crimes against children. Drinking, gambling—pardon me, miss—

(“You’re drinking right now,” the Gambler accused.)

A preacher of Rebirth never claims to be a perfect man. Or, at least, if he does, he’s a liar like any other. But you should know that I have seen the worst of what humanity has to offer.

When I was posted to a new town—Pleasance was its name—I expected much the same. I had preached in places with stone roads, and I had preached in places with dirt roads; I had preached in a place bound in by fog, and I had preached in a place tormented by three suns; I had preached in a place that knew rain, and planted trees, and I had preached in a place where even the roughest grass withered in the unrelenting heat and dry. But the sin—the sin! That stayed constant.

And thus I knew that every place needed me.

Pleasance was a green town, as towns go. There was not as much water as some places have, but its inhabitants planted trees assiduously, keeping them watered from the aquifer during the town’s dry season, for Pleasance had a dry season, when the winds blew in dusty from the Desert. The wooden walls of the houses were painted in cheerful colors, with pretty abstract designs in the trim. Most people would call it charming, I suppose.

I was to be housed with a woman by the name of Marrebel, who lived in a yellow house next to the church. “Stay as long as you like,” she declared, “but we don’t need a preacher here. Never have done.”

“Everyone is a sinner,” I said.

“Not here. You’ll see.” And she twinkled a smile at me as she laid the roast on the table. Her husband Erthan, who was the town shopkeep and thus a person of some importance, nodded along with her nonsense as though it made all the sense in the world.

So I settled in, and started preaching the Word—stymied somewhat by the fact that nobody could give me the keys to the church. It had been unused for some time, I was told, and nobody bothered to go in there anymore, and finding the keys among the many inhabitants of Pleasance might be a task that took some time. I considered smashing the windows to get in, but it seemed a pity to do that to real glass, especially to a place I might use in the future. So I gave my sermons on the steps of the church, and a few people listened politely, and absolutely nobody chose Rebirth.

I was largely used to that. The way is narrow, and the travelers are few.

I planned to step in when something bad happened, because it always did. A betrayal, a hatred, a screaming match in the middle of the street. A perfect opportunity to say, this, this is why you need the Word. I waited, and I watched, and I learned everyone’s names so I could minister to them in their time of trouble. And slowly, slowly, I started to notice that something was wrong.

Perhaps I should say something was not wrong.

Jobie Arnet’s wife danced with Nal Cutter at the town festival, skipping and hopping until both their faces were sweaty, leaving Jobie—who had a poor leg—on the sidelines. And when she came back to him, there was no jealousy in his face, and she dropped a kiss on his head and asked if she could get him a drink, and that was that.

Daramil Tailor had been caring for her old aunt for twenty years, and she got her aunt the best of everything, and held her arm to walk with her, and never spoke a harsh word to her, even when her aunt shouted nonsense or threw food, for her aunt was quite, quite mad. As far as I know, there was never even a lock on the Tailors’ door, but it didn’t matter, because anyone who found old Ophie wandering would bring her back with a smile. The only worry was that she might cross into the Desert, and there was a high, white-painted fence to prevent that.

In fact, as far as I know, none of the doors had any locks. Not even a latch.

Even the children seemed strangely free of resentment. Rarely did I see a mother or a father hovering over their charges to make sure they shared and did not snatch; it seemed to happen naturally. The shy and the stuttering were naturally welcomed into their play.

“You see,” Marrebel told me, “we have misfortune here, because we’re part of the Network, but we don’t have sin. You’ll get used to it, if you stay here long enough. Become like us, even.”

“Everyplace has sin,” I told her, “because sin is inherent in the human soul.”

She laughed. “Maybe we don’t have souls, then.”

“What a horrible thing to say!” I told her.

“Not really. If all it does is contain sin, what good is it?”

“It also holds the hope of salvation,” I said. “Of Rebirth.”

She shrugged. “With no sin, we don’t need any of that, surely? At any rate, do you want a little cream on your apple pie?”

The day after that, I went and peered in the church windows. Perhaps there was a loose one, one that I could lever aside. The panels of glass were dusty to the point of opacity. I mopped one with a sleeve, but the grime was on the inside, and it didn’t help.

For a moment, I thought I saw movement inside. But no, it must have been a trick of the light.

