Page 8 of Chapel at Ender’s Ridge (Ender’s Calling #1)

Sermons For Pigeons

S torms mostly skirted around Ender’s Ridge, but the one that night was an exception.

Safine appeared in his room at half past two, her white-nightgowned form illuminated with a flash of lightning.

Rain beat against the windows and drowned out her snoring after she curled into his bed, and Decker rested his elbow atop her shoulder, idly reading the dime novel he’d bought from the mercantile.

The stack of books leaning against his nightstand promised one more predictable mystery by the end of the night.

In the morning, Decker leaned against the knotted pine post of the veranda as he soaked in the last threads of night and witnessed Ender’s Ridge wade through the aftermath of the storm.

Daybreak brought uncommonly muggy heat for an autumn morning, and the chorus of a thousand tiny frogs echoed in the streets as if the storm had scattered them across town.

A bay mare balked at a deep puddle stretching the length of the street and stood trembling and lathered in foam before her rider dug in his heels.

She lunged forward. Hooves lost their footing on a dozen slimy creatures and the horse brayed, eyes rolling white as she leapt to the side.

Frogs scattered like leaves tossed to the wind and the mare jumped at the harsh rake of spurs across her belly, charging down the street under tight reins and stiff hindquarters.

The repeated thud of a hammer finding a meaty mark and the bitten-off curses that followed were impossible to ignore. Decker tugged his hat over his eyes and meandered off the veranda to their alley, Mr. Lane’s pleading request from the night before still fresh in his mind.

Something clattered to the wooden shingles, and Decker called out, “Morning, Mr. Lane.”

Another muffled curse, and then there were careful footsteps, like Mr. Lane was finding his way between rotted shingles before he peered over the edge of the slanted parsonage roof with his thumb clamped between teeth.

“Good morning, Decker.” He hastily dusted his hands across his mud-smeared pants. The windless air cast a sheen of sweat across his bare chest and brought the same ruddy pink to his cheeks as the night before.

Decker crossed his arms and craned his head back. “Afraid your help isn’t coming.” Cricket was still slumped across the piano, peacefully dreaming of things Decker would rather not be aware of.

“No, I didn’t expect he would after that many glasses.” The preacher stepped to the edge of the roof, crouching on his heels and resting his hands on his knees. The rain-heavy air played with his curls, teasing them into a wild bronze halo.

For claiming he wasn’t a handyman, he certainly looked the part .

Decker squinted up at him. “Are you practicing your sermons for the pigeons up there? S’pose they might listen better than some folks.”

“I almost had my first conversion before you interrupted.” A solemn smile teased at his lips and he tapped the battered shingles underneath him. “Turns out the many holes in the roof are a blessing. I got to experience the biblical flood in my bedroom last night.”

“Did God bring two of every animal?”

“Only a few rats. They made good companions while I built the ark out of my bed.” Mr. Lane grinned as he stood. “I don’t suppose you would be any help patching holes?”

The sun threatened the horizon already, drying up puddles and chasing away the incessant racket of the frogs.

With his hat tugged low over his eyes and the thin gloves in his pocket to prevent a sliver of skin from meeting the sun, he would be fine; though not for long enough to be of any use to Mr. Lane.

And I don’t want to.

“I’m afraid the heat goes to my head when I’m out too long. I’ll try and have Cricket make good on his promise,” he said.

“Let me show you around before you go.” He clambered down the ladder as if his chance would be gone before he landed.

Decker cocked his head.

Have you forgotten last night? How you begged me? And I agreed?

Feigning ignorance, he said, “If you ask nicely, Mr. Lane.”

He flashed a quick, triumphant smile before his voice dropped to a serious note. “Can I, please, give you the first look at the only chapel in Ender’s Ridge? ”

Decker’s own smile hovered about his lips as Mr. Lane unwittingly gave him the invitation he needed to enter the holy place. “Lead the way.”

Nails in planks shrieked as Mr. Lane braced himself against the bowed doors, dragging them open and unveiling the sanctuary.

Damn place looks a hundred years older.

Weak sunlight pooled on floorboards through gaps in the ceiling, filtered through bird nests strewn amongst the rafters like discarded Sunday hats.

Dust carpeted the once-orderly rows of pews and Decker absentmindedly trailed a hand along one carved edge, leaving his first mark in the chapel.

