Episode Two -- Preacher Powers

b). Reverend Powers

Rev. Caleb Powers dressed like a dandy. Fortunately the standards of rural Oregon weren’t high in that regard, so it was easy to do. His black jacket and trousers were stained and threadbare in spots. His embroidered waistcoat had been spotted and scrubbed so many times its colors were faded. A fraying silk tie was carefully knotted beneath his neat silver beard. Unruly graying locks hung down from the battered plug hat that sat on his head. In one hand he gripped a shiny black walking stick by its silver handle.

After Charlie Jackson kicked him out of the saloon, the reverend stood for a few minutes on the board sidewalk in front of the place. He sniffed the night air; the heavy, muddy scent of the river filled his nostrils. Sweet William was not really much of a town – only two streets back from the river and one block on either side of the landing, but it was the only river crossing for miles. For Caleb it represented the center of his circuit, the place he always returned to.

He thought for a while about what to do. There was no use in staying here if Jackson had soured and wouldn’t sell him any more whiskey. He turned from the river and contemplated the rocky road that led up into the hills. The trees clung darkly to the edges of the road, but the moonlight illuminated the path in its ruddy glow. Not a bad night for traveling, he thought, might as well get on my way. Caleb turned and ambled down the board sidewalk toward the stable where his mule and wagon were waiting.

Two shotgun blasts sounded in the hills; boom, boom. Their reverberations echoed for minutes. Old Ben must have found his wolf, Caleb thought. When the echoes finally died, Caleb was at the stable door, but he could hear voices raised down by the river. The thick night air clung to Caleb’s skin where it was exposed. He felt the heavy load of too much whiskey as he turned and moved more quickly down the sidewalk to the river.

A short walk brought Caleb to the landing. Moonlight illuminated the leaden river; copper sparkles shone from every ripple. Less than one hundred yards upriver Marshal Tate’s lantern illuminated a patch of beach. Caleb saw two bodies on the rocky ground. Marshal Tate, handgun drawn, stood over one of the bodies as Caleb approached.

“Trouble, Marshal?” Caleb called.

Marshal Tate startled at the voice from the darkness. He pointed his gun in that direction.

“It’s you, Reverend,” Tate said. A look of relief passed over his face as he slipped his pistol back into its holster. “An injun killed Charlie Jackson,” he said.

Caleb recognized the small figure of the Indian from the saloon. He was on the ground, hands bound behind his back with rough iron cuffs. Charlie Jackson, eyes wide in surprise, sprawled lifeless beside him. A cracked jug, leaking vile, tobacco soaked spittle, lay near his head. The sharp stink of vomit wrinkled Caleb’s nose.

“Charlie got what was coming to him,” Caleb said, “He was mean as a rattlesnake.”

“Maybe,” Tate said. His brain chewed Caleb’s words like a cow working on a cud. “Can’t let an injun get away with killin’ a white man,” Tate finally said, “Not in my jurisdiction.”

Tate chewed it over some more. He looked like all the other farmers; pale and lumpy like something that grew in the dirt. Even his pale brown mustache resembled lichen beneath the stony outcrop of his nose.

“This boy will hang,” Tate said.

Caleb went to one knee next to the Indian’s head. He put his hand on the small man’s shoulder. Will Walksaway rolled his face upward toward Reverend Powers.

Caleb shuddered as the Indian’s golden eyes glowed in the red moonlight. Will’s lips curled back in a gleaming ivory snarl. His voice issued a low growling note from deep in his chest. Caleb let go of the Indian’s shoulder and rose gingerly to his feet.

“This boy’s sick,” Caleb said, the acid smell of vomit radiated from the Indian’s clothes.

“I’ll have Doc Hansen check him out,” Tate said, “Judge’ll want him good and healthy when we string him up.”

“The boy’s a Christian, Jacob,” Caleb said.

Caleb watched the changing expressions on the Marshal’s face as the feeble machinery of his brain worked that over.

“Don’t you worry, Reverend,” Tate said, “Judge won’t be here for six or eight weeks, yet. You can tend to this injun’s spiritual needs when you get back.”

“You’ll treat him well?” Caleb asked.

