Page 176 of The End of the World As We Know It

Abagail was so close to death, she could feel its fetid breath on the back of her neck. Once the Devil left Jesus in the wilderness, the angels came to serve Him. Maybe they took the appearance of his ancestors. Hattie sat down next to her.

“Are you an angel?” Abagail’s voice cracked.

“I am more.”

“You’ll have to forgive an old woman for getting lost in her memories.”

“Remember well,” Hattie said. “They don’t want us to learn history so that we won’t recognize when the Devil tries to play the same ol’ tricks.”

“I still believe in His plan,” Abagail said. “A slammed door don’t mean I was wrong to knock.”

“You are saved and sanctified, filled with the Holy Spirit. But there’s a dual knowledge in your faith. You need to keep on running to see what the end gon’ be.”

“These old bones are past running.”

“But your spirit ain’t. Honor your people. Draw strength from your lineage. Be whole. Bring all of us to bear. What’s the point in us making it if we leave you behind? Keep to the old ways—they’ll always serve you.”

Abagail reached for a leaf from the Witness Tree. In its fold were fatbeads of dew. Folding the leaf, the beads became a trickle. Before she drank, she began to hum the hymn “Trust and Obey.”

“When I liberate myself, I liberate you.” Abagail poured libation for the Creator. And for her sisters. “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

She reached for other leaves and drank. Closing her eyes, Abagail held her breath and counted to three. When she opened them, the call of Boulder tugged at her soul, beckoning her home. Many were the mysteries of His perfect timing.

“I ain’t never been one to cry for too long. And I’m all out o’ tears.”

The best way to escape despair is to get back to the work. She petted the charred back of the Witness Tree.

God is great. God is good.

HE’S A RIGHTEOUS MAN

Ronald Malfi

1

“Zarah.”

She turned away from the window and saw Benjamin standing there in the doorway, haggard in the face and dressed in his cruddy, sun-faded overalls. He was clutching the handle of an aluminum bucket filled with water from the well, like some sort of peace offering. Despite his attire, Zarah knew he hadn’t been out working in the field all afternoon, but day-drinking with that Pelham fellow down by the river. She could smell the booze coming off him in waves from across the room.

“He ain’t due till late tonight,” Benjamin said. “You gonna stare out the window till then?”

She crossed the room to where a table had been dressed in smooth, white linen, and set with good china and polished silverware. There was a cluster of unlit candles at the table’s center, a mismatched assortment of whatever Zarah could find—short, squat ivory candles; tall, spear-like ones the color of blood; a hefty black stump that lookedlike it might have served a purpose in some dark, unspeakable ritual in the not-too-distant past.

There was a book on the table, as well—incongruous among the place settings and the collection of candles. A hardcover, bound in plastic film like how they used to wrap books in libraries. From where it lay on the table, Zarah could see the tobacco-colored stain of the page edges, and the way one corner of the book cover bent inward toward those pages.

Benjamin was staring at the book, too.

“Are you still angry?” she asked him.

“This whole thing is a mistake. You know my position on that.”

“The village took a vote.”

“Don’t make it right.” He came into the room, the bucket dripping little plinks of water across the hardwood floor. “These people have gone blind, Zarah. They’re all sheep. They’re all a bunch of empty shells desperate to be filled.”

“You used to think this was a good place. A safe place.”

“Don’t tell me what I think.”