The Victory

“I am a prophet of God. I am even more than a prophet.”

Jeffrey Lundgren, 1999

I woke with Reverend leaning over me in the dark, his hand on my chest, shaking me. “We have work,” he whispered. “Get your jacket. Meet me out back, on the edge of the field by the barn. Don’t wake the others.” He stood looking down on me until I sat up.

“Bring the Victory,” he said, and he descended once more.

When he was gone, I got my clothes on, slid down the ladder, tiptoed down the hall and went in Reverend’s bedroom, where hung his grandfather’s military issue Smith and Wesson .38 on a leather thong looped over a peg one side of the fireplace, attached to a metal ring at the base of the handle. I knew The Victory’s weight and works and firing, admired the heft in my hand. All six rounds had been loaded in the cylinder. The wood of the grip had been darkened by the oils of his grandfather’s hand, his father’s, and his own, and now mine. I took it down and hung it around my neck so it hung at my chest, headed downstairs to the kitchen, which was still warm, and got on my jacket and gloves from the hook and pulled the watch cap over my ears.

I closed the door softly and ran toward the barn. Reverend waited in the dark, in his short jacket, bare-headed and bare-handed, the tools laid out before him.

“Grab a pickaxe,” he said, “the ground is hard.”

He turned and swung at the ground, which made a sound like hitting rock. I took the other pickaxe and went at the earth beside him.

“We have to dig a wide, deep furrow here, like we were going to put in seed the size of a barrel.” He breathed heavily, chipping steadily at the earth. “Indians who lived in these parts would bury an effigy of corn and grain; in the spring it came up to show God restored the earth for them. That’s a child’s game. We need to show God we lay more than prayers at his feet.”

I listened while I chopped. We worked fast but the earth didn’t give easily. Soon I was digging with a shovel, throwing scoops of earth on the pile at the edge, with Reverend working away from me to create the furrow. “I lay in bed wakeful as morning, the voice of God telling me this must be done now in the dark of night, before the morning light.”

He leaned on the shovel. “I could not do anything without my shadow.”

I didn’t look at him though I wanted to, just dug deeper and faster, throwing dirt up the side. I looked now and then at the moon, high and tiny when clouds drifted past. It might have been a couple of hours later that he tossed his shovel up onto the dirt pile that ran along our furrow. “That’s it,” he said. “We’ve got her.”

I threw my shovel beside his and picked up the pickaxes and spade and hoe and tossed them beside these. I had taken off my coat by this time because I didn’t need warming up, but I shrugged it on when he crawled out and reached down to pull me out. I took his wide, thick hand walked up the side and stood beside him then.

“That’s a good piece of work,” he said, looking down at the dark rent. It ran eight or ten feet long, a thick worm of earth running beside it. Gray light of morning came up behind the night but we didn’t notice until the rooster spoke. I was weary and hungry, but Reverend told me we must not eat until we did what we had to do. He had brought his Bible and did his best to read until the light came up enough that he could see the page.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I can read in the dark because I know what’s there to read. This morning I have too much on my mind. Go now and raise the folks at Boyhood Home while I get ready for this morning’s service.”

I went down the path along the field and through the woods. It was cold and still dark, but I wasn’t cold because of the work we had done, though my arms and legs were tired enough I didn’t think to run. There’s something good about being up before anyone, when the little night creatures run into the brush, but I hurried myself.

Reverend had been a boy in the other house, until he left home to spend years in what he called the wandering. He came back in time to see his father die, glad he had come for that. His grandfather gone, his mother nowhere to be found, he discovered the land and houses were his own. He preached along the way and folks that followed him stayed near him. He brought the first five out here and told them they could live in Boyhood Home if they worked the land which had not been tended for many years. The other two had come since that time.