“Like my own little huntin’ doggie,” the Marshal said with a grin. He stepped closer to Will’s prone body and probed him roughly with a boot.

“You’re leavin’ for Damascus tonight, aren’t you?” Tate asked. His eyebrows told Caleb that he better be.

“Yes, Marshal,” Caleb said, “I’ll be back by the first at the latest.”

“Sooner begun, sooner done,” Tate said, “As my grandma used to say.”

+

“One bright morning, when this life is over,” Caleb Power’s full rich baritone echoed from the rock ledge overhanging the road as it wound its way up over the hill and on toward Damascus, “I’ll fly away.”

The melodious voice belting out the old hymn kept the spirits at bay as Caleb’s rough wagon creaked and rattled its way up the rocky road. Old Sal, an aging mule, provided the muscle as the hard wheels squealed across the uneven soil.

The ancestors of Will Walksaway fled back into the shadows of the trees at the preacher’s noisy approach. It is an old tradition in the northwest for holy people to announce their presence loudly. Although they shrank in the presence of the preacher’s advance, the ancestors’ voices persisted. “Avenge us!” they chanted.

Caleb swigged from the flask he kept on hand to keep away the chill. He kept time with his foot, so he wouldn’t lose his place when he was ready to sing again. He would reach the settlement of Balsam just before dawn. He took another nip of whiskey and slipped the flask back into his pocket. He picked up the rhythm of the song with a slap of the rein on Old Sal’s broad rump. The beast gave him an annoyed look over her shoulder, but she picked up the pace a bit.

“I’ll fly away,” Caleb sang.

Within one hundred yards of where Reverend Powers’ wagon wheels splashed mud, but out of the preacher’s sight, Ben Deaver lay. Throat torn and bloody, Ben had a look of grim determination in his eyes.  Lifeless fingers clutched the furry throat of the dead wolf collapsed on top of his body.

+

Will Walksaway retreated into his own mind, blending invisibly into the gloomy nightscape of his own personality. The ravenous spirit that gnawed Will’s liver with painful, ripping bites echoed in his deepest hollows and rumbled from his arid throat. The acid stink of his sodden clothes filled his nose like smoke from a camp fire, wafting through the airy spaces of his head, forcing his eyes open. He couldn’t hear the words of his ancestors’ voices, but their rhythm ruffled the edges of his consciousness. He knew what they said.

Darkness all around. Will stretched his hands out to both sides and scraped his fingers against rough walls. A coffin, he thought, a great big one. Will sighed with relief; knowing he was dead. Now he just had to solve the riddle of how to join his chanting ancestors in the woods.

Will’s mind dissolved into the shadows where he knew an answer hid. Rough hands shook his shoulders. Pain rang through Will’s cavernous sinuses and his mouth tasted as if it had been dowsed in kerosene and set on fire sometime in the recent past.

Doc Hansen shook the Indian’s shoulders again. Hansen was none too gentle with his regular patients and he was convinced that red men couldn’t feel pain the same way whites did. All in all, Doc considered the Hippocratic Oath’s injunction – do no harm – a good suggestion, but impractical.

Will’s eyes glowed yellow as he raised his shoulders. The long narrow cell was barely wide enough for the cot that supported his body. Doc set a hard hand on the center of the Indian’s chest. Will snarled, flashing jagged teeth in threat.

“Down, boy,” Doc said, pushing the Indian back down on the rickety cot. Doc took a small bottle from his bag. It was filled with dark brown liquid. He popped the cork from its neck and extended it toward Will.

“This what you need, chief?” Doc said.

Will’s nostrils dilated at the smell of whiskey. He clutched the smooth glazed bottle and lifted its narrow neck to his cracked lips. He poured the sweet burning liquid onto the parched desert of his tongue and the intolerable world of the white man began to dissolve.

Marshal Tate eased his finger from the trigger of the handgun he held ready. The Indian, no longer a threat for the moment, sucked the small bottle like a nursing baby. Doc reached into his bag and began to prepare a hypo.

“Just a little case of the D.T.s.” Doc Hansen said, “You give him a dose a that a couple times a day and he’ll stumble back to the fields in time for planting.”

“He’s like a wild animal,” Tate said, nervously, “And he killed a man.”

