𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒍𝒚.

~*~

“Really?” he asked, smiling and tossing the apple in the air. He caught it deftly, and repeated the action. Toss and catch, toss and catch. For some reason the word satsuma popped into his head, dancing around for a moment among images of clouds and bathrobes and a city sprawled below… John was so caught up he missed the apple and it tumbled past his hands, bouncing off the shelf and onto the floor. “Oops,” he said, grinning sheepishly. He waved to a clerk who was giving him quite the stare. “I think I better stick to buying fruit instead of juggling it, eh?” he said, turning back to the young girl. 

“Anyway, it’s a common enough saying. Not sure where that one came from, but if I had to guess…” He stuck his tongue between his teeth, then snapped his fingers together. “Yes, definitely early twentieth century. 1913 or so? Give or take a few months.” Her quiet thanks  made him refocus, and he returned her small smile in kind. “My pleasure,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. 

He took a moment now to really look her over, to study her. She was wearing a simple outfit, handstitched. “It was Minnow, right? Minnow Bly.” He tilted his head. “You mind if I ask you a question, Minnow Bly?” He paused but only for a half second before continuing on. “You’re from the… community on the edge of town, yeah?”

Minnow stared as John tossed the apple up and down, catching it and throwing it over and over again, her mouth slightly open, her teeth brushing her bottom lip as she watched him. It seemed to spell trouble, and when he dropped it, and it hit the floor, she couldn’t help but laugh to herself. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I think you’d better.” And then, all at once, she realised that she was laughing at a Gentile -- no, worse, she was laughing with a Gentile -- and her smile disappeared.

She blinked at John as he spoke again, and he was talking as if he’d been there, like he knew. He had to be a History teacher, right? In one of the heathen schools. Minnow gripped her basket a little tighter. She barely remembered going to school as a little girl, before her parents had met the Prophet, and followed him across the country. She wondered if she would remember school better, remember writing and reading and learning, if she’d had a teacher like John Smith.

“Oh,” was all she said, after he’d spoken. “I didn’t know that.” She knew she’d already said that, and somehow, talking to him was making her feel both very stupid but also very happy. He didn’t seem to be judging her for not knowing things, for barely keeping up. He still had that kind warmth that she only associated with the Prophet, and Charlie, even though he’d been giving her lots of information. And that was another thing -- he wasn’t showing off, like she would expect from a Gentile who knew outsider information. He was just telling her, the way the Prophet shared his knowledge. But this felt... different.

Typically, people didn’t go and inform others about Kaz’s crimes, for a myriad of reasons. There was his reputation, of course; he was well known enough that people usually feared the retaliation that would come with exposing what he was doing. There was greed - the chance that Kaz Brekker might give them a bit of coin for turning the other way. And then there were the real bystanders. Not just to him, but to everything; car accidents, abuse, assault. The people who saw it happening and thought someone else would fix the problem and they could just continue on their merry way. 

This was certainly not a situation he’d encountered previously. 

He raised his brows, and couldn’t help the smile on his face that turned into a laugh - an actual laugh. Not just a chuckle, the kind that he offered in a meeting or at one of Jes’s ridiculous jokes, but a laugh at the ridiculous notion of some God going after him for his crimes. It would have felt nice not to laugh if it hadn’t had such a dark origin. He shook his head, still chuckling. “Ah, thank you, I have not had a proper laugh like that in ages.” He said. “Charlie? Your saint’s name is Charlie? They could have at least gone with something a bit more…” He waved a hand around in the air as if grasping for an idea. “Reverent?”

Kaz settled his hands on his cane, leaning in slightly. “What is your group called - Killians? Kevinians? Hell, a prophet named Kevin is far worse than Charlie. A ridiculous name.” He smirked. “I’m sure I will burn if there’s any justice in this world. And we all know how likely that is.” He said, straightening up. “Or at least, I do. You’d be better off if you learned.”

Minnow curled her small hands into tight fists, and glared at the Gentile as his smile grew into a laugh. The Prophet had warned her that heathens would turn their backs on them, they would shun them and mock them and hate them, but being laughed at like this, in the middle of the store? It hurt. She felt the warmth and love of Charlie standing behind her fade, and all she was left with was humiliation and anger. But then the Gentile said Your saint’s name is Charlie? and some of her righteous indignation flood back. How dare he? She pictured the Charlie she always pictured, the teenaged boy with bright green eyes and a kind smile and a mop of tree bark-brown hair.

