Текст книги "Nameless"

Автор книги: Sam Starbuck

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

The boy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again with a snap, surprised. I shot Gwen a smile, leaned forward, and knocked on the kitchen door.

There was the scrape of a chair on the floor – Lucas must have been waiting in the kitchen. I could easily picture him vacillating between wanting to sit quietly and wait, or wanting to work to take his mind off things. I heard his slow footsteps before he opened the door.

"Christopher," he said, relieved. "I thought – "

His gaze flicked past my shoulder then, and I could see the barest rush of fear behind his eyes.

"Good morning, Lucas," I said. "I've brought some friends who wanted to meet you."

He recovered well. "Please, come in."

"This is Tommy and his daughter Gweniveve – "

"Call me Gwen," she said easily.

"And you know the kid," I added with a grin.

"H'lo," Lucas mumbled, ducking his head.

"Pleasure," Tommy said, and Gwen held out her hand. Lucas wiped his palms on the tail of his shirt, then looked horrified at his own actions and shook her hand hastily.

"I don't suppose, being new, you'll have heard about us," Gwen said, as Lucas withdrew far enough to let us in and close the door.

"No – no," Lucas confessed. "Are you, uh, staying long?"

"A bit," Tommy said. "Not through the winter."

"Being the local land-owner and all, we thought we'd come say hello, ask permission to stay," Gwen announced. Tommy frowned at her.

"It's, uh, it's not my land," Lucas stammered. "I just pay rent. I don't even pay rent on the field."

"Well, better to ask," Gwen replied. "We're in sight of your windows, after all."

"It isn't my place to say," Lucas murmured.

"Do you have visitors often?" Tommy asked.

"Not to speak of. Christopher and the boy, of course," Lucas said, and then blurted, "I don't care, honestly, I don't think you'll rob me and I haven't got anything worth stealing anyway."

Tommy and Gwen glanced at each other before bursting out laughing. The boy elbowed Lucas in the ribs.

"It's all right, Lucas. They know," I said gently.

"Just...so that you do," Lucas continued, flushing red.

"There's no reason to be scared of us," Gwen said. "Or worry overmuch about our opinion. That's something land-owners do."

Lucas looked at her, shy still but no longer paralyzed by it. "I suppose it doesn't matter as much when you don't have the same neighbors from one day to the next."

"Was on the tip of my tongue to say," Tommy agreed. "You could learn from him, Christopher."

"I already have," I agreed.

"We're told you're an artist," Gwen continued. "Do you barter at all? Or are you wealthy already?"

"I...never have but I could, I guess. Would you....would you like to see?" Lucas asked, gesturing to the doorway into his workshop. Tommy, already standing near the door, leaned through with interest, Gwen bending around his shoulder.

"Ooo-ho," Tommy said, impressed. "Did you make all of those?"

"All but a few," Lucas replied, as they stepped into the workshop. He followed them, the boy pushing ahead, and I stood in the doorway and watched, pleased.

"You must spend a fair amount of time at work," Tommy observed, reaching up to one long rope of masks and pushing it gently to make it sway.

"Most of my time, usually. Less, in the past week or two," Lucas replied. Gwen reached out for one of the barely-finished masks on the table. "Watch the paint, it's still wet."

She carefully balanced the edges of the mask on her fingertips, admiring it. I don't remember what question she asked him, but it led to another and another – both her and Tommy peppering him with inquiries about his craft and his materials, while the boy played with leather scraps and glue at one of the tables, avoiding looking directly at any of the masks.

With every sentence, the tension in Lucas's shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. His voice settled down from a tight, nervous tone into his natural register, and he started moving quickly among the worktables, fear forgotten as he picked up other masks or materials to show them. The Socrates mask had been finished – it looked splendid, haloed in dried and preserved hemlock.

"That man is born Friendly," Tommy said to me in an undertone, as Gwen admired Socrates. "Some fool's ruined him, is all."

"Ruined him?" I asked.

"Some teacher. Or his father, maybe. Could be natural temperament, I suppose, but he likes to sell his wares."

"He likes to talk about his masks. That's different."

"Not to my family," Tommy replied. "Nor to him. Lucas!"

"Yes?" Lucas asked, looking up from the mask.

"Are you in need of any cold-weather clothing?" Tommy asked. "We make our own and sell it. Also carven wood toys, some leather working, some food. Rabbits and chickens for cooking."