 “Charlie Jackson wasn’t much of a man,” Doc said. He injected Will’s arm and emptied a dose of chloral hydrate into his blood.

Turning from the prone man, Doc noticed that Tate still had his pistol ready.

“You won’t need that,” Doc said, “He’s in pretty bad shape. Let him sleep it off.”

Doc closed his medical bag and rose from the cot where Will Walksaway drifted off.

“We should just let ‘em have whiskey,” Doc said, “Makes ‘em docile and easy to handle. It’s when they can’t get it that they turn mean.”

The empty whiskey bottle fell from Will’s lips and Doc Hansen rescued it, his eyes nearly affectionate as he watched the Indian slip into sleep.

“Not even as close to human feelings as a nigger,” Doc said with wonder, “Can you imagine that?”

Tate slipped his gun into its holster and stepped out of the cell, holding the heavy door open for the doctor.

“He’ll sleep it off,” Doc said, “He’ll be fit to hang by the end of the week.”

“Good,” Tate said, visibly relaxing as he closed and barred the heavy door.

“What do I feed him, Doc?” Tate’s voice was worried, “The county don’t give me no allowance for prisoner meals.”

“Table scraps, my boy,” Doc Hansen answered with a patronizing expression, “I suppose he’ll eat what you give him. If he’s hungry.”

+

Will Walksaway dreamed of a land where people lived free according to the seasons. The season of the sour prunes. The sweet season of the blackberry. The roaring, burning grass season when our bellies are full and our cheeks are stained from eating. He smacked his lips and opened his eyes.

The cell was dark, only the small moveable slot at the bottom of the heavy door let any light into the confines of Will’s great big coffin. His stomach growled; a loud, bubbling sound in the hot dark cell.

“Drink some water, get the blood flowing,” Will’s grandfather said inside his mind and he sat up with a groan. There was barely room to stand in the long narrow cell, but there was an old sink behind the cot. A tin cup on a chain sat on the edge of the stained porcelain.

Rust colored liquid sputtered from the faucet and dribbled into the bent metal cup. Will traced the geology of prisoners’ urine burned into the pitted white sink. When enough water pooled in the cup to make a good swallow, Will turned the handle and stopped the feeble drip from the iron faucet.

He drank the bitter, metallic liquid and dropped the cup into the sink. The short chain stopped the cup from falling into its filthiest depths. Will’s empty stomach grumbled.

“Do they mean to starve me!” Will raged.

Time disappeared into itself. It was impossible to tell how long he waited. The cell never changed. Still no one came.

“So they do mean to starve me,” Will said after what seemed weeks of contemplation. How long was he able to survive without food? When was the last time he ate? What had it been?

“They think they can starve me,” Will snarled. The chant of the ancestors beat in his breast forcing his voice upward until a long, ululating howl burst from his chest.

“I’ll teach them to starve!” Will Walksaway raged.

+

How many weeks later before the door creaked open? Unnatural light poured into the gloomy confines of Will’s coffin, casting wild shadows in all directions. Will fumbled his hands to his eyes and crawled away from the brilliance. Marshal Tate walked into the cell; one step. Will cowered backward on the cot – away from the light; away from the man. Tate set a metal plate on the bunk where Will’s feet had been. A plump beef rib gleamed in the harsh lantern light, congealing in a thick pool of amber fat.

“Sorry you didn’t get no breakfast,” Marshal Tate said, “I plumb forgot ya. Here’s lunch anyhow.”

Tate walked back to the door. The slot in the bottom rattled as the Marshal started to swing the heavy door closed. Before he slammed and bolted the door, Tate took one last look at the Indian, cowering distrustfully in the shadows.

“Go on, eat it,” Tate said, “Right off my table. I ate the same thing.”

Tate watched, but Will didn’t move. His yellow eyes glowed. Tate shuddered and slammed the door shut.

“Suit yourself,” Tate called through the door, “Doc said you could have whiskey after you eat. I’ll be back later with a bottle.”

Shadows were uniform with the door closed. The air was almost too thick to breath and now it was filled with the heavy molecules of roast beef. It was no longer Will’s liver being devoured by the sharp teeth that raged inside him; now it was his stomach. Whiskey, he sang, tasting the heavy, fat rib as he breathed.

