THE WIDOW SAT to one side of the leaf-strewn altar and watched the men come, one or two among them with their helmets lit, and the others following. They came in small groups, some murmuring among themselves, clearly amiable, others silent as if nothing more than chance had brought them together. It was the first service to be held in the church — the widow gathered they were infrequent anyway, impromptu. She wasn’t sure what form they usually took. But since the pews were finished, and since it was Sunday, the Reverend had called a service at dawn, at the end of a night shift. A thin, bluish sunrise frosted the tips of the cedars. A massive aspen that stood by what would someday be the front door of the church reached high above its peers and spread its trembling, disclike leaves in the growing light. But down below all was dark, and when the men sat down on the pews and blew out their head-lamps, the church fell into gloom, a vague whiff of sulphur from the carbide lamps. The assembly waited for the Reverend, who was late. He had dashed home quickly to wash the sawdust off. Around the widow sat moving shapes and their voices.
“. . . used to be open range, mostly. We fenced in our gardens to keep cows out. Now they got fences everywhere. Like a man’d build a fence just to be polite.”
“Wo ist der ficken Pastor? Ich bin so müde,” said a sleepy voice.
“Who’s that girl?”
“I said I dunno.”
“. . . they look like a black snake only they got these, well not rattles, more like plats, maybe two or three of them, five inches long. And they sling those plats at you, and if they hit you, it’ll just rip you up, like someone went at your leg with a knife.”
“Shut up about snakes in church.”
“Coachwhips. I’ve seen ’em down south. They aren’t so bad. You take them joint snakes, now. That’s not one of God’s works. You hit one, he breaks into pieces, layin’ on the ground like a broken icicle, not moving at all. And during the night . . .”
“Can’t say as I believe that.”
“. . . during the night they grow back together. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”
“Will you both shut up? This is a church, and there’s a woman present.”
“. . . but he jumped down on this feller and went at him, and I’m shouting, ‘Don’t let ’im go!’ I was too scared to go help. Sorry, but it’s true. Then this old fat boy runs up to me and says, ‘What’re ye shouting at?’ So I say, ‘If you’re so curious, go on down there and take a look.’”
“Haw haw!”
“No way. Nothing grows back together.”
“Earthworms do.”
“Ronnie. I swear, you’d believe any old bunk someone told you.”
“I thought they did too. Shows what I know.”
“Stop asking me. I got no idea where she’s from. Go ask her yourself.”
Slowly, the sunrise began to rain down through the trees into the unwalled church so that the shapes of the men became clearer. The parishioners sat huddled together after a long shift underground. The Reverend had laughingly told the widow it was the only time to catch them when they weren’t either drunk or asleep — directly after a shift. Their breath was visible, vapour rising from their unhelmeted heads and damp clothes and soaked boots. They waited so long that eventually some slept, leaning together, heads on shoulders. Their faces were black and white, one common pattern shared by all of them — the eyes white, the forehead white, the face and temples black. Mouth blackest of all. The widow could not tell even the approximate age of any man, not by the sooted and theatrical faces, nor by the ruined hands or the filthy and corduroyed necks, nor by the unearthly eyes. She noted a strange but not altogether unpleasant scent that wafted from them. Rainwater, gunpowder, sweat.
“Here he is!” someone shouted, and everyone stood. The Reverend strode through them, stepping among those who had been seated on the floor of the nave. He handed his Bible to the widow and turned to face his flock. He wore his long black coat, held his wide-brimmed hat in his hand, and stood with his hands on his hips, like a proud pirate on the deck of his ship.
“I am late. My apologies to you men, some of whom”— he made a solicitous gesture to one withered and sagging fellow in the front row —“are tired and want nothing more than to fall into your bunks.”
“No worries, Father. We’re here.” The shout came from the back.
“Well, shall we get on with it?” the Reverend said.
“Let’s go!” several voices replied. There was a true eagerness in the crowd, as if they were attending a sporting event, and a look of pride spread over the Reverend’s face.
The widow was confused. This wasn’t the way her father had ever started a service, nor any other minister she’d seen. But then, nothing was the same any more, or even familiar, nor had it been for a long time. She took a look around her at the unfinished church, the wowed flooring, the leaves drifted up against the pews, and above everyone’s heads, the trees standing tall and silent. And then there was the flock itself: all men, some still holding their axes and shovels, men with ghostly faces, exhausted and odorous and moulding in their seats, like something dank had floated up from hell to see what the Reverend was up to. Devils on holiday. But the Reverend seemed so pleased. Mary told herself he was doing his best.
