“It’s him that will come back when Last Times come on the world.., and they are coming, my brothers and sisters, can’t you feel they are?”
“Yesss — “
Rocking and sobbing, the congregation became a sea; the woman seemed to point at all of them, none of them.
“It’s him that will come as the Antichrist, to lead men into the flaming bowels of perdition, to the bloody end of wickedness, as Star Wormwood hangs blazing in the sky, as gall gnaws at the vitals of the children, as women’s wombs give forth monstrosities, as the works of men’s hands turn to blood — “
“Ahhh — “
“Ah, God — “
“Gawwwwwwww — “
A woman fell on the floor, her legs crashing up and down against the wood. One of her shoes flew off.
“It’s him that stands behind every fleshly pleasure … him! The Interloper!”
“Yes, Lord!”
A man fell on his knees, holding his head and braying.
“When you take a drink, who holds the bottle?”
“The Interloper!”
“When you sit down to a faro or a Watch Me table, who turns the cards?”
“The Interloper!”
“When you riot in the flesh of another’s body, when you pollute yourself, who are you selling your soul to?”
“In — “
“The — “
“Oh, Jesus . .. Oh — “
“— loper —
“—Aw…Aw…Aw… “
“And who is he?” She screamed (but calm within, he could sense the calmness, the mastery, the control, the domination. He thought suddenly, with terror and absolute surety: he has left a demon in her. She is haunted. He felt the hot ripple of sexual desire again through his fear.)
The man who was holding his head crashed and blundered forward.
“I’m in hell!” He screamed up at her. His face twisted and writhed as if snakes crawled beneath his skin. “I done fornications! I done gambling! I done weed! I done sins! I
— “ But his voice rose skyward in a dreadful, hysterical wail that drowned articulation. He held his head as if it would burst like an overripe cantaloupe at any moment.
The audience stilled as if a cue had been given, frozen in their half-erotic poses of ecstasy.
Sylvia Pittston reached down and grasped his head. The man’s cry ceased as her fingers, strong and white, unblemished and gentle, worked through his hair. He looked up at her dumbly.
“Who was with you in sin?” She asked. Her eyes looked into his, deep enough, gentle enough, cold enough to drown in.
“The.. . the Interloper.”
“Called who?”
“Called Satan.” Raw, oozing whisper.
“Will you renounce?”
Eagerly: “Yes! Yes! Oh, my Jesus Savior!”
She rocked his head; he stared at her with the blank, shiny eyes of the zealot. “If he walked through that door
— “ she hammered a finger at the vestibule shadows where
the gunslinger stood — “would you renounce him to his face?”
“On my mother’s name!”
“Do you believe in the eternal love of Jesus?”
He began to weep. “Your fucking-A I do — “
“He forgives you that, Jonson.”
“Praise God,” Jonson said, still weeping.
“I know he forgives you just as I know he will cast out the unrepentant from his palaces and into the place of burning darkness. “
“Praise God. “ The congregation drained, spoke it solemnly.
“Just as I know this Interloper, this Satan, this Lord of Flies and Serpents will be cast down and crushed. . . will you crush him if you see him, Jonson?”
“Yes and praise God!” Jonson wept.
“Will you crush him if you see him, brothers and sisters?”
“Yess… “ Sated.
“If you see him sashaying down Main St tomorrow?”
“Praise God… “
The gunslinger, unsettled, at the same time, faded back out the door and headed for town. The smell of the desert was clear in the air. Almost time to move on. Almost
XIII
In bed again.
“She won’t see you,” Allie said. She sounded frightened. “She doesn’t see anybody. She only comes out on Sunday evenings to scare the hell out of everybody.”
“How long has she been here?”
“Twelve years or so. Let’s not talk about her.”
“Where did she come from? Which direction?”
“I don’t know.” Lying.
“Allie?”
“I don’t know!”
“Allie?”
“All right! All right! She came from the dwellers! From the desert!”
“I thought so.” He relaxed a little. “Where does she live?”
Her voice dropped a notch. “If I tell you, will you make love to me?”
“You know the answer to that.”
She sighed. It was an old, yellow sound, like turning pages. “She has a house over the knoll in back of the church. A little shack. It’s where the . . . the real minister used to live until he moved out. Is that enough? Are you satisfied?”
“No. Not yet.” And he rolled on top of her.
XIV
It was the last day, and he knew it.
The sky was an ugly, bruised purple, weirdly lit from above with the first fingers of dawn. Allie moved about like a wraith, lighting lamps, tending the corn fritters that spluttered in the skillet. He had loved her hard after she had told him what he had to know, and she had sensed the coming end and had given more than she had ever given, and she had given it with desperation against the coming of dawn, given it with the tireless energy of sixteen. But she was pale this morning, on the brink of menopause again.