Saliva gushed in Will’s mouth as his fingers touched the elastic surface of the cold roast meat. His fingers closed on the rib and he raised it toward his eager mouth. More saliva, and he could imagine that wonderful feeling when his teeth tore meat from cold bone.

No. Will’s ancestors screamed. He stopped the rib just short of his lips. At close range he contemplated the death the butchered remains in his hands entailed. He flung the offensive body part away from him. It skidded across the floor and out the little swinging door.

“I’ll teach them to starve!” Will raged.

+

“How are things down here in the forgettery?” Marshal Tate joked as he opened the door, shedding harsh light into Will’s great big coffin. Will crawled away from the light like a spider.

“I guess you didn’t like your dinner,” Tate said, “The Mrs. never could cook worth beans, but I humor her.”

Tate chuckled. Will’s eyes glowed from the darkness at the back of the cell.

“Well, I guess you don’t want this either,” Tate said, raising a small glass bottle. He popped the cork out of its neck with his thumb and poured the contents over the smeared rib on the floor just outside the door. The amber whiskey made a puddle around the congealing meat.

Tate slammed the door and slid the bolt home, chuckling to himself.

“The forgettery,” Tate said, “That’s a good one.”

+

Will slept and woke. He felt the cycles of the days in his bones, but sometimes it took a lifetime for a minute to pass; other times years flew by like seconds.

Days, months, years, minutes later Will’s stomach devoured itself with hunger. The spirit of the wolf paced his brain, saliva dripping from its famished jaws.

His body was weak with hunger. Will raised his head from the cot, every muscle protesting feebly, and looked at the door. At the bottom he could see a crack of light from the swinging trap. He knew that the meat and whiskey were on the other side.

Will flung his head; nearly overturning the rickety cot. Why was he thinking so much of food? That was all behind him. No more food for him. Soon he would join the ancestors chanting in the woods.

He lay on the cot in the darkness, willing himself not to breath; listening. He couldn’t hear them anymore. The ancestors’ voices were gone. What was their chant? Will wondered frantically. He couldn’t remember the rhythm or the words.

Will sat up with a start. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Don’t abandon me, he pleaded; but the ancestors were silent. Will felt the pounding of his heart, but its rhythm was wrong. It no longer beat in time to the ancestors’ chant. Their voices could not be heard. I’ll kill myself, Will thought. His eyes peered into the gloom around him looking for the means. Finally his attention settled on the stout door itself.

Will stood, eyes closed, his forehead pressed to the rough surface of the door. Experimentally he raised his head and smacked it hard against the unyielding wood. Pain rang through his skull. There was the tearing of skin between the hard dome of bone and the rough, iron-bound surface of the door. There was the painful rush of blood away from the site of impact and its excruciating return. There was something deeper, too: a resonant pounding that approximated the rhythm of the ancestors’ chant. Will pounded his head again on the door. He could almost hear them. With a running start maybe he could hit his head hard enough. One more time he pounded his head on the door; welcoming pain.

All thought of food gone from his mind, Will worked in a frenzy. He pushed the cot as far back in the cell as he could, breaking off a leg in his excitement. Once the wooden cot was broken, Will kicked it frantically until, a bundle of sticks and canvas, he was able to push it under the sink. He had room to run several paces. He walked to the door and smashed his face against it as hard as he could.

Blood gushed from his battered nose and Will licked the salty liquid from his lips greedily; hunger snarling in his stomach. No more, Will commanded. Holding his head in position to receive a killing blow he walked to the far end of the room. He ran as fast as he could; head aimed directly at the door. The blow was stunning. Will collapsed to the cold floor.

He lay unconscious for he didn’t know how long. He woke with the smell of the beef rib wafting under the door, filling his nostrils and driving him to a frenzy of hunger. He tasted salty meat and opened his eyes. One eye was swollen and he couldn’t open it much. He licked blood from inside his mouth. His stomach growled like an animal. The tantalizing, fatty smell of the rib clung to his nostrils, amplified by the salty taste of the blood in his mouth.

