Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

eight years old, blonde-haired, and very proud of her small embroidered pillow, which indeed had upon it the representation of a robin perched on a tree branch.

'I made this myself,' said the child.

'You did? How wonderful! Now, you're saying your mother didn't help you one bit, is that right?'

'Well ' The child grinned. Her eyes were a bright, warm blue, like her mother's. 'She helped got me started, and she helped got me finished.'

'Oh ho! But I'm sure there was a lot of work between starting and finishing.' He handed the pillow back. 'Ah, what's this, then?' The middle child, the thirteen-year-old tow-headed boy named Aaron, had come forward as well to show off his favorite possession. 'A fine collection,' said the man as he took a small white clay jar and admired the bright variety of different colored marbles within. 'How many do you have?'

'Twenty-two, sir.'

'And you use them for what purpose? Games?'

'Yes, sir. But just to look at, too.'

'I'd think any boy would like to have these.'

'Yes sir, any boy sure would.'

'Aaron?' said Faith Lindsay. 'Don't bother Reverend Burton, now.'

'He's no bother. Not at all. Here you are, Aaron.' He returned the jar of marbles and then lifted his bearded chin slightly to gaze at the eldest child, who stood next to the fireplace in the process of helping her mother cook the cornbread, the beans, the baked apples and the piece of ham for this special occasion.

She was sixteen years old, with the pale blonde hair of her mother and sister, the same lovely oval-shaped face and high cheekbones, and the lustrous dark brown eyes of her father. She stared fixedly at Reverend John Burton, as she paused before spooning the beans into a bowl.

'Would you like to show me something, Lark?' the man prodded.

'No, sir,' came the firm reply. 'But I would like to ask you something.' Sitting opposite the reverend, her father-a wiry man in his late thirties, wearing a blue shirt and tan-colored breeches, his face lined and freckled by the sun and his scalp bald but for cropped reddish-brown hair on the sides and a solitary thatch at the front-glanced quickly at her, his thick eyebrows uplifted.

'Go right ahead, please,' said the reverend, in a gracious voice.

'Why are your fingernails like that?'

'Lark!' Peter frowned, the lines of his face deepening into ravines. At the same time, Faith shot a stern look at her daughter and shook her head.

'It's all right. Really it is.' Reverend Burton held his hands up and stretched the fingers out. 'Not very attractive, are they? It's a pity I couldn't keep my nails like a gentleman ought to, among the Indians. My travels among the tribes unfortunately did not include weekly use of scissors. I presume you have a pair here? That I might use later?'

'Yes, we do,' Peter said. 'Lark, what's gotten into you?'

She almost said it, but she did not. I don't trust this man. Even thinking such a thing of a reverend, a servant of God, was enough to make the red creep across her cheeks and her gaze go to the floorplanks. She began spooning the beans into the bowl, her shoulders slightly bowed forward with the weight of what she was thinking.

He looks at me too long.

'I am hungry,' the reverend said, to no one in particular. 'Ravenous would be the word.'

'Done in just a minute,' Faith assured him. 'Robin, would you put the cornbread on its platter?'

'Yes, Momma.'

'Get out the good napkins, Aaron.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He put the jar of prized marbles down on the table and went to a cupboard.

Lark Lindsay glanced quickly at Reverend Burton, and then away again; he was still watching her, with eyes the pale blue color of water. The water of Christ, she thought her mother and father might say. But she was thinking more of frozen water, like the pond in midwinter when nothing can drink from it. She finished spooning out the beans, set the bowl on the table in front of her father, and then her mother asked her to refill the reverend's cup of cider from the jug so she turned her attention to that task.

He had arrived about an hour ago. Lark, her father and brother had been out in the orchard behind the barn, filling up more baskets from God's bounty, when Aaron had said, Papa? Somebody's on the road. Comin' this way.

It was rare to have a visitor. The nearest minister lived on the other side of Caulder's Crossing, which itself was almost eight miles south along the road. They had been overjoyed to have a guest, and Lark knew her father would take it as a sign of the beneficent grace of the Lord, which he talked about often. The land might be hard and the living a trial, Peter Lindsay said, but all you had to do to touch God in this country was to reach up. Which Lark had always thought was a roundabout way of saying that if you worked hard enough, God would reward you. But sometimes that wasn't exactly true, because she remembered several years when everybody worked themselves to the sweat and the bones, but the crops were paltry and all reaching up did was give you a withered apple from a higher branch.

She refreshed the reverend's cup of cider. He shifted his leg slightly; beside him, on the floor, was his haversack. My Bible is in there, he'd said. I like to have my Bible right next to me, where I can get to it fast when I see a sinner coming.

And Peter and Faith Lindsay had laughed-a polite laugh, seeing as how some preachers did not appreciate laughter-and Aaron and Robin had smiled to hear their parents laugh, but Lark had looked at Reverend Burton's face and wondered why it was so scratched up, as if he'd been running through brambles.

'Momma? Momma?' Robin was pulling at her mother's apron, the nice blue one with the yellow trim instead of the older scorched one she usually wore. 'Is this all right?' She showed that the cornbread had crumbled and fallen apart a bit when lifted from pan to platter, but Faith said it was just fine, dear.

Upon his arrival, the reverend had made himself comfortable in the kitchen and had told them the story of his life: how he'd grown up as a vicar's son in Manchester, and how he in his middle age had crossed the Atlantic on a vow to his father to bring salvation to the Indians. He had been among the savages for many months now, had carried the Lord's light into many heathen hearts, but oh how he missed Manchester. England was calling him home, he'd said. There to find a new place of service, and new flocks to tend. 'We're pleased to have you here after you've travelled so long and far,' Peter said as Aaron brought the good napkins to the table.

'Long and far, indeed. And I'm so glad to find a place to rest. I fear my feet are blistered, as these boots are just a shade small. You have some very nice boots, I see. They look comfortable.'

'Yes sir, they are. Been broken in well enough by now, I'd guess.'

'Hm,' said the reverend, and he took a drink from his cup. The smoky-burnt smell of the ham was filling up the kitchen, as Faith always let the skin char just before she took it off the fire. Burton put his cup down and held it between both hands, and Lark could not help but take another furtive glance at the long, jagged nails. He had washed his hands and face in the kitchen bucket, and scrubbed the nails with a brush too, true enough, but the reverend smelled to Lark as if he had also gone long and far without a bath. Of course, if a man of God was out in the wilderness for months carrying Christ to the Indians then what opportunity might he have had for an encounter with soap? It was ugly for her to be thinking this way, she thought. Ugly as sin, to be throwing shadows on such a bright, sunny day as this one had dawned.

But she couldn't help it, and she thought that later-when Reverend Burton had gone-she ought to confess her sin of haughtiness or pride or suspicion or whatever it was. And it wasn't just the ragged nails that made her think of claws, either; it was the strange beard of many colors-dark brown, red, chestnut brown, silver-with a streak of charcoal black across the chin. God help her cleanse her soul of this sinful thinking, Lark thought, but it was the kind of beard that Satan might grow, the Devil wanting to be such a cock of the walk.

'Tell me, Peter,' said the reverend, as Faith and Robin began to bring the plates to the table. 'I passed several houses back there that looked to be deserted. There are no people nearby?'

'My brother had a farm back that way. When his wife-rest her soul-died in '99, he took the children and went to Philadelphia. Some of those houses are older; they were empty when we came here. You know, towns rise up