Rook just smiled. “So you put my behaviour down to influence,” he said, “rather than free will; frankly, I don’t know whether to be flattered, or insulted. Layin’ my liaison with Chess aside, though — you told the papers what you objected to most was me quotin’ God’s word for the Devil’s purpose
s. But we both know no Christian performing miracles through gospel does it by Satan’s power. Jesus said, ‘Do not stop him, for no one who does a mighty work in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. For the one who is not against us is for us.’”
“Mark nine, thirty-eight to forty — which makes you a Continuationalist, Mister Rook? Tongues and prophecy will only cease when Jesus returns?” Leaning closer, at Rook’s nod: “Yet ‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are as ravening wolves . . . A healthy tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a diseased tree bear good fruit.’ And ‘Every tree that does not bear good fruit is to be cut down and thrown into the fire.’”
“Matthew seven, fifteen to ninteen. A fine counter-argument, from the Cessationalist view — and son, that’s equal-fine load of pride you’re carryin’ there, even without the Good Book to back it up. Hell, it’s sorta like lookin’ in a mirror, give or take the sodomy.”
Again, cries rose up — and again, the wind Rook could barely recall summoning whipped up along with it, cutting Love, Rook and Chess out in a wedge from the rest of Bewelcome’s herd, then circling tightly ’round them, on endless patrol. Love’s woman ducked under Tree-trunk’s arm, wrapping her baby closer, while those few congregationalists who tried pulling their pastor free of his dimly rotating cocoon got their fingers well-sanded, for their troubles.
“Where’re the rest of your men, Mister Rook?” Love asked him, the noise alone enough to render their conversation extra-intimate.
“Not too far. One or two might already have beads on that wife of yours.”
“Then this should probably be kept between you and me, wouldn’t you say?”
“As ‘gentlemen’?” Rook gave out a true belly-laugh, at the idea. “Sheriff, you don’t have one touch of hexation in you, or I’d’ve smelled it by now. We tangle, I’ll crush you like an egg.”
“You’re forgetting — these folk are in my charge, as minister for this town, which makes it up to me to defend them. ’Sides which . . . I have the Lord, on my side.”
“Uh huh. Well, you’re young still — but in matters of answered prayers, I think you’ll find God most often has nothin’ much of import to say back, savin’ the occasional ‘I told you so.’”
Love studied Rook, almost sympathetically.
“He does to me,” was all he said.
Rook sighed. To Chess: “Step back, darlin’.”
Chess looked mutinous, but did it.
“At least throw me your guns,” he complained. “Ain’t like you need ’em!”
Rook did.
He turned to face Mesach Love head on, both hands rising to assume an arcane, unlearned posture — entirely intuited, each individual finger snake-crooked to spit, or strike. Only to realize Love was already doing something similar, in reply — hands first tented to bless, then canted forelong so he could sight at Rook over his own linked thumbs, a two-fisted shooting stance with no bullets behind it but those faith alone might supply.
Rook felt a tweak of sympathy himself, at the sight: I’m somewhat going to hate having to kill this up-stood fool, if he makes me . . .
“Ready, ‘Reverend’?”
“On your mark.”
They squared their shoulders as one, two stags in rut, and laid straight on into it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sand was a moving wall all around them now, and Rook felt the Word come up through him in a wave, not even consciously summoned. It spilled silver-black and wickedly sharp-edged from his open mouth, a flood of sickness fit only to burn and scald.
Then was brought unto him one possessed with a devil, blind, and dumb: and he healed him . . .
. . . But when the Pharisees heