| |
Scottsville, WV—2009
It had been several months since Ron had mentioned the snakes to Winona. In the meantime, he’d done a bit of investigating. Not only were there snake handlers in the area, but there was an active “church” less than thirty miles from where they were living. A fellow he met at the town’s only gas station had sketched a crude map for him, but warned, “Don’t say a word to nobody. This shit ain’t legal, ya know.” Ron promised he wouldn’t speak of it to a soul, and then promptly hurried home to tell Winona. “Let’s just go and see what it’s all about, okay?” he’d said, his voice filled with excitement.
* * * *
Now, a week later, they found themselves in a rundown barn behind a weathered, white farmhouse, along with dozens of others, all of them “true believers,” watching as the itinerant preacher named Father James finished up the “appetizer” part of the service, and prepared to move on to the “main course.” Ron and Winona remained in the rear among the shadows, trying hard to be unobtrusive.
Individuals shuffled their feet anxiously, and the tinkle of tambourines could be heard above the murmur of the crowd. Someone struck a chord on a guitar, and yet another member of the group began to chant rhythmically in time to the instrument’s cadence. Gradually the entire congregation joined in, and their simultaneous activity reminded Ron of one of those old Western movies in which a band of Indians does a war dance around a bonfire, before attacking an unsuspecting wagon train.
Moving ever so slowly, the preacher reached down into a wooden box and gently extracted one of the reptiles—a rattlesnake—and carefully lifted it up and out of the container. Ron’s breath caught in his throat; Winona pressed herself against him, and squeezed his hand so hard he thought it might break. He looked down at her, and their eyes met for a moment in an instant that was charged with a kind of primitive sexuality, something akin to what members of ancient civilizations must have experienced during ritual sacrifices.
Suddenly, a collective “Ahhhh” from the crowd broke the silence, and caused the couple to re-focus on the preacher in front of them. What had caused the reaction was his placing the serpent around his neck, where it now hung suspended, with its tongue flicking the air lightly, as though trying to collectively taste its audience. The gray-haired preacher, who appeared to be in his sixties, would alternately remove the serpent from his shoulders and hold it in his hand, and then return it to its resting place. Most of the younger people were swaying side-to-side, arm in arm, watching with a level of intensity that Ron and Winona had only witnessed at tent revivals.
With a glazed look on his face, the preacher reached down into the box with his free hand, and brought up another serpent; this one was a copperhead. Suddenly, he began to whirl slowly around in a circle, babbling incoherently in what most Pentecostals would call “tongues.” Now, most of the people with tambourines were banging them in unison, and the man with the guitar began playing a gospel song. Then, a banjo’s distinctive voice could be heard alongside its six-stringed cousin. Before long, everyone except Ron and Winona was singing at the top of his or her lungs, clapping in unison, and doing a kind of stomping dance in place.
Watching the small crowd embrace the emotion of the moment, Ron could understand how mob mentality worked. He elicited this kind of response every time he gave a sermon before his congregation. Glancing down at Winona, it was obvious to him that she, too, was processing the entire experience and probably already exploring in her mind the various ways they could profit by it.
In the next few minutes, the activity was ratcheted up another notch, as the preacher began passing out snakes, one at a time, to other members of the assembly, until after a while there were nearly a dozen serpents undulating gently in the hands of both men and women of varying ages. At one point, Winona looked up at Ron and was amazed by how enthralled he appeared to be.
“Baby,” she said. “Do you want to try it?”
Ron didn’t move.
“Ron,” she said, a bit louder this time. “How about it?”
“What?” he said, dully. It was as though he hadn’t heard a word she said. He appeared almost to be in a trance.
“I said, how about it?” repeated Winona. “Do you want to give it a try?”
But, instead of answering her, and without uttering a syllable, Ron moved away from her, quickly slipped past an elderly couple in front of them, and moved down next to a young female standing at the front of the crowd. The shapely blond was holding a small copperhead in her delicate right hand, with her eyes focused on the serpent as she watched its every move. Ron stood immediately to her right.
Then, before Winona could take a step, and to her great surprise, Ron did something that totally shocked her. Only, it wasn’t at all what she had expected.