"You want masks?" Lucas gave Gwen a confused look. "What for?"

"Well, for beauty's sake, and they'll sell well," she said, beaming at him.

"I could use a new coat," he said, a little self-consciousness creeping back in. "Would that be expensive?"

"Not for you," Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Come down to camp this evening and we'll fit you."

"Oh I – I could do that," Lucas agreed. Gwen picked up a half-finished mask – clay, on a wire armature – and laughed at the puff-cheeked face on it. Lucas took it, pointing out details to her, even smiling a little. He'd taken to Gwen much faster than anyone else he'd met, myself included.

I had a moment of concern that it was Gwen, and not the Friendly, which interested him and made him forget himself for a while. Little good comes of land-owners chasing after pretty Friendly girls. They're like the old stories about selkies: they might stay awhile if they liked the look of you, but it was never for life. To enjoy the idea of the Friendly was fine, but it was dangerous to take their easygoing affection too personally.

I shouldn't have worried. Lucas protected his heart well. He was interested in love, I think, in the way we express and attract it – but he didn't really see that he had a share in it. As fascinated and confused by people as he was – the way they came together , the way they cared for each other – his was almost always the quiet, studious analysis of an outsider.

Chapter SEVEN

As the winter grew colder, an increasing number of people in Low Ferry began to appear in the distinctive, colorful coats and hats that the Friendly made, either newly-purchased or taken down out of storage from previous years. They were beautiful pieces of work, well worth the cost: double-layer gloves with buttery leather on the palms, quilted coats decorated with brass buttons and fleecy lining, straps covered in beads and bells that fitted over snow-boots to make them look more festive. The Friendly would sell for cash or barter for goods, and for a small fee would tailor the clothing too.

A few days after the Friendly arrived, Nona Harrison had her twin babies. We'd tried to get her into town for it, but they came a little early and caught us all by surprise. Kirchner was only about halfway to the farm when they were born, but fortunately Low Ferry had a midwife who lived out that way, and Bertha looked after Nona just fine. It's pretty common for winter babies to be home births, which is why there aren't too many of them if it can be avoided. Both babies were healthy and we expected the population of Low Ferry to increase by two, but...it didn't, quite.

"Did you know Bertha?" Paula asked me, when the news finally hit town. "She wasn't born here, you know, came out in the seventies my dad says. I think she was a hippie."

"More of her than know her, she's not a big reader," I answered, toying with the edge of the receipt-paper where it stuck out of the till. "Wasn't a big reader, I mean."

"It's terrible she died, but everyone's sort of thinking it..."

"At least it wasn't Nona or the babies?" I said with a grim smile.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm sorry to lose Bertha, but it's always harder when a baby dies. I'm glad Nona's boys are healthy."

"Well," I said, and then stopped and glanced away.

"What?"

"Have you heard people talking about them?" I asked.

"About the boys? Not much, why?"

"Listen, I don't believe this, you know I'm a practical guy. But I don't exactly set policy in the village. People sort of...they think there's something wrong with them. Spiritually."

Paula cocked her head. "Really? Why?"

"I don't know exactly, but Kirchner's been out to see Nona and he says she's not doing as well as she could be. Steve Harrison says he's worried about his wife. None of the women from the church will go out there. I think they think the babies killed Bertha."

"Killed her!"

"Well, she did die at the Harrison place, and it wasn't very long after the babies were born. I'm only telling you what I've heard," I said, as Lucas and the boy entered the shop. I put a finger to my lips and Paula nodded. Lucas hung his coat up on a hook near the door, gave Paula a shy nod, and vanished into the shelves. The boy examined the comic books critically.

"When are you getting new ones?" he demanded.

"The roads are out, kiddo," I answered. "Unless they're planning on airlifting comic books in, it'll probably be another week. Buy a real book, feed your mind."

"My mind's full already," he replied.

"No such thing," Paula ruffled his hair and gave me a nod. "See you around, Christopher."

"You know where to find me," I said. When the door closed behind her, I called, "She's gone now, Lucas, you can come out."

He gave me a sheepish smile around the corner of a bookshelf. "Force of habit."

"No skin off my nose. Nice coat, by the way – is that the one Gwen and Tommy sold you?" I asked, coming around the counter to examine it. It was thick and gray, with black hook-and-eye fastenings and a soft black lining on the pockets and hood. He gave me a proud nod.

"I gave them eight masks for it, promised two more," he said. "Cheap at the price."