Since last autumn, he had kept Ben and Hilda in Grandfather House with us, because Ben had taken sick and moaning in the room beneath my own. Reverend went in their bedroom and talked to each of them from time to time and had me tend them when necessary. Hilda was in the sixth month of a difficult pregnancy, confined to her bed most of the day. Only recently did Ben have the strength to come downstairs, and the day before he stood at one end of the dining room table, Reverend at the other, to give a report of himself.

Ben had looked frail, the uncut, uncombed hair on either side of his large, bald forehead contributing to an unhealthy appearance. Small, round glasses slid down his nose, but he didn’t push them up. The top two buttons of his flannel shirt were open, revealing a white, hairless chest. I felt a little bad for him, as I tended to the needs of Ben and Lucy and liked them both. They seemed kind, always grateful. I watched him trying to think of the right words.

“I will be restored by planting,” he said. “I feel better every day.” The coughing fit that followed this statement did not serve him well, and I could see Reverend was not pleased. Ben tried to stand straighter. Reverend rested an elbow on the table, grasping his chin, stroking his lower lip with his finger. His left hand remained balled tightly beside his cup.

“It is something I will have to pray on,” Reverend said. “Get yourself something to eat from the kitchen and take it to your room.”

I did think it would be better if they went back to Boyhood Home before the baby came. There would be planting. Service Farm was a place of life, a place where life bloomed and grew. Now, this new vision demanded this furrow in the earth and the burning in my arms and legs.

After I banged at the door of Boyhood Home several times, Peter Hinckley came to the door, his hair straight up like a rooster’s comb, turning his head to the side like he tried to hear something from somewhere else in the house as he pulled suspenders onto his shoulders. I jerked my thumb in the direction a few times before he said, “I’ll get the others.” I hung around out front, to make sure they were all there, seven of them, and they followed behind until we came out of the woods and could see Reverend the other side of the furrow, a dirt pile on one side of him and Ben Stark on the other. Peter’s wife Glenna said, “Why look there, if it isn’t Ben Stark. I almost forgot he was one of us.” She laughed a little but was the only one.

We all watched Reverend and Ben the other side of the furrow we had dug. The earth smelled good, the furrow wide and sweet. I heard the cows lowing and moaning and slipped away to the barn and found them in the barn yet. I went to the side of the beautiful brown cow, her fur longer than the others, a rich color in the growing light of morning. I took a stool off the wall and one of the large galvanized pails I scoured every day after milking, took two teats in my hands and squirts rang against the sides. As soon as they heard the music, seven barn cats came swarming, mewing for their share.

Next, I took to the white, then the spotted cow. The cats mewed around their bowl and did not follow when I carried the pails inside the house. I wanted to collect eggs from the coop where the hens were at their clucking—but this would wait. Reverend was talking, holding Ben Stark by his arm above the elbow with one hand. Reverend did not look at me nor did I expect it, but Ben looked around at the seven members of the community who lived in Boyhood Home.

“We who wait and watch for the end need nothing of news of the world, for we have left the world behind. We left the danger and the madness of a sick world of men behind. A new heaven and a new earth wait to be revealed.”

“Glory,” mumbled one of the women. “Yessir,” said Hinkley. He had lost his own farm when he lost the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to machinery. He knew what it took to raise crops and care for three milk cows and six pigs on the other side of the house, away from the coop. His wife Glenna knew too, and they organized the others in the needed work.

“There comes a time when we must be tested before the Lord. We must ask ourselves, Have we done all we could for the glory of God and sustenance and succor of one another; have we shed our blood for the land we live on and the food we take from her bosom? Do we stand accountable and acceptable before the Lord?” He shifted his shoulders and feet and took a firmer hold on Ben, as if now he needed to steady himself. “Is there even one of you who thinks I have not done all in my power to restore our brother and his wife?”