“The righteous man,” he began, “has nothing to fear. He knows not worry nor fear nor uncertainty, and his days are filled with light.” There was a shifting and shuffling among the miners. Several of the Reverend’s poorly made benches squalled with the movement of their bodies. The widow could not tell what they were thinking for they sat pokerfaced, waiting.
“The righteous man is the most blessed of all God’s creatures because he has made his own place on earth. He has forged it with his own hands, his heart, the sweat of his brow. Resolve, ” he presented them his fists, “is the engine of righteousness.”
“Amen,” someone said.
“Who said that?” The Reverend stepped forward eagerly and craned his neck. There was silence. It was unclear to the widow why he was so keen to know who had spoken; she could find no likely source among the eerie blackened faces, many of whom were staring at her.
“Resolve is the simple key to happiness. Resolve is in every man, every one of you, no matter how rotten your heart or black your deeds. Whatever you have done, you may undo over time — if your heart is strong. True, in certain unusual circumstances there is no escape. Certain men bear so deep a stain on their corrupted hearts that nothing, not even the love of God, can erase it. I shall illustrate.”
The Reverend removed his coat and lay it over the altar. Scandalized, the widow retrieved it and draped it over her arm.
“Thank you,” the Reverend whispered, barely moving his lips so no one else but she knew he had spoken.
“I shall show you the work of a man . . .” he unbuttoned his shirt and, to her dismay, removed it, “who called himself a teacher. A teacher to me and other boys.” At this, he unbuttoned his long johns and stood naked to the waist. The widow wanted to avert her gaze from the sight of a man half naked in church, but what she saw stunned her. He was a normal man, normally built, with strong arms and torso. But across his chest were many diagonal marks, raised white scars, and across his shoulders lay dozens more — deep, indelible signs of some weapon, a whip or a cane. He turned to display his back. More marks, intersecting and parallel, one over another, some deep, some light, like the surface of a butcher’s chopping block.
The widow put a hand to her mouth but made no sound. None of the men spoke or even moved, but she knew somehow that many had seen this before. The damage was incredible, the marks repetitive and precise. None seemed to stray toward the edges of his frame, there were no sloppy sideways cuts, nothing under his arms or near the waistband of his dark pants. The widow had a vision of a boy not even trying to evade the bite of the whip, and refusing to flinch.
“We resolve to endure the burdens of this world,” the Reverend said into the silence. “What more can we do? We cannot know from which hand will come comfort, from which hand punishment. How much in your life has been a surprise to you? And you? We cannot save ourselves from injury, because it will surely come. Life itself is injury, the way bread is made of flour. We can only strive, with a merry heart, to do the right thing. Effort is your salvation. Of course, there is no effort without error and shortcoming. But give yourself over to resolve. To courage! Be a man! Which of you wishes to be among those timid and cold souls who have known neither victory nor defeat?”
There was a murmuring of assent and a nodding of heads.
“Now,” he said, stepping off the raised platform down onto the floor with the men, “who’s first?” There was a movement at the back, and several hands shoved a young man out into the aisle.
“Ricky’s the only one today, Father.”
“Only one? Are there not more of you?”
“Father,” appealed one fellow at the back, “you’ve whupped the rest of us. Ricky’s the only one left.”
There were a few chuckles from the front row. The Reverend stood a long minute considering the issue. “Well, Ricky,” he said finally, “I suppose you’ll have to do.”
The boy came to the front on shaking legs, and slowly, reluctantly removed his coats and vests and sweaters, and finally peeled the filthy upper portion of his long johns down over his waistband. With a few shamed glances at the widow, he tied the grimy arms round his waist. When he was ready, the boy stood uncertainly, waiting. It was then that the widow realized she was about to witness another Bible lesson. Pugilism . . . in a church! She was holding the Reverend’s clothing, and she clutched it to her chest. What should she do? How could she stop it?