"Ten masks will sell for a lot, though – what did they ask you for?"

He gave me a blank look. "Ten masks."

"You didn't haggle?"

"No...should I have?"

"Well, yes. It's expected."

"Ah," he said. "That explains why Gwen looked at me funny."

"Undoubtedly," I said, letting the coat fall back against the wall again.

"Doesn't matter. I feel like I got a fair price and it's not like the masks were doing me any good."

"Any news today?" the boy interrupted, leaning his elbows on my counter. I ducked back behind it.

"Nothing for your tender ears," I answered. "Unless you hadn't heard about Bertha."

"I heard she died," the boy said.

"And I've heard half-a-dozen rumors about it, but I'm not believing any of them yet," I said.

"I wouldn't take your job for the world, Christopher," Lucas told me.

"Well, it isn't for everyone," I allowed. "How can I help you today? Or are we just browsing?"

"We've just been visiting the Friendly," the boy said.

"Oh yes?" I asked.

"They want you to come have dinner. There's a big meal," he added. I glanced at Lucas, who coughed.

"Gwen said they'd like to see you at the camp," he said. "And their storyteller specifically asked about you. He wasn't happy he'd missed you when you visited earlier."

"Well, of course I'll come," I replied. "When did they say they were having it?"

Lucas and the boy exchanged a look.

"In about forty minutes," Lucas said. "Sorry about the short notice."

"Typical Friendly." I grinned. "You two keep an eye on the shop while I get my coat, all right?"

I ran up the stairs and fetched down a coat that I was given two years before – it had been pressed on me by one of Tommy's sisters, who insisted I should be paid for driving Kirchner out to save young Benjamin. Gwen said the blue brought out my eyes, but sometimes I felt it was almost too bright – like when I was walking out to The Pines with Lucas in his deep gray and the boy in a black store-bought parka. Still, the Friendly would be pleased to see me in it and it was excellent insulation against the cold.

By the time we reached the edge of town we could see thin columns of smoke rising from the cooking fires, smudging dark against an already gray sky. The trailers and cars had been arranged in a loose three-quarters circle, designed to block as much wind as possible, and it worked remarkably well: there was a moment when we passed into camp and actually felt the temperature change, the wall of warmer air enveloping us.

Gwen and Tommy greeted us with shouts, and ten-year-old Benjamin tackled me around the waist.

"You didn't say hi last time," he said. "Storyteller's mad with you."

"You big liar, no he isn't," I answered. "I had very important business to attend to. Hi, scrawny, you're growing up too fast."

"Welcome back," he grinned, before grabbing my hand to haul me over to one of the fires. Several chickens were roasting on spits over it, and a nearby flame had potatoes boiling in an enormous pot. With a wave for me, Benjamin ran off.

Seated in front of the many spit-handles was an older man with a hawk-like nose and bushy white eyebrows, a cane hung on the back of his folding chair. He was wrapped in a few layers of blankets and looked like a king surveying his lands.

"Christopher," I said, bending to shake his hand. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Christopher," he replied with a grin. "Come sit with an old man. I didn't see you when we made camp."

"I snuck in," I said.

"And I was hiding from being put to work," he answered. "You, boys, you two, come here," he added to Lucas and the boy. "Can't have too much company when you're doing nothing. Keeps me from being interrupted."

"I don't believe a word of it," I said. "You're managing the whole family from your seat next to the chickens, storyteller."

"If only I had such power," he chuckled. "Come here, Lucas, sit by me if you please."

I dusted off a low wooden bench and sat down on it, the boy claiming the rest for himself in a sprawl. Lucas followed the other Christopher's gesture and sat next to him, perching unsteadily on a rickety folding chair.

"Unlike you, your friend is a very intent young scholar," Christopher said to me. "He comes every day to listen to me babble. He has, if nothing else, learned how to sit very still."

"I'm not surprised," I answered. "Lucas likes to listen. And I'd have come out sooner if I could get away, but the shop – "

"Oh, don't talk to me about shops!" Christopher laughed. "You should have come sooner, Saint."

"I'm here now," I pointed out.

"So you are. With many new stories to tell me, I imagine."

"A few," I said. "What about you?"

"Oh, lad," he said. "You should know by now all my stories are the same."

"Well, we'll see," I said. "Did Lucas tell you he played the Fire Man at Halloween this year?"