Nevertheless, the longer I stayed in Pleasance, the more I wanted into that church. With a proper venue, I could preach properly, I thought. And then these people would understand, would abandon their thoughts of having no sin and no souls, would flock to me for salvation. As I went to rancor-free, happy dinner after happy dinner, I would inquire after the key to the church. Surely someone had the key!

Nobody did.

And then, one night, I was kneeling by my bedside, praying, when I heard the creak of the stairs next to my room. Ordinarily, I would not have followed, but this place, this place had started to make me uneasy—I wanted to find some jealousy, some unfaithfulness, some bitterness, something. So I followed. I put on my hat and I crept out of the room and I eased my way down the stairs, behind Marrebel—because it was Marrebel that I was following.

She went quickly to her desk, and opened a drawer, and then withdrew a key I had never seen before—a key, I realized, that I would not have seen, as there were no locks in Pleasance besides the one on the church door—

Could she be going to the church?

Marrebel had assured me, with no doubt in her voice and the clear gaze of an honest woman, that she had no idea where the church key was. That it was somewhere in the town, but nobody had touched it for years. That it might well be lost.

If I had caught Marrebel in a lie, I might have found the trail of the underground sin that I knew had to be in this town, and I felt a thrill as well as a sense of unease as I watched Marrebel pocket the key and leave, shutting the front door very quietly behind herself.

I followed after a long moment, giving Marrebel a chance to move away from the door before I opened it and perhaps alerted her, but my caution almost ruined me, because she was far ahead, down the lane towards the church, her gray dress making her blend in with the night. I followed, keeping by the fence, but she did not look behind herself.

She went to the church. Opened the door. Slipped inside.

I followed, but I did not dare to try the door, because then surely she would find me. I went instead to the windows, and pressed my nose almost to the dirty glass, straining to see inside.

At first, there was only darkness. Then, as I heard a commotion inside, I saw movement—the movement of something large, like trees thrashing in a strong wind. The sound was like rattling chains, or pots and pans.

What could possibly make such a noise, and motion? Curse the filth on the windows, that I could not see through!

I waited until Marrebel had gone back to her house, and then crept back, knowing little more than I had when I started.

The next day, I asked Marrebel how she had slept.

“Oh, like a baby, I always do,” she said, sounding as honest and forthright as always. “Mind you, I don’t know why they say that. Babies sleep horribly. I suppose it’s because they have so little practice at it.”

But you, I thought, have much practice at lying.

The next night, I looked for the key in the drawer, and found nothing.

Practice at being suspicious, too, I thought. Curse my need to press and prod at things, I should never have asked Marrebel how she slept, when that was not my custom! Did she have it on her person? I saw no sign of that. Nor could I think of how to go about getting the key, if she did have it.

Perhaps she would put it back?

The night after, I looked in the drawer, and saw nothing.

The night after that, I looked in the drawer, and saw nothing—except that it was a very shallow drawer.

Shallower, really, than it looked like it should be.

Heart in throat, I prodded at the edges of the drawer, and found that the bottom was a very thin piece of wood that lifted up, and there was a compartment underneath, and in that compartment was the key.

I put it in my pocket. And not a moment too soon, for no sooner had I put the false bottom back in place, than there were footsteps on the stairs. “What are you doing?”

It was sharper than Marrebel’s voice usually was.

“Looking for a pen,’ I said. She was not the only one who lied easily. “I broke my nib writing, and as you know, I have a sermon to preach tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t keep pens in there. Let me get you one.” Her voice was back to normal. “You know, I don’t think your sermons really work for this town. All grimness and blood and the fire of perdition. We really do have a very nice place here. Perhaps you should preach about something pleasant? Anyway, I’ll walk you up to bed.”

And she did. And I did not hear her door close, down the hall, so I could not go anywhere that night.

It wasn’t until the very early morning when I managed to creep out. I had spent much of the night sleeping fitfully and was, although I hate to admit it, in something of a vengeful mood. I would find out the secret of the church, and I would confront the entire town with Marrebel’s lying ways, and then everyone would listen to the Word! It had been too long, far too long, since I had heard the scream of Rebirth.

Nobody was about yet, for the sky was still gray. I hurried to the church, heart fighting for space with the lump in my throat, and put the key in the lock.

It turned.

I opened the door and crept in.