Will’s bruised cheek lay against the hard wooden boards of the floor. The thin light leaking through the door trap illuminated a tiny landscape of debris on the floor near his face. Slowly his eyes identified the debris as the remains of the rib that had slid out of the cell. Without a thought his tongue lapped the greasy smear from the filthy, wooden floor.

When it was gone, Will was left with a faint memory of the flavor of the beef rib overwhelmed by the dusty flavor of the floor. His nose twitched. Will used a finger to open the trap door and saw the rib; not far away.

Hope leaped in Will’s breast. No matter how much he wanted to die his body wanted to live. Just out of reach on the other side of the door was the means to stay alive for just a little longer. He stretched his fingers through the slot, his wrist, even part of his forearm. He stretched until the tight iron band of the slot wouldn’t let him go any further. He sawed and chaffed his arm against the rough metal, but he couldn’t get any closer to the fat rib.

He could feel the dampness of the wood floor outside the cell where the Marshal poured the whiskey, but his fingertips were still inches from the plump rib. Will concentrated on the meat; imagining its taste and texture against his famished teeth. He strained and pushed, tearing the skin on his arm against the rough door slot. A large yellow glob of fat, torn from the rib in its journey across the floor, lay a little bit closer and Will reached for it. He could just brush the globule of fat with the end of one finger. If he could just hook it with a fingernail.

The steady tread of Marshal Tate’s boots made the floor boards squeal. Will snatched his arm back through the trap door. He slipped his fingers into his mouth and sucked the traces of fat from it holding his breath. Will’s cheek pressed against the floor. Even the thought of rising made his head whirl. Will prayed for invisibility and soon the Marshal’s heavy boots receded with a last thump and squeal.

The spirit of the wolf went wild; in a frenzy it smashed itself against the inside of Will’s skull trying to break free. A stick, Will thought, reasserting his humanity. With a stick he might be able to capture the crushed rib.

Although not immediately fatal, Will had done some damage to his head against the solid door. Something was wrong with his neck and he couldn’t move much without terrible pain and swooning dizziness. Will passed out for a while before he made it to the back of the cell, but eventually he found a broken piece of wood with a sharp point on the end. He thought about plunging it into his eye or his throat, but the smell of meat outside his door overwhelmed him. If he could just poke the rib with his stick he could bring it to his eager mouth.

Finally Will lay with his face on the floor, his fingers on the trap door. The hinge rattled as Will raised the swinging door and his unbelieving eyes found the rib gone.

His spirit sunk. All hope of survival was gone. He closed his eyes and a tiny whimper escaped him. He clamped his hand painfully over his swollen lips. Mustn’t make a sound. He couldn’t let them hear his despair.

“I’ll teach them to starve,” Will whimpered into his stifling hand.

The globule of fat was still there. It glistened in all its congealing glory just at the extended reach of his arm through the slot. With the stick he had more than enough reach, but with his arm in the slot he could only flail blindly. With just the stick it would be close, but at least he could see.

Will saw the shine of two watchful eyes as a large rat waddled toward the blob of fat. He waved the point of the stick threateningly. After an initial start, the rat realized the threat couldn’t reach him. The rat kept his eye on the pointy stick as he squatted and nibbled the morsel. Will howled in despair.

The animal howl spooked the rat and it made off with its prize.

+

Herman Bing was a big man. His thick wrists grew from the ends of his sleeves as if they couldn’t be contained. His large, square hands, their blunt fingers stained with axle-grease, looked as if they were the chipped stone hands of a statue.

“Reverend, can I speak with you?” Herman’s shy voice seemed too small to be coming from his sturdy form. He stood in the vast open space of the unfinished church and looked at the tall reverend and the young woman who stood with him near the door of the one finished room.

Caleb Powers turned away from Charity Dorfman and walked across the wooden floor platform toward the young workman. Caleb had the gift of remembering names. He knew its value and constantly practiced and honed the skill.

“Herman,” he said with a grin, letting his delicate hand be engulfed by the rough grip of the younger man, “How’s your mother? And Lloyd?”

The rough, bearded features of Herman Bing lightened as he smiled at the reverend who remembered his name and his family.