“No,” she said, sharply. “God’s name is Charlie. He’s had many names over the centuries. That’s just one of His names.” She rarely said God -- it was too impersonal, the Prophet said, and the Charlie the Prophet had met had told him to call him by a human name, to make him seem closer. Minnow squared her jaw and glared at the stranger, and she knew he could never understand. If the Prophet were here... she didn’t want to think about what he would do. But he wasn’t. She was, and she had to stand up for the Community, and for Charlie.

The sting of an insult to the Prophet hurt a little less, and Minnow suddenly had a memory -- a memory of a boy with dark skin, shaking his head at her. That ain’t in the Bible. She didn’t know where she remembered him from, but even the imagined image gave her more strength, as if she’d already had this argument and won, so she straightened her back again, and glared at him. “You will burn,” she replied, coldly. “Because there might not be justice in this world, but there is justice in the next.” She looked at him with total conviction, feeling it burn bright inside her chest. Charlie dispensed justice. He wasn’t laughable, and the Prophet wasn’t ridiculous. She remembered Bertie’s poor, burnt, feet, how she could barely stand on her wedding day, her own mother lying in bed wearing a crown of flowers as the sheets around her dyed red with her blood. All that suffering. For Charlie. Even so, amen.

“Why are you apologizing? Everything is fine,” Atem smiled back politely

Ofcourse he understood it, to some degree, he knew that people- especially prone to anxiety- just tended to apologize all the time, as though it were some sort of natural reflex, and he could sort of remember knowing someone like that in a past that felt like it had been centuries ago, but he couldn’t place more information than that

He picked up a carton of apples, examined it for a moment to check for things like bruises, and then set it in his cart, noticing that the girl beside him hadn’t made a choice for her own fruit yet

“Do you need some help?” he offered a beat later

“I could help you choose the best ones if you’d like, I’m not the best at choosing fruit but I’m certainly not bad at it either,”

The stranger asked why she was apologising, and Minnow stared at him, her eyes wide. She was used to apologising -- she did it all the time at home. When she didn’t bring back enough huckleberries for dyeing, when she dropped the water bucket, when she was late to gatherings. But now this Gentile asked why, and she didn’t know. He was right -- it was like the prophet said, she didn’t have to apologise to an outsider -- but she didn’t want to tell him that. So, instead, she just shrugged stiffly, and didn’t say anything.

The silence went on, and the man picked up a carton of apples. Minnow just stood there, looking at the fruit, and trying to spot the ones she’d been sent here to get. Suddenly, he asked if she needed help, and she wanted to say no, she was fine. Accepting the help of a Gentile felt wrong, dirty, but if she didn’t, she’d be standing there all day, so she nodded mutely, and turned to him. He had dark brown eyes, the colour of a fox’s, and tanned skin.

People always viewed him with a kind of derision when they saw him steal. Like he was an insect that was meant to be quashed rather than a living person. It made him angry - what right did people have to feel disgusted when someone simply tried to survive? Was it somehow wrong to live another day when you weren’t blessed with a life that let you live in a warm home and know where your next meal was coming from?

He’d never tried to hide it, though. Kaz had come to appreciate the glimmer of disapproval that came with his theft, or acknowledgement of who and what he was. They weren’t supposed to coddle him; if anything, they should pity themselves. That they wouldn’t last a week on the streets he’d grown up on. 

And looking at this girl? He’d be shocked if she’d have lasted a night. 

She was thin, almost brittle, and looked like she’d snap like a twig if someone came close. She didn’t have the softness that came with a loving childhood, exactly, but she looked easily breakable. As if one shatter of truth about her silly little church might cause her to crumble. Though if she’d snap and simply disappear, or if she’d snap and be unleashed on others? That remained to be seen.

He didn’t have use to take apart her life, her little world - not yet. “Does it look like I’m going to?” He asked derisively. He certainly had times he did pay for things, but Kaz no longer cared about that, not really. He had the skillset to steal and he’d long ago learned that money wasn’t as effective a currency as many thought. “I would say my paying is about as likely as you telling someone I didn’t pay for this.”

