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Sylvia’s mouth fell open again.
“Well,” Sylvia said. “My word. I guess that could be just a coincidence that you’re misreading. That don’t rightly make her no witch. Sounds more like an angel to me if she saved that boy.”
“She was casting a spell, I tell ya. She’s a witch,” Tom said.
“She isn’t a witch,” Charles repeated and grimaced at how loud his voice had become. He stared at Tom in a ma
Sylvia very nearly fainted.
“My sister was only doing what was done to her as a child,” Charles said. “She wanted to help Angelica become a Cherokee priest. To do that, she had to bury her first so she could say her old self was dead and buried. After the leaves were burned she rose as a priest. That’s the way it’s always been done.”
“Why—why on earth would your sister want to do that to a child?” Sylvia asked.
Charles dropped his voice. “Because that girl, Angelica, is an identical twin, and the Cherokees believed twins had supernatural powers. They often became priests, especially the younger twin, which Angelica was.”
“Is she a witch...I mean, a priest?” Sylvia asked.
“Hmm,” Charles snorted. “That’s old superstition. The kind of thinking my sister held with. Not me, which is why I don’t see my great niece often. She doesn’t approve of my lack of faith.”
“What about them beads she carries?” Tom asked.
Charles had grown tired of the conversation. He exhaled and looked down at Tom.
“Beads and crystals were used for divination,” Charles said. “A priest would hold a black bead in the left hand to signify death or disaster and a white bead in the right hand to signify health and happiness. The beads were moved slowly between the tips of the index fingers and thumbs. The strength of the motion told the priest if the outcome in question would be favorable or unfavorable.”
The church bell rang and visibly jolted Sylvia. “Well, my word! That story and them church bells plum near stopped my heart!” She said. “We best get inside.” Sylvia and the men walked in.
Inside, eight rows of simple wooden benches divided the aisle that led the eyes to the pastor’s pulpit. Between the front pew and the pastor on the right side of the church were three more benches, each turned perpendicular to the nave of the congregation’s benches. These were for the small choir, comprised of enthusiastic, if not harmonious, mountain voices, young and old. A door on the far end behind the benches led to a small room where Angelica had dropped the girls off for Sunday School an hour before.
On the left side of the church, just below the pastor’s chancel, was a beautiful piano, a gift from the estate of the recently deceased Gladys Wilcox, who had been a member of the church for all of her ninety-four years. In that time she had reared three children, spoiled nine grandchildren, traveled once out of Rabun County and saved enough money in her snuff jars to buy the piano for the church as stipulated in her will.
Blake remembered thinking years before of how he would have made the church bigger, more fancy, if he had been consulted on the design. Even then he wasn’t really religious. He never really “got it” and felt that people went to church because they were supposed to. Because they lived in a small community and, if they didn’t, others would look down on them. So they went for the ham and egg suppers, for the potluck di
But they had something that money couldn’t buy, Blake had begun to realize. They had each other and were there to comfort one another in times of need. Blake knew that this was his time of need. He also knew he had no right to ask for help, for forgiveness. He had given nothing to the community. Had shu
He turned to his right and looked behind, recognizing most of the faces he had grown up among. Faces both familiar and strange to him at the same time. They nodded at him in a welcoming ma
The music began playing asking for all to rise and sing to begin the worship. Blake stood and took Angelica’s hand. As he did, the door opened from the Sunday School. The children walked out and found their parents or guardians. Walking behind the children, dressed in his clean and pressed sheriff’s uniform, was Lo
The sheriff walked to the front and took the empty chair next to the pastor.
What in God’s name is he doing here? Blake thought to himself, realizing the irony of his question given the setting. And then Blake remembered. Sheriff Lo
Lo
Lo