“Mama’s fine,” Herman stuttered, “She’s been plannin’ supper for after your sermon, so you better come hungry.”

“Few things whet my appetite like a good sermon,” Caleb said, sliding his eyes toward the young woman who waited with a small bible clasped in her hands.

“And how’s your brother?” Caleb asked.

“That’s what I want to talk with you about, Reverend,” Herman stammered, “Lloyd and me been workin’ on a project and want your advice.”

Caleb’s ears perked up at the words. Herman and Lloyd Bing enjoyed the reputation of the best wagon-makers in the valley.

“I was just about to do some pastoral counseling,” Caleb motioned toward Charity, who waited a few feet from them. The scarcity of women in the area promoted Charity’s plain features to prettiness; her smile nudged them toward beauty.

“Truth is, Reverend,” Herman said, “We got a gift for you.”

“Lay not up treasures upon the earth,” Caleb quoted in all insincerity, “Matthew six nineteen.”

Herman blushed and his stutter got worse.

“It’s not like that, Reverend,” Herman got out, “It’s for your work. God’s work, I mean.”

Caleb smiled indulgently.

“Don’t give it another thought,” Caleb said. He looked at Charity, his eyes hungry.

“Maybe about lunch time,” Caleb said.

“I’ll tell Mama to put on a spread, Reverend,” Herman said, “She’ll be so happy to see you.”

Caleb smiled at Herman.

“I’ll see you for lunch, then,” he said, dismissing the young man.

“Thank you, Reverend,” Herman stammered. Caleb patted his shoulder. Herman turned and walked across the wooden platform. Caleb looked up into the eaves of the barn-like space. He could see birds’ nests among the rafters. He would have to take up a special collection so they could finally put up the walls, he thought.

Caleb turned back to Charity Dorfman, devouring her with his gaze. The young woman’s hazel eyes looked adoringly back at the preacher. At sixteen there was no doubt she was a woman. The faded cotton dress she wore did little to hide her charms. Caleb put a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her into the one complete room of the new church.

The room was simple. No furniture other than a large wooden desk and two straight chairs on either side of it. No decorations other than a wooden cross on the wall and plain white curtains to mask the window, closed to the raw morning air. Soft silver light fell through the wavy glass pains, illuminating the tight, wooden space. Caleb ushered Charity into a chair and leaned his hip against the desk in front of her.

As a divinity student at Yale he would have sneered at the simplicity of his surroundings. After half a decade traveling a circuit on the frontier, Caleb could appreciate the simple comforts of the room and its inhabitant. As an ex-theater student he valued the stark drama of the setting.

“Have you been studying, my child?” Caleb asked.

Charity straightened on her chair, shifting her body interestingly as she sat erect.

“Yes, Reverend,” she said, hazel eyes lowered.

“And you’ve told no one about our special instruction?” Caleb asked.

“No one, Reverend,” Charity said, her cheeks reddening.

“Good girl,” Caleb said, “Let’s hear the reading.”

Charity opened her small leather bible to a bookmark.

“Genesis, chapter three,” Charity read aloud, “Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field…”

Caleb let his mind wander as the girl pronounced the archaic words. He remembered that horrible night in New Haven. He thought it was the end of the world, and in a sense it was. Ejected by Yale, exiled by his family to the ends of the earth, Caleb found his true calling.

“…And the serpent said unto the woman, ye shall not surely die,” Charity was not an accomplished reader, she pronounced each syllable distinctly, intent on wringing the meaning from the uncooperative words.

Caleb nodded as Charity glanced up from the book. The girl’s smile stirred him as she bent her face back to the page.

Caleb sighed. It wasn’t what he had envisioned, he thought, but a simple life among simple people had its pleasures. Simple pleasures.

“For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof,” Charity stumbled on through the thicket of words, “Then your eyes shall be opened and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.”

The girl glanced up again, her eyes shining with pride.

“Excellent, my child,” Caleb praised her.

He stood up from the desk and took a step closer to Charity. He unbuckled his belt.

“Now we’ll continue,” he said.

Coming Next: Episode Three - The Forgettery

Caleb Powers returns to Sweet William for the climax of this chapter. If you're enjoying the Werewolf of Portland please subscribe so you won't miss any episodes.