When he released Ben, he stumbled and nearly fell into the furrow. Reverend’s hand looked so thick when he pointed back toward Grandfather House, his pock marked face so wrung that every one of the gathered assured him they believed it with all their hearts. “All night I lay in that house. All night I have been wracked with vision and with a duty I could not escape. Do you remember Jonah, when he tried to escape the will of the Lord when the Lord ordered him to Ninevah to warn the children of God? He fled on a swift ship, but God caused a storm to boil the bowels and spit of that ship. Of all that company only this Jonah heard the voice in that storm and cried out the confession the curse was of his making. What did the members of that good ship and crew then accomplish, my brothers and sisters? You know it as well as I do—they threw him in the sea. The sea went still and a big fish swallowed him and carried him to the shores of Ninevah where it spit him up.”

Reverend raised his hands to the sky and lowered them after a long moment. He looked for the community and found them again. “God said, I told you what to do and you didn’t do it. Now I have to make you do it. God left him there for all his trepidation to the business for which he made his servant, the business for which he had been intended when he took on the full armor of the Lord because once you take on that armor you cannot cast it off.

“Once you are the Lord’s you belong to him. He owns you and you must do what he says if you want to be with him in Glory, for surely if you do not he will cast you in the outer dark with the shivering damned who burn in his flame and freeze in his frozen blast. “Do you remember what he said to the tree that refused to bear fruit? Wither, for when I asked of you shade, when I asked of you one simple fig, you denied me. Recall his words to the servant who buried his one talent rather than to make it work for the owner of that vineyard.”

He pointed in the furrow, shouting, “Evil have you done, thou faithless servant, evil have you made by your inaction; therefore I cast thee into the outer darkness where you shall weep and gnash your teeth! He did not say well, I’ll give you a second chance. He didn’t say let me send you to a class on agriculture and business so you will know next time—he cast his servant out because the Kingdom of God does not suffer fools.”

“It is not for us to judge whether Brother Ben has been lollygagging, not for us to judge whether he might have risen from bed and lent a hand in the time of harvest. It is not for us to judge why Brother Ben could not help his poor wife in her travail. It is for us to make him stand before the Lord and say, Take him, Lord, accept or deny him according to your mercy.”

A wind had blown up but Reverend opened his jacket and let it flap wildly. He glanced at me holding out one enormous hand. I unbuttoned my coat and lifted the thong from around my neck and laid it on his hand. Thick fingers closed on it, and then it hung before us all from one thick finger through the trigger guard.

When I looked at the community I saw them gathered by the river, which had become a dark furrow opened in the earth. “When the Lord commanded Abraham, take your only son to the mountain, Abraham did as the Lord commanded, took the blade in his hand said, I am your servant. He took his own son Isaac to the mountain and called out, Thy holy will be done! Lord, I might not understand all I ought to understand, but I do know that I cannot ignore the commandment of God on High! With my frail will I can only obey.”

He took Ben’s arm again, this time gently. “Brother Ben has failed us all. He hung back, refusing service of the Lord and the Community. In these End Times we are called different than other days; God speaks once more through prophets, and we listen. Thus God commanded me, take your faint-hearted brother to field’s edge, and dig there this furrow, try him in the fire as I commanded of Abraham. It is not for me to judge our brother or our Lord, but I have done as he has ordered. Here is your Brother Ben before you, at the mercy seat, and what shall we do?

“What may happen to his soul we may never know, but we bring him to the judgment, to stand before the Lord. When Abraham offered a sacrifice of his own son, God halted him. God said the sacrifice is too great—only God can sacrifice His own son—and released Abraham from his commandment and provided a ram for the sacrifice.”

Reverend held the pistol high. “Who will take this heavy burden from my hand? Who is strong enough to stand in the very place of the judge of us all and do his will?”

No one stirred, but still Reverend held the pistol high. “Must the prophet who speaks to God also perform the service God requires?”

Peter raised his hand, palm toward Reverend, and called in a hoarse voice, “I will do His will.”

Still Reverend did not lower the pistol. “I repeat,” he bellowed, “who will do this service of the Lord?” Samuel Jennings raised his hand slowly.

“What is it, Samuel? Why have you raised your hand?”

“I will serve the Lord.”