For a moment, I could not see what was ahead of me. Then I lit my candle, and I could not understand what was ahead of me. Feathers, silver feathers that looked half knife, that I could make out, but how were they arranged? Not in mere heaps, for the mounds seemed to have some organization. There were chains over and under the confusion, and it seemed to converge on a central point—

Then the central point raised itself up, and looked at me with a dozen hot golden eyes, and I realized.

I was looking at an angel.

True angels do not look like they do in children’s story books. Eyes, wings, wheels, flame—all these things are babbled in the madness of those blessed enough to look upon them. There was no fire to this one, but perhaps that might come—

Perhaps that might come if it were not imprisoned. For the angel was chained down.

Chained down, and, I knew instinctively, suffering. Had Marrebel come here to feed it? Angels did not need to be fed—had she come here to torment it? To deprive it, somehow, of some of the essence that made it what it was—angels could not be milked, the very idea was blasphemous, but perhaps there was still some way to pull off substance from it and “bless” the town, for nothing about this situation could be a blessing.

I breathed in sharply, whispered, “I’ll help you,” and moved to the nearest chain.

Which was riveted into the floor.

I would like to say that I came up with a clever way to undo the chains, but the truth is, I ran as fast as I could back to Marrebel’s shed, and found a pry-bar, and ran back just as the town was starting to stir. My heart was in my throat the whole time. I had to help the angel. I had to free it. And I had no doubt that the people of Pleasance would prevent me, if they only knew what I was doing.

Back into the church. Back to the chain. Back to the rivet in the floor.

I threw my whole weight against it and finally, finally, it gave.

The angel, I think, knew what I was about. Because those feathers, some of them as long as swords, could have sliced me if it had stirred the wrong way, but it did nothing, only watching me with eyes that were sometimes half-tucked under a wing, sometimes floating above, all the time hot and golden and focused so brilliantly that I felt like shielding myself from the sun. The dimness of my candle might have saved me, for I could not see the angel very clearly, and that kept my mind together—although I could feel mad thoughts chuckling at the borders of my brain, I was able to stave them off, and concentrate only on the chains.

One, undone! Two, undone!

There were, all in all, thirteen. And when I loosed the thirteenth, all the angel’s wings rose up at once, and I curled in on myself, instinctively shielding my head—

Timbers hit the floor in front of me, and wood pelted down on the remnants of the pews, but nothing hit me but pieces of plaster. The angel, I realized after a long, confused moment, had shattered its way through the roof of the church, but, by chance or design, had done so somewhat in front of me, so that the roof was still barely holding just above me.

I had no faith in it holding for long, so I scrambled to the door. And out, and into the morning.

Up in the pale blue sky, I thought perhaps I could make out a silver speck disappearing. But my eyes could have deceived me. Certainly in a few seconds, I could see no trace of what might have been the angel.

Nevertheless, I strode back towards Marrebel’s house. I would, I thought, confront her. Proclaim her crime to the entire town. Did they all know? Some of them? Surely they could not all be ignorant of it, and yet—

My thoughts were interrupted by screaming.

Old Ophie Tailor was running down the lane, arm clutched to her side, where red blood was running. Behind her, in hot pursuit, came Daramil Tailor, her faithful caretaker, wielding a knife and laughing. Not the laughter of the maniac, or of a woman stretched to her limits; this, horribly, was a fully joyous, happy laugh. Daramil turned to me, gave me a little wave, and then loped forward, brandishing the knife. “Just hold still,” she crooned, “this will hurt, oh, lots and lots, and then maybe I’ll wear your hat? I’ve never had a hat like that.”

I am not happy to relate that I ran from her. It seems odd, a man of my height running from a woman of scarcely five feet, but there was something in her eyes, and something in her smile, that made me quail as I have never quailed before.

I was scarcely to find relief from my horror, however, as the next sight I met with was Marrebel—Marrebel and her husband, the always-agreeable man, who was fleeing her clumsily and falling as she swung at him with her frying pan. It was heavy enough, and she swung it strongly enough, that it nearly twisted her into a pirouette. Might have, if it had not met his skull and dropped him to the grass.

I think I must have shouted something along the lines of, “What are you doing? Stop!” but I hardly remember.

“Preacher-man!” She laughed in delight. “Oh, I owe you so much! Would you like to lift my skirt before I smash your brains in? It seems only fair.”

