The entire town packs itself into the pews. Church services are required. Of course they are. How else would the population be reminded to pay homage to the Minister, if it weren’t for required services, or the daily adulations, or his face on the money, or his face everywhere else, or the National Radio Broadcasts—blasting into each home at four-hour intervals without invitation, hesitation, or volume control? What better way to be roused in the middle of the night, to have nightmares interrupted, than to be yanked into consciousness with the sweaty, panicked, screaming name of the Minister in the mouth?
The people of the town sit in the church, straight backed, shoulder to shoulder on a rough-hewn bench. To all appearances, they are attentive. It is a practiced attention. Pastor Jenkins clears his throat. His jowls are gray, his eyes hooded, and his hands shake. He hurts. He longs for a drink. This is obvious to everyone. The junk man’s daughter gazes at his face and feels her heart breaking with compassion. She feels his need as if it were her own, and experiences the deepness of the pastor’s ache in her bones. She traces his face with her eyes, studiously imagining a tumbler full of whiskey—all amber and gold—sliding down his throat, hot and cold all at once. She imagines the heaviness on his tongue. The squeeze of his throat as he swallows. She watches as his tongue darts across his lips. She watches as he swallows. To her satisfaction, she notes the creeping flush of his cheeks and the sudden steadying of his voice. The smell of whiskey wafts through the pews.
She smiles.
No one else notices.
The pastor continues with his sermon.
The junk man’s daughter has to pull her knees tight to her chest so that Mr. Brilange and his wife may pass by her in the pew, late as usual. She grabs her bare feet and makes herself as small as she can, in case she is bumped. The Brilanges don’t see her now, but they have before, a couple times, and they do not like her. Mr. Brilange called her a guttersnipe, and Mrs. Brilange called her a tramp. Doesn’t matter. The junk man’s daughter loves them. She loves everyone. She can’t help it.
According to the rules, the pastor is required to make note of the tardiness, though that particular statute, like many rules from the capital, has a tendency to be ignored. They are remote here. A backwater. Often forgotten. They do their best not to make waves. Especially recently.
Especially since the onset of the . . . well. No one knows what to call it. And certainly, no one mentions it. Little quirks started appearing around town, ten years earlier. The roof that doesn’t leak, despite the gaping holes. The jug that makes any water run clean. The old woman who can tell if someone’s lying just by touching their right earlobe. The little boy who can talk to horses and sheep and birds. Useful, that little skill.
No one calls these things magic.
How could they be magic?
Magic is against the law.
Martina Strange, two rows up, starts to cough. The cough tears through her chest and sends rhythmic waves coursing over her back. No one responds. She’s been coughing for years. And she is old. It’s only a matter of time.
The junk man’s daughter stands up. She snakes through the pews. No one notices. She lays her hands on the old woman’s back. The girl is standing so close to the man sitting behind Mrs. Strange, she is practically in his lap. He doesn’t notice. The junk man’s daughter feels a pleasant heat between the skin of her hands and the coat of the woman. She feels the coat thin and give way, and the flannel shirt, and the thermal underwear, and the thin jersey that probably belonged to the old woman’s husband years ago. She presses until she is skin to skin. There is, the girl notices, a cancer wedged in the lung—black and twisted and oozing. The heat on her hands is so hot, she can feel her fingertips start to blister. She closes her eyes and doesn’t move.
The woman shudders.
She lurches.
She gasps, clasps her hand to her mouth, and coughs so hard the sound might have come from the center of the earth. Once, twice, and at that third cough, out of her mouth flies a bird—black and twisted and angry. Oozing pustules for eyes. Talons gripping something bloody. The congregation gasps. The bird hovers in front of Mrs. Strange—all rage and malevolence—spirals four times inside the four walls of the church, and with a tremendous squawk, shatters the third window on the east side and flies out of sight.
Glass spangles the ground.
Bloody, black feathers fall to people’s laps. Every mouth hangs open.
The junk man’s daughter still doesn’t move. Her skin pricks and tingles. She bites her lips and presses her hands to her chest—all hope and anticipation. Still no one notices her. The entire congregation holds its breath. They wait. A beat passes. And a beat. And a beat.
Oh for crying out loud, the girl wants to shout. Say something. Notice your life!
A beat. A beat.
A bird just flew out of a dying woman’s mouth! You have the proof on your damn laps. The world that you have inherited isn’t the world that you have to claim. There is so much, so much more. But she says nothing and they say nothing and eventually Pastor Jenkins resumes where he left off. The girl sighs and returns to her seat. What else can she do? Shake them?
Marla the egg woman arrives and sits next to the junk man’s daughter just as the service concludes. She is a wide, well-built woman—low to the ground and stable as a boulder. As reliable as earth. The pastor gives her a deferential nod and clears his throat. Drunk or