“Amen,” said Reverend. Ben Stark seemed to be watching something that had nothing to do with him, his hands in his pockets, but he shivered.

“I will serve the Lord,” said Robert Hawkins, and then Jeremiah’s hand went up, “I will serve the Lord,” he said.

“Who will be the handmaid of the Lord?”

One by one the women raised their hands and nodded. Not one of them could get words from their throats. Tears welled in my eyes. I saw pride in the pocked face and brown eyes of the Reverend, and tears. “Who will serve the Lord?” he shouted.

And all said together, “We will serve the Lord.”

“Jeremiah, step forward, take the instrument of the Lord and glorify his name.”

He was the youngest of them all and unmarried. He looked around at the others with the terror on his face. “Go on, boy,” said Peter. “We’re all with you now.”

“Pray God provide a ram,” said one of the women, I could not see which one.

Jeremiah came forward haltingly, pale as Brother Ben, who at last shouted, “God damn it, hurry up.” Jeremiah halted and the rest looked at Ben, a strange curiosity alerted us. Reverend watched him carefully, as if something more might be revealed. After the pause, Jeremiah did hurry his steps and soon stood before Reverend, who held out the pistol for him. He took it in both hands and studied it. Reverend smiled and touched his shoulder. “All you need to do is pull the trigger, son, but it would be a good idea to use both hands.”

A couple of men smiled at this. Tears rolled down Ben’s face, and he looked paler than before when Reverend told him get on his knees. He was crying when he did, his head lowered, barely making a sound. Reverend nodded to Jeremiah who put the tip of the barrel to Ben’s head and checked with Reverend to see if he had the go-ahead. Reverend nodded and before we had a moment to prepare ourselves the pistol went off in Jeremiah’s hands. What had been inside Ben Stark’s head shot out in a wide arc that spattered Reverend’s legs—he didn’t take note of it. Ben fell forward, his head partway in the furrow already.

I wanted to see what expression had taken his face, but all I saw was bone and blood all broken through. No one said a word. I noticed that Jeremiah had gone to his knees, his eyes cast down, trying not to look at the back of Ben’s head. Reverend said, “Peter, help me get him in the furrow.” The two pushed and the body rolled into the pit and lay there snug with his hands tight at his sides and his face in the dirt. “Who will make certain Ben is not suffering?”

One of the women blew her nose, crying with her head down. Bob Hawkins came forward to do this service—another blast from the gun cut into Ben’s back. “Bob,” Reverend said, and I knew he would make each of the men fire into Ben. Afterwards, Reverend handed the pistol back to me, brushed dirt from his hands and called, “Come, you people. Pay respect to your brother. Bring shovel and spade.” The Victory felt warm, like a living thing.

The ceremony went on until each one had thrown on dirt, and Ben Stark began to vanish beneath the soil. Lastly did Reverend toss earth on their brother. Without looking at me he set the shovel head in the dirt and said to them all, “Let us bow our heads in prayer.”

Once we had done with that, Reverend told me to fill it, smooth the dirt, and pat it down with the shovel blade. I nodded and watched as he turned, the coat swinging with each step. I held the pistol up in both hands and braced myself, training it on the center of the coat. I had no intention to fire, but Reverend’s arms rose and he fell forward on his chest.

The report sounded like thunder, louder than before. The ringing in my ears persisted while I hung it around my neck and set my legs in motion before they came from Boyhood Home to find him on the ground. I did not stop until I reached the creek where I first met Reverend, when he saved me and took me home with him. I leaned there, my hands on my knees, until I caught my breath and the ringing diminished. I crossed the stream on rocks and began walking away from Service Farm, buttoning my coat over the Victory around my neck.

BIO:

Robert Pope has published several books of short fiction, including Killers & Others, which includes stories from Alaska Quarterly Review, Fiction International, and Sequestrum. His nonfiction has appeared in Missouri Review, Georgia Review, Big City Lit, and Pushcart Prize. He lives in Akron, Ohio.