“What is this madness?” I rasped.

“Not madness,” Marrebel corrected me, sounding giddy. “Freedom! You set our Conscience free, Preacher-man. And now it is gone, and now we may do whatever we like. No more being nice, no more forgiveness for the small inconveniences, no more being pleasant—now, if someone is tedious, or chews too loudly, or farts under the covers, why, whack!” She illustrated with the frying pan, and her husband. Her soon-to-be-late husband, for he was no longer conscious. “You, by the way, chew very loudly. And you lied to me, and stole from me, and for that I think I will cut you up before you die. But you’ve set me free, so it’s only fair you have a little bit of pleasure before the end. What say you?”

“I say you are an abomination,” I choked out. “Are all the people here—like you? Without souls?”

She shrugged. “Probably. I told you before, what would we need them for?”

“Then you will all perish,” I said.

She giggled at me. “So righteous! So sober! Let me tell you, Preacher-man, someday, you will find your angel, and you will murder it like a dog, and then, oh, then, your freedom will be so much more glorious than mine—“ She swung the frying pan down on her husband’s skull, punctuating each word with a strike. “Glorious—and—dark—red.”

And then I ran, again, leaving her playing like a child with her husband’s brains, and dodged my way through town—avoiding screams and murders—until at last I arrived at the train station.

I do not know, and perhaps never will know, why a train was there that day. Providence is mysterious and strange, but never doubt that Providence is watching.

So I left Pleasance behind me, and I do not know that any train goes there now. Thus I learned, truly, that all humans are vile, depraved, and full of sin—and the more pleasant a place may appear at first, the worse there is bubbling beneath the surface. All humans are in need of the Word. All humans are in need of salvation. All humans are in need of Rebirth. That is the moral of the story.

“Not sure that is the moral,” the Gambler said, “actually. The moral sounds more like, ‘when idiots poke in places that the locals don’t want them to go, bad things happen.’”
#
The Preacher bridled at being called an idiot. “If you close your ears to the Word,” he began.

“Last I heard, you wasn’t the Word, and neither was everything that comes out of your mouth.”

The Preacher was going to answer, but the Medicine Seller spoke up. “It seems to me that you did the right thing,” he said doubtfully. “If something is suffering—well, if your entire town is only pleasant because something is suffering at the middle of it, you have more problems than you think.”

“We don’t even know that it was suffering,” the Gambler returned, “or if it matters particularly. He may say ‘angel,’ but for all we know, the thing had the mind of a cow.”

“Angels are beyond us in every way,” the Preacher said.

“Then why not stick around and help? Or smite the ones that imprisoned it, and get the children out? Because I do notice, the children didn’t get out of that story either. It’s easier to talk about releasing the suffering thing if you don’t have to face all the innocent suffering children that its release causes.”

The Preacher looked very sulky. He had, the Kid thought, a distinct moral in mind for his tale, and he was highly disgruntled that people weren’t taking it the way that he meant.

“It’s not a very odd story,” the Ghost-hunter said.

“Not really,” the Gambler agreed. “Person pokes thing, there are consequences. That happens all around the Network. And there’s usually someplace the locals don’t want you to go, or something they don’t want you to do. I was born in a town where you never went out between midnight and dawn, not if your house was on fire. A house next door burned down one night, and they must have tried to run out, and we never did see them again.”

There was general agreement that yes, these things happened.

“It’s not a very odd story because most people keep their consciences outside themselves, when you really go looking.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause as everyone thought about how literally a ghost-hunter might mean that, and what means she might have to go looking. The Kid wasn’t sure, because of her dark glasses, but he thought that her eyes might have lingered a bit long on the Preacher as she said it.

“Another round, then?” the Medicine Seller said, with what seemed like slightly forced cheer. “And then I can tell you the Saga of the Sinister Photographer. A tale to chill anyone’s blood, indeed!”

There was a general murmur of agreement to this plan. The bottle was passed around again, filling up glasses—the Preacher took an especially large drink, and the Kid, feeling very daring, managed to capture a glass and a finger of the liquid as it was passed by. He sipped and immediately regretted it. The stuff burned, and the taste that came after the burn was not really worth it either, in his opinion.

“At any rate,” the Medicine Seller said, swirling his drink in its glass, “there I was . . .”