“Shake hands,” urged someone, and the two half-naked figures did. And then the boy and the Reverend stepped away from one another, composed themselves, and assumed boxing poses. The boy was disastrously huge, muscled and sinewy from carrying rock, swinging a sledgehammer, pushing groaning carts on metal tracks in the mine. The boy looked like a man, and next to him, the Reverend looked like a boy. Even the widow could tell the fight wouldn’t be a fair one.
“Who’s gonna count three minutes?” a voice whispered.
“Never mind counting, it’s first man down, is all.”
“You have to count. You gotta have rounds.”
But the fighters were already at it, the boy striking first with a long, slow-armed swing and receiving a walloping counterpunch in return.
“There’s no rounds and there’s no betting. This is a church, for Chri . . . Anyway, you don’t need it.”
“’Course you do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, what if it’s a tie? What then?”
“There won’t be a tie.”
“No man wins every time, I don’t care who he is. Think about it! You don’t expect a coin to always come up heads, do you?”
“I would if the Rev was on the coin!” This remark produced an approving roar of laughter from the men, who were now standing to get a look at the progress of the fight. The widow was gritting her teeth, her eyes riveted on the fighters.
“If the Rev was on the coin he’d beat the knickers off the Queen!” roared a young fellow. With that, there was laughter and a stomping of feet. The thundering sound alarmed the widow, and she felt suddenly certain that the place was about to fall apart around her ears.
“Stop it!” she barked at no one. They all sat down again, grins fading on their rueful faces.
“’Scuse us, ma’am.”
There was a hollow thump and Ricky emitted a grunt. The Reverend was stepping back and sideways, back and sideways, his head dodging Ricky’s blows. Then they came together in a staggering clinch, the floorboards sagging under them, and exchanged rabbit punches. Finally, the widow couldn’t watch any longer and she buried her face in the Reverend’s coat.
“Go, Ricky boy! Give it to him!”
“He ain’t about to win. Don’t waste your breath.”
“Sure he is, just look at him! He’s bigger than all of us put together. He’s gonna win just from sheer size. . . . Aw, dammit.”
“Woah!”
“All right, what’d’ya think of that?”
“Oh! I can’t watch.”
“He’s finished. The boy’s done.”
“No, no, no. Give him a second. He’ll recover.”
“He hasn’t got a second. The Rev’s coming . . . Woah!!”
“There goes your boy. Lookit him.”
“Told ya so.”
“Oh, hell.”
The widow uncovered her eyes in time to see a tremor go through the boy’s legs from feet to hip, as if he were trying to keep his balance while standing on a galloping horse. He pawed at the air with numb hands and his eyes rode upward, momentarily giving him the aspect of a man recalling the past, perhaps fondly. Then he fell backward and hit the floor-boards with a mighty thump, and there he lay at the feet of his colleagues in the front row, barely conscious.
There was silence for a long moment, and only the Reverend’s breathing.
“God almighty,” said one miner. “The man never loses.”
“You wouldn’t believe it if you didn’t see it yourself.”
“Resolve,” said the Reverend, panting, “is the way to the Lord. The way . . . to righteousness. God favours hope, and He favours the righteous. That’s . . . all for today.” He spread Ricky’s coat over him where he slept. “Watch over this boy tomorrow, Stan. Make sure he doesn’t fall into any holes.”
THAT NIGHT THE widow woke to the sound of her father’s voice, very close, his mouth nearly at her face, bellowing — a terrible wordless cry of surprise or shock. She sat erect, breathless, with the clatter of her terror running through her body. She was alone in her room, the house quiet and dark, but she knew her father was there with her, an angry male presence. She could feel him — his breath, his heart hammering. The pure essence of him seemed to gel slowly before her, like a filament of cold air running through warm. She saw nothing, and yet she reached out to him. There was nothing before her, and yet she knew he had opened his terrible mouth. All was lost. He knew of her crimes, her madness. A roar like a lion woke her again, really woke her, and the widow sat up in bed and saw the real moonlight. She heard the Reverend drawing his laboured breath. The sound was so familiar and rhythmic, she closed her eyes and attended it closely, grateful to him, as if this were his way of comforting her.
But all was not well, and she knew it. John’s brothers were looking for her still. It could not be otherwise. Might they follow her, all the way through that pass — could they, when she herself didn’t know the way she had come?
After a while she lay back down again and held the blankets to her chin.