The Prophet always said that the Gentiles weren’t to be trusted, that they didn’t follow Charlie’s ways, and they had evil in their hearts. He had a lot of teachings, and even more revelations, but that was the thing he talked about the most. Don’t trust the outsiders. Minnow remembered being very young, before she and her parents had joined the Kevinians, when her father had taken her with him to the greyhound racetracks. Men were often drinking, and women were shouting at the dogs on the track, acting in what the Prophet would say was unwomanly ways. When Minnow thought of the Gentiles now, she remembered those people at the track. And her own father, before he had been saved, gripping the railings in front of them so tightly, and whispering come on, come on, like a man possessed by Satan.

She knew the Gentiles were corrupt, that Charlie would watch them burn at the end of time, but it was still shocking to see this man put the apple in his pocket without paying for it. Ye must live within thy world, and be a part of thy world, but remain untouched by it. So sayeth the Lord, Charlie. Amen. That was what the Book of Prophecies said. Minnow hadn’t read the words herself -- she wasn’t allowed, or able to -- but she knew them off by heart. The Kevinians used money, but only so they weren’t arrested. But they had no loyalty to the Gentiles. But this man, one of them, apparently had no loyalty either. Minnow wrinkled her nose in disgust as he spoke.

~*~

It was so easy for her to say our job, to acknowledge the connections she had. She was a part of a larger whole, she belonged in a way that Dexter never would. Still, he wondered who precisely she meant. The town’s job? Or something more… specific? He followed her hands as they moved, taking in her simple, handstitched clothing for the first time. It was well made, clearly with care, but still had that stark difference from his own store-bought and brightly colored clothes. 

The oddities kept piling up. 

“That’s what police are for, right?” he said, still cheerful as can be. He reached into his car, grabbed the spare battery and spread the parts on the hood of his car to start the swap. “To protect people.” He snapped the new battery into place and arched a brow at her. “They can be a little stingy with their information though. I’m sure there’ll be a press conference later, maybe that’ll answer your questions?” 

She looked away from him then, and Dexter was ready to walk away from this strangeness, but then she spoke again. He felt his throat tighten, just for a moment. Not from fear or awkwardness, but from the anticipation. Thinking about blood could do that to him. “I look for patterns,” he explained. He turned the camera on, flipped through the library and showed her a shot of the body. “Like, you see this here? That pooling? The splash pattern…” He traced it with his fingers on the tiny screen, breath hitching. “That means she bled out here. That she didn’t die somewhere else. That’s useful to us, it helps us figure out what happened to her.” He frowned at the pictures, the strange splash pattern and the inexplicable conclusion he’d drawn from it. “Of course, sometimes it just raises more questions.” 

That’s what the police are for, right? Minnow didn’t smile back, when the man did. He reached into the car, and pulled out a battery, and lay the camera down on the front of the car. Minnow stared as he pulled one out, like he was gutting a deer, and replaced it with another. The cops weren’t there to protect people. They were there to watch them, to judge them, and find a reason to lock them up away from the outside world and throw away the key. That’s what the Prophet said. He’d been to jail. He didn’t like to talk about it much, but the Kevinians all knew. She realised she hadn’t replied for a few seconds, so she said, “The police are here to watch people.” And she just stopped herself from saying That’s what the Prophet says. This man was a cop. He didn’t deserve to know that.

Instead she stood in silence, watching as the man closed the open back of the camera. When he mentioned the press conference, she shook her head, stiltedly. “I’m not going to the press conference,” she said. She knew, without checking with the Deacons, that they would have gone back to the clearing by then. It wasn’t safe to be away from Charlie’s land for this long. Already, she felt like this was the longest conversation she’d had with a Gentile in months. But that was what the Prophet had told them to do. Gather information, and report back.

And she seemed to be doing well, because the stranger said he looked for patterns, and pressed a button on the camera, and suddenly, Minnow could see photographs of a body, lying on the forest floor, surrounded by blood. She blinked at it. The man pointed at the blood stains, the splashes of red, and the large pool of it, and he explained what it meant. As he spoke, she frowned, taking the information in. She could feel it soaking in, the way the Prophet’s teachings did. Learning. But, unlike when she learnt from the Prophet, she could see what this cop was talking about for herself, and put it together. When he said it raised more questions, she looked up quickly. “Questions like what?” she asked. “She died there, so someone killed her there.” She looked down at the photograph again, and she spotted something.

Yennefer was not one for patience and she hated having her time wasted. She enjoyed the finer luxuries and pleasures of life, having people at her beck and call was always nice, but sometimes she found it better to do things for herself if she wanted it done the right way first. That’s how it was with grocery shopping. She once sent some poor boy working for Brekker to get her grocery list for her and when he’d come back with the wrong kind of apples, she had nearly set him on fire. Not in the literal sense… that time.

So, she took to making some trips on her own. She didn’t have time to waste sending someone to the same place twice when she could do it right the first time on her own. The one unfortunate side effect was having to wait while people dawdled about in the middle of the aisles. “Well, are you going to pick one, or are you simply going to stand in the way for another thirty minutes blocking the path?” she said, raising an eyebrow in the stuttering girl’s direction.

.

Minnow stared at the bags of apples, and reached into her pocket to feel the change the Prophet had given her. Dirty, Gentile, money, he’d said. But we need to operate within their world, so we can keep living in Charlie’s, undisturbed. She hated standing in this store, with its unnatural lights and false foods and sterile smells. She hated that the fruit was wrapped in plastic, that the milk was in bottles, that all of Charlie’s natural resources were mutated and ruined. But this was how He wanted them to live, on the edge of the Gentile’s world, untouched by it. So, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and tried to read the labels on the packaging.

SEND ME A QUESTION FOR A HALLOWEEN THEMED ANSWER!

SCYTHE - if your muse were a weapon, what would they be? what would it be made of or forged from?

This is a strange one, since the first thing that came to mind is wood. Whatever weapon Minnow would be, it would be made out of wood. She, and all the Kevinians, are so closely associated with nature, and the forest, so I just know that it would need to reflect that. Iron, steel, silver, or any other kind of metal would be too industrial to represent her.

There was something strangely normal about going to the market that he’d never really gotten used to, probably because of how rarely he cooked. His fridge was practically barren - just a couple of Chinese food containers growing mold and some of the beers Jesper was a fan of that he’d left there.

Hell, he wasn’t even here for the groceries. He was at the market to get a good bottle of wine for his meeting tonight - a new investor in the Lounge. He needed something higher quality than the shit he drank.

That was, until he’d seen the girl. He’d seen others from her group before, but they were usually in a cluster - a creepy cluster that moved like one organism. The group gave even Kaz the creeps, and that wasn’t easy. The rumors were they were a religious group - a commune, living in the woods. He’d never been quite content with the rumors, though; Kaz wanted to know more. Wanted to know what the group did, and if they had anything to do with the bodies. From his perspective, the religious people were usually the craziest; the zealots. Nothing could make people kill like a cause, especially when they thought that cause was divine. 

“You’re a long way from home.” He said, grabbing an apple and tossing it from one hand to the other before pocketing it with ease, uncaring about what anyone else might see. 

Minnow stayed absolutely still as the man stood next to her. He looked like a Gentile, like the kind the Prophet warned them about. Dark, slicked back, hair, dark clothes, and the eyes of a wolf. He was staring at her, so Minnow stared right back. That was what the Prophet would do. She imagined Charlie behind her, a boy her own age, with eyes the colour of leaves in the summer, and a beautiful face turned cold as he faced the heathen. She straightened her back a little, and wanted to take back the apology, but it was already out there, and this Gentile had ignored it anyway. He would.

“I need to get supplies,” she replied, sharply, even though it was none of his business why she was so far from home. And then he took one of the apples, and slipped it into his pocket. Minnow’s eyes widened, and she looked up at him -- he was taller than her -- in disbelief. They’re all liars, the Prophet had said, constantly. They don’t know Charlie’s ways, so they lie and betray each other, and kill each other. She’d heard the sermons, of course, but it was another thing to see someone steal.

~*~

Dexter wasn’t like other people. He was incapable of that, he was other. A predator. And he saw the world, this girl, through a predator’s eyes. She was quiet, standing apart from everyone else. Her eyes trailed after two men, a pair engaged in conversation with some uniformed officers. She had arrived with them, and even now seemed to take her cues from them. Family maybe? Dexter wasn’t sure. Human connections could be… difficult to understand.

But he understood a lot about this girl. He had always taken great care to never appear as the quiet, strange loner he truly was. An instinct for self-preservation guided him, told him that would be a bad idea. People like that stuck out, people who lingered on the edge of humanity. Cops remembered people like that when they were looking at a crime scene or missing person’s report. But this girl, she didn’t try to hide her awkwardness. Maybe she didn’t know how, or didn’t realize how obvious she was. She wasn’t a killer, Dexter could tell that instantly. He always could. But there was something… something very strange about her. Something other. 

Her voice was soft and small when she spoke. “It’s okay,” Dexter said. He had the strangest sensation, almost deja-vu like – he wouldn’t call it a feeling, he didn’t have those. It was like he had dreamed about her, or someone like her, but that didn’t make sense. He didn’t dream. Nothing went bump in Dexter’s night, not ever. Still, he couldn’t shake it. “Forensics,” he explained. “I’m a blood spatter analyst. Just here to take pictures and collect any evidence I can,” he said, holding up the camera. He paused a second, glancing back at the body and then to her once more. “You mind if I ask why you’re here? It’s just… you don’t strike me as the typical looky-loo.” He smiled gently at her, hoping it appeared genuine enough. “Something tells me you don’t really want to be here.” 

It was always strange, to leave their clearing. The rest of the world was so wide, so noisy. Even standing among the Gentiles now, apart from them, Minnow was stunned by how many of them there were, and how few people Charlie had chosen to save. There were twenty-two Kevinians in the whole world. And their clearing was so small. Why are there so few of us? she thought, as she looked out at the crowd of people.

She knew what the Prophet would say. Because the world was corrupt, and Charlie’s message couldn’t get through to them. Because the world wasn’t ready to listen to Him. But, as she stood there next to the bug-like car, surrounded by Gentiles, she couldn’t help but wonder if they could get through to them. If she sat down and told each and every one of them that Charlie loved them, that he was a teenaged boy, around her age, with eyes the colour of green grass in the spring, and all the power in the world at his fingertips, would they listen then? If they could meet the Prophet, and hear his teachings, would they want to follow him? She knew they would. But the Prophet said that evangelising was wrong, that Charlie’s chosen few were already decided, and they all lived in the clearing. If He wants someone else to join us, the Prophet said, He will tell me.

And so, she looked away from the Gentiles, and at the police officer. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she put them into her skirt pockets. Forensics, he said. Blood spatter analyst. It didn’t make much sense. Blood was blood, wasn’t it? Her gaze flickered, quick as a doe’s, to the camera. But, before she could ask him if he was a police officer or not, because he hadn’t really told her, he asked her why she was there. He smiled, but Minnow didn’t trust it. The Prophet had taught them to watch out for Gentile’s smiles. They were always false. She didn’t smile back. She didn’t like what he was suggesting. Yes, she didn’t want to come out here, but it sounded wrong when he said it.

~*~

“Ahh, Granny Smiths. Named after an actual Granny, you know. Maria Ann Smith. Australian lady, famously cultivated these apples. Well, not these,” he said, straightening up. He craned his neck one way and then the other, face lighting up when he spotted them. “Here we go!” he said brightly, walking over. “These apples. Maria cultivated these apples. Sweet woman, very kind, didn’t get enough credit in her lifetime.” He felt a fondness for the woman, and it could be heard in his voice. He wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like he knew her. He just knew of her. And yet. What a strange thought. 

A stranger thought suddenly occurred to him.  He tilted his head, and glanced at her. “You must have really good eyesight, spotting them from all the way down there,” he said, arching a brow. He reached forward and plucked one off the shelf. “Maybe I’ll get one myself. They say it keeps the doctor away, eh?” 

.

John Smith started talking, and, in a way, he sounded like the Prophet, when he told them stories about Marcus and the first women, or Charlie’s ways, or Chad the giant killer. Like someone who was used to telling stories, used to an audience. Minnow just blinked at him, until he turned and walked over to another shelf. She walked after him hurriedly. He sounded fond of Maria Ann Smith, as if he was talking about someone he knew. Again, she felt that rush of kindness and love from him, and it made no sense. He wasn’t Charlie. He was just a Gentile, just a strange man. So, she simply said, “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

He turned to look at her, and now his gaze felt different. Curious, sharp, like a hawk’s eyes, like the Prophet when he knew she had transgressed. Like he knew he’d caught her out in her eye. But, instead of calling her out on it, he pulled one of the apples off the shelf, and held it. Minnow shrugged. “I haven’t heard anyone say that,” she replied, bluntly. They had no need for doctors in the Community. Charlie healed them, or he didn’t. Modern medicine was not of Him. He had healed the Prophet’s eyes, and his lungs, and Bertie’s feet, before she’d died.

Kate is practicing her archery outside somewhere she needs to her skills sharp there where targets step up, looking around at all of them she knew it was not hard for her to hit all of them at the same time when she was getting ready Kate hears a noise then takes one of the arrows and points it in the direction. “Come out before you catch an arrow between your eyes.” she said.

.

The basket hung on Minnow’s arm as she wandered back towards the Community. It was full of huckleberries and Oregon Grapes for dying their clothes blue -- it had been her turn to pick them for the month. She was singing to herself as she walked -- her favourite hymn, about St. Chad, who killed the last giant in America. “Killed a giant, yes he did, cut his throat, yes he did...”

She swung the basket as she walked, and didn’t even realise anyone was watching until the stranger spoke. In an instant, she dropped the basket, pulled the knife out of her belt, and spun around to face the Gentile. It was a young woman, about her age, with a bow and arrow pointing right at her. What good was a knife against a bow and arrow? But she held it up anyway, and bared her teeth like a wolf.

Something wasn’t right. 

The air was thick with the smell of pine. October sun beat down through the trees, casting shadows on the pine needles. Glinting off the pools of blood. They weren’t the problem. He was used to seeing blood, it was in his job description. Dexter Morgan, forensic expert, specializing in blood spatter analysis. He was no stranger to crime scenes. This body wasn’t a particularly bad one. He had seen worse, certainly. The woman half-buried in the pine needles, looked almost peaceful. 

But she was number five in six weeks. That was too many, too fast, even by his standards. And that was the real problem – this wasn’t his work. He had nothing to do with this, or the other four bodies he’d worked. There was a serial killer in Echo Springs. Another one. 

He snapped another picture with his camera. “She bled out from a single wound to the head,” he pointed out. “But she wasn’t bludgeoned. No, she was… pushed,” he said slowly, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “The killer shoved her to the ground with enough force to crack open her skull.” Which should’ve been impossible given the surrounding area. It was as if she’d fallen out of the sky. The detectives clearly shared his thoughts, and they started to murmur between themselves. 

Dexter reached for the extra camera battery, and realized it was missing. “Be right back,” he called to the detectives. He picked his way back towards the road. A small crowd had begun to gather, even all the way out here. Someone was even leaning against his car. “Sorry,” he called, a cheerful smile on his face, hiding the rising irritation in his chest. “I actually need to get in there, if you don’t mind.” 

Minnow pushed the blue material down into the water, feeling the itch wool brush sharply against her fingertips, and then let it go, and shook droplets of water from her hands, and dried them on her long turquoise skirt. She looked around at the Community -- her stepmother Vivienne cooking lunch in the pot over the fire, her father in deep conversation with the Prophet, Donna Jo weaving a basket from sticks, Deacon Timothy with a hatchet over his shoulder, heading out of the clearing to hunt. A normal day in the Community of Charlie’s chosen people.

But then, suddenly, a sound rent the air -- the sound of voices clamouring, people shouting. The Prophet looked to the treeline. Nobody spoke, or moved, until he said, “There must have been another.” Minnow stood completely still, and stared at the trees. The Devil lurked out there. That was who was killing those town folks. The Devil in human form, the Prophet said. Charlie’s enemy, just as powerful, trying to make the Gentiles blame them, trying to take them from their home, from each other. She felt a chill crawl across her skin.

“Deacon Timothy, Deacon Sean, Sister Minnow,” the Prophet said, clearly. Minnow jumped, and turned to him. “Go to the edge of the forest to discover where the commotion is coming from, and report what you have seen.” Deacon Timothy put the hatchet down against a tree, and he and Deacon Sean began to walk. Minnow stood where she was. But I don’t want to go, she wanted to say. I want to finish the laundry. But she knew she had to. It was not a question of want. So, she nodded. “Even so amen,” she said, and she followed the two men to the edge of the clearing.

There was a crowd of Gentiles at the road. That was the cause of the noise. Deacons Timothy and Sean walked ahead, and began talking earnestly to one of the police officers. Minnow didn’t want to stand out in the open like this, alone, so she headed for the car. She had not ridden in a car for over a decade. This one was shinier than the one she remembered from her childhood. She put her hands against the metal. It looked like a giant bug, like a beetle with wheels.