One stained glass window remained unbroken above the altar. The red angels depicted a scene of Jesus bent under the cross.

Paper ruffled under Decker’s steps. His hands would blister if he touched the shredded, mice-bitten Bible, so he moved on, careful of the rotten boards.

“The animals have made this their home since my uncle disappeared. Rodents have taken a particular liking to the floor.” Mr. Lane picked up the book and brushed off the mildewed cover with a sigh. “They have as much right to it as we do. I’m hoping we can share this place.”

“I’m sure the fine folk of Ender’s Ridge will enjoy hearing the gospel with a pigeon on their shoulder and a rat beneath their feet.” Decker murmured.

“It’s not that kind of church.”

Decker turned an inquisitive look on him as his voice echoed sharply .

“It’s—it’s not meant to be only for the fine folk. I mean this chapel to be a place for everyone,” Mr. Lane said more quietly. “A place of peace and rest where we can leave our struggles behind us when we enter these doors.”

It was a nice sentiment. Decker’s more cynical side cut it down. “What could a boy from back East know about the struggles of people here?”

“I don’t.” Sincerity laced the simpleness of the words. “But we all have our own struggles to leave behind.”

“And what’s yours?” Decker’s quiet challenge was met with the slightest raise of his chin.

Tell me, preacher. Lay yourself bare.

“I dropped out of seminary,” Mr. Lane said softly.

“When I received the news of my aunt passing and was told I was responsible for a chapel in the Dakota Territory, I booked the first train heading west. And you, Decker? What’s the struggle you leave behind?

” he asked, twisting on him as easily as he leaned against the curved edge of the pew.

The question pulled him back twenty years, when the country split and he was swept into his second war on American soil.

He could still taste the gunpowder and hear the ringing in his ears.

Ender’s Ridge was the last stop of a man named Thomas, who’d come west with him after they fought side by side.

He’d made himself a life on a ranch—and married a pretty wife.

“A lover who never was,” Decker said. He was putting it gently. The man who knew him and yet never fully understood, was the end of a series of decisions both fatal and freeing.

Mr. Lane made a sound like he understood the sort of ache that settled in his chest .

Decker’s fingers dragged a design onto the dust of the pew. “What happened at seminary?” He studied him, not expecting an answer but curiosity had won over the calculated dance they’d been performing since his arrival.

The preacher’s heart sped up, rattling in his throat— one, two, three —before he swallowed it down.

“Priests are supposed to listen to confessions, not admit them to men,” he said.

“You’re not a priest.”

“And only I am to blame for that.” His face calmed as he clutched the Bible in his hands, but Decker caught the aching sadness that flickered through him.

Red glass like his eyes glared back at him when Decker looked to the cross-bearing scene. “I hear human nature can’t be tethered for long, Mr. Lane. I find it hard to believe something like that was entirely your fault.”

He gave him a small smile. “You talk as if you aren’t human yourself.”

“In the West, sometimes it feels like we’re very different.”

“It takes a different sort of creature to brave the land and people here,” Mr. Lane said, as if he knew firsthand. “You have my apologies for anything my uncle did while he was here. I know I can’t make it right, but…I would like to try. Offer comfort, or help. Hope.”

Decker smiled thinly. “Our family’s mistakes are not our own. But you’ll forgive if most of us are not as welcoming to you. Ender’s Ridge has done just fine without any religion for years after Elias. ”

“Has it?” he asked gently. “People are dying and disappearing, and they’re not at peace even in death. I visited the old cemetery across town, and two graves have been robbed. Two, Decker.”

His back tightened.

“I’m only here to help,” Mr. Lane said.

“Religion’s brought nothing but heartache for this town.

” Decker paced to the door, casting one last glance over the rotted interior before he set his gaze on the preacher, so alive in this place of bloated death.

Old wounds sprawled open, sharpened his edges.

“You and your chapel are nothing different.”

“You’re wrong,” he said softly. “I’ll make you understand.”

And there he stood, quietly defiant in the rotted husk of faith as Decker closed the doors behind him.

Decker knew the small, dusty roads in Ender’s Ridge as intimately as the scars on his hand. Past the abandoned bank, a right at the closed barber shop with the hotel at the left led him to the ruins of the first chapel.