The wind took the barren black branches of the trees and swung them back and forth in a kind of mad dance, a tango of bad weather to come.
They didn't know they were being bad, these soft-eyed girls with their white hands and even whiter throats-little lambs, really, innocent white lambs with their trusting, open faces. They trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He was there to save them, after all, to make sure their souls went up to heaven, instead of down there, that horrible place his mother kept talking about, where demons ate your flesh and you lived in eternal damnation.
He walked along the creek bed, stepping carefully on the stones so as not to get his feet wet. He tried to shut out the sound of his mother's voice in his head, but it was to no avail.
Samuel! Sam-u-el! Are you listening to me? They'll tear at your flesh, and you'll be forever damned-trapped down there in eternal torment! And do you know what the worst thing of all will be? You'll never get to see Jesus again! You'll be eternally banished from His presence. Think about it, Samuel. Never to see Jesus again, never to look upon His divine presence!
He did think about it. It would be too bad, he supposed. But then again, it might be a kind of relief. Jesus' eyes were so sad, so tormented. Samuel felt bad just looking at the carved figurine of Jesus, garishly painted blood dripping from His side, on the cross above his mother's bed. It was as if Jesus were begging Samuel to come save Him from torment, but he couldn't. He wanted to, but Jesus was already dead-they had already killed Him. And yet, somehow, here he was, hanging above his mother's bed, his beautiful doelike eyes begging for mercy-begging him, Samuel, for deliverance, for release from his agony.
Well, Samuel couldn't do anything about Jesus, but he could help those girls. He could release them, point them the way to eternal salvation.
He smiled. It had to be right, what he was doing, because it felt so good. He was delivering them from sin and temptation-and yes, evil. Deliver us. Deliver us. The words rang a tattoo in his head, rhythmic as a pulse. He sniffed at the air like a bird dog on a scent. The wind was blowing in from the river, carrying the smell of salt air and fossilized sea creatures. Forgive us our trespasses. Tonight he would get to work.