Christopher turned his shaggy head to Lucas. "He did not. Nor did you," he added to the boy. "Now, what's all this? You're not ashamed, Lucas? It's a sacred duty, you know."

"Never really came up," Lucas mumbled.

"Well, I suppose it's not to be taken or talked of lightly, but still. You should have told me," he said to the boy. "I wish we had come early enough to see it, but sometimes fate bars the way. I remember the Straw Bear from last year, though – and many years before that. We always like to come to Low Ferry for the celebration."

"We're your favorite," the boy suggested.

"Because of the Straw Bear? Well, there are other villages and even some with other festivals, but none so...potent as yours. It's good to drive out the evil before the winter starts."

"Drive out the evil," I repeated, laughing. He fixed me with a sober look.

"People are kept too closely together when the snow binds them up, especially land-owners. If there's poison, that's when you'll see it seep out. Disputes between neighbors, between a husband and wife – accusations of theft and ill intent. And in other times witchcraft, too."

"What does the Straw Bear do about it, though?" the boy asked.

"A Straw Bear," Christopher said, leaning forward, "is the spirit of evil, wrapped round a man's soul. That's why you burn the straw, you know – you take the evil away and purify it. And that's our young Fire Man there, taking joy in the purifying. And Saint Christopher too, I'd bet."

"I've never been Fire Man," I said. "It's just something fun to do on Halloween."

"Mmh, still the skeptic," he said, fixing me with a steady look. "But you had your part to play regardless."

"Oh? And what was that?" I asked.

"You carried the evil away yourself."

"Christopher!" I laughed again. "I see the boy's been telling you stories."

"But you did," the storyteller insisted. "There are times it goes into a person, deep in – "

"Are you saying I'm evil?" I cocked an eyebrow.

"No," he said, with the air of a patient parent trying to talk sense with a child. "The evils of a place. They can go into a person, but a good soul throws them off again. You have a good soul, Christopher. You carry your burdens, just like your namesake. Our namesake."

"The evil went into him?" the boy asked excitedly. He looked at me, apparently expecting my head to burst into flames.

"And out again. We're told your heart gave way," Christopher said, leaning in to examine my face.

"It's an old problem. Not worth a mention," I said.

Christopher eyed me for a while, but then he leaned back and looked at the boy.

"A long time ago," he said, with the skill and cadence that made him the caravan's storyteller, "winter was a frightening time. Not like your books say," he added to Lucas, "not because they were afraid the spring wouldn't come again. They weren't fools, and they understood the cycle of time and nature. They knew spring would come. How long the spring took in the coming, what their fortunes would be when it came, whether they would survive the winter peacefully... that was frightening, eh? Uncertainty scares us. Makes us wary of each other, makes us selfish. People think they made sacrifices to please the gods, but I don't believe it. Farmers are pragmatists, like us – they have to be."

"Then why?" Lucas asked.

"Exorcism. Freedom from fear. I think a strong man took the whole of the burden of the people on himself and died to rid them of it." Christopher shook a finger at me when I opened my mouth. "I know what you think, Saint, that it's fairy tales from old men and superstitions for the gullible. We've had that argument. But you died all the same."

"The Friendly are mystics, Lucas," I said, grinning at Christopher's solemn expression. "They believe in things like curses and ghosts and the occasional god."

Lucas just gazed back at me gravely and nodded. It made me feel small, to have ridiculed an old man and expected Lucas to join in. Christopher, on the other hand, paid us no mind.

"We believe what we have reason to believe. You stay in one place for so long, you land-owners, but out in the world you might see things your books can't explain," he said. "It hurts no-one for me to believe, and helps no-one for you to be skeptical."

"No, perhaps not," I agreed. The boy's eyes were round as saucers, staring at him. Lucas looked intently thoughtful, as if an idea had just occurred to him.

"So there's no more evil to chase out this winter?" I asked indulgently.

"Not in Low Ferry," Christopher replied, smiling back. "Perhaps there will be, in time. We've heard things."

"You've heard about the twins," I said. "And Bertha."

"Two baby boys born hard when the roads were closed, the midwife dead not long after. I imagine such a thing frets at a mother."

"She'll get over it, she can't worry forever."

"Where children are concerned," Christopher said, "one can always worry. Still, things will sort themselves out," he added, standing with a grunt. "Come along. Dinner's ready."

We ate with the rest of the Friendly gathering around, elbow-to-elbow with us for the warmth the fires could give. They talked about the next village they were headed for when they broke camp at Low Ferry, and the likelihood of the roads being passable soon. Gwen mentioned that Lucas had fixed his roof himself – I don't know when he told her that – and that led to a debate about the best methods for insulating trailers and cars against the cold.

The Friendly are one of the few traveling clans that don't find a place to settle for the coldest winter months, but of course that gives them an advantage: they can sell their goods all summer and all winter too. And if sometimes the wind howled against the thin walls and the snow piled dangerously high against the wheels, that was only the way their life was. As charming as a road-bound existence might seem to land-owners, it takes a certain sort of mind to live the way they do.

That night there were fires and blankets to keep out the chill, stories told around the circle and plenty of good food – chicken and potatoes but also cheese and fresh bread, ginger cookies with jam, coffee and chocolate. Lucas seemed to enjoy himself, and I had no complaints. When we left, him for the cottage and me to walk the boy back to Low Ferry, he was as happy as I think I'd ever seen him.

***

Thanksgiving was not far off, and I wasn't surprised when the pastor of the Low Ferry congregation appeared in my shop the next day, with a handbill for the church's holiday dinner. What did surprise me was what else was on the program.

"Prayer meeting, Richard?" I said, looking down at it. "For the Harrisons?"

"I thought I'd tell you first," he confided. "I know you speak to everyone, Christopher, so I hope you'll spread the word about that, too."

"What, like an exorcism?" I asked, looking up at him. He looked uncomfortable.

"Well, no, just some praying, and maybe a few hymns. And the baptism, naturally."

"That's probably good," I said. "You're a nice guy and all but you don't strike me as someone who's very experienced at wrestling demons for the souls of men."

He laughed. "You've got me there. It wasn't my idea, actually – some of the elders thought it'd settle her mind, not to mention her husband's."

"Did you ask them about it first?"

"Steve thought it would be a good idea. She's too tired to think much of anything, I imagine."

"What do you think about it?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. Doctrinally, of course, possessed babies are absurd. But there's a fine line between religion and sociology sometimes. Whether some malignant spirit has hold of them doesn't matter so much in the face of whether their parents believe it's true."

"You'd have made a good atheist," I said. He laughed.

"You'd have made a fine preacher. But I think we're both better where we are," he added. "Don't forget to spread the word."

"Got it all right here," I said, holding up the handbill. "See you on Thanksgiving."

Most of Low Ferry, if you ask them to remember that winter, will remember a few isolated incidents. My collapse on Halloween, unfortunately, is one of them. Another is the prayer meeting for the Harrisons, although a significant minority will remember that it was also the winter that Charles and Richard decided, in their infinite wisdom, to deep-fry the Thanksgiving turkeys for the church dinner.

"How bad do you suppose this is going to be?" Lucas whispered to me, as most of the village stood around the church parking lot in the cold, hands tucked in our armpits, stomping our feet to keep warm. In the middle of the throng stood two enormous metal drums with electric burners glowing bright red beneath them.

"Oh, no, there's no way this is going to be bad," I said. "Either we're going to be eating fried turkey for dinner or we're going to watch two grown men set themselves on fire. It's really win-win, if you ask me."

"I heard that if you try to fry a frozen turkey it can explode," the boy said placidly, standing next to Lucas. In front of us, Richard and Charles had each picked up their turkey by the thick bailing wire tied around their legs.

"Ready?" Charles said cheerfully. "On three!"

Several parents pulled their children further back, and the edges of the crowd withdrew slightly. Paula, standing behind me, grabbed the back of my shirt and tried to pull me away.

"Don't faint again!" she hissed.

"I'm not going to faint!" I retorted.

"One! Two! Three!"

They lowered the turkeys in unison into the oil, which immediately began to spit and hiss. There was an ungratifying lack of fire, however, and once both Charles and Richard had released the wire and stepped back from the frying drums we all decided that watching turkeys fry was a lot less entertaining than watching them explode. Nearly everyone wandered back into the church fairly quickly.

Fried turkey is actually very good.

We were in joyful spirits that evening, between the successful turkeys and the rest of the meal. Even Lucas smiled at the jokes running around our portion of the communal table, and actually spoke to Carmen long enough to ask for the mashed potatoes and agree that the gravy was good. Technically there shouldn't have been any alcohol, but several battered flasks circulated under the tables while the good Pastor Richard turned an indulgently blind eye.

"So," Carmen said to Sara, a middle-aged woman who ran a dairy outside of town. "What are we thankful for?"

"Safe cattle and good milk," Sara replied.

"No major repairs to the industrial dishwasher," Carmen agreed.

"Snow days!" the boy insisted, and glanced at me.

I shrugged. "Good company and good health? Lucas?"

Lucas, caught with his mouth full of pumpkin pie, tried to indicate that he was chewing. Carmen laughed, then subsided quickly when he flinched. He swallowed hastily.

"Dry roofs," he said.

"Amen!" Sara toasted him with her plastic water-glass, and turned to their next victim. I kept eating, unaware for a second that Lucas had leaned towards me.

"You, alive," he whispered in my ear.

"Take it for granted. I'll be around a while," I answered.

"Excuse me," Richard called, standing at the front of the room and clapping his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we are all grateful for this food we've received – if I could have a brief round of applause for the Farmer's Association and the Low Ferry Christian Ladies' Committee – "

He was interrupted by the requested accolades, with hoots and cheers from some of the rowdier participants.

" – thank you. And of course, the giver of plenty..." he jerked his thumb towards the ceiling, getting a round of laughter.

"I hope he's not going to ruin everything with a sermon," Carmen whispered across the table.

"He hasn't yet," I whispered back.

"Now, as many of you know we are holding a prayer meeting in the sanctuary tonight, not only to give proper thanks for the bounty visited on Low Ferry this year but also to pray for the Harrison family. As you may know," he said over a wave of low muttering, "we are already concerned for their wellbeing, considering how their welcome arrival into this world was followed closely by a loss to our village family. If you'd like to join me upstairs in about fifteen minutes, we will be saying a prayer for the children, followed by a christening for both little Abe and little Noah."

"Well, they didn't pick those out of a Bible or anything, did they?" Paula observed.

"Faithful men of God. No, no symbolism there," I agreed, folding my napkin. "Care to accompany me to the symbolic naming ritual and ceremonial placebo for emotional unrest?"

"Don't mind if I do, Christopher."

"Excellent. Lucas?"

"Of course," he said.

People drifted into the sanctuary in twos and threes, casually, as if they hadn't really meant to attend, they just sort of found themselves there. Nobody in town would have missed it. Things like this, especially if something amazing happens, are talk of the town for months and years to come. I'd have laid money that they'd still be talking about me collapsing at Halloween when Noah and Abe Harrison were starting high school.

I lost Lucas for a moment in the crowd gathered at the side-entrance to the chapel, then gave up as one of the older townspeople asked for help pushing through to get to a pew. When I went to find Lucas again he had retreated to the back of the high-ceilinged sanctuary and was staring out the wide windows on the front door.

"What do you see?" I asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Guests," he answered, pointing through the glass.

There was the glimmer of headlights in the dark, moving up the main street. At first I could only see two or three cars, but eventually more appeared behind them, until I wondered how many people could possibly have missed the Low Ferry Thanksgiving extravaganza but still be attending the prayer meeting.

Then I realized whose cars they were, as they began to pull into the little turnaround in front of the church and park haphazardly wherever there was room.

"Richard," I called over my shoulder. He was struggling into his vestments at the front of the room, but he lifted his head and gave me a questioning look. "You might want to come say hello to a few people."

The rest of the village drew close and Richard had to push through the crowd somewhat. I stood aside so he could see. The Friendly were just climbing out of their cars. Gwen, I saw, was helping Christopher out of a back seat.

"Are they Christians?" Richard asked. "They've never come to church before."

"I honestly don't know," I replied. "They call me Saint but I don't think that means much."

"Well, it hardly matters, I guess. You aren't Christian either, after all," Richard winked at me. "Go on, Lucas, open the door."

Lucas silently swung the door open, and Richard walked out into the cold. I followed, and Lucas darted through – probably to escape the onlookers inside.

"Good evening," Richard said, meeting them on the steps. Tommy and Pete were in front, most of the Friendly families behind, and Gwen was with a knot of young men and women further back. Even the children were there.

"Evening, Reverend," Christopher said, making his way arthritically up the steps.

"Call me Richard, please," Richard said, holding out a hand. Christopher took it gratefully and hauled himself up the last few steps. "What can Low Ferry do for you this evening?"

"Won't mince words," Tommy said, joining Christopher on the landing outside the front door. "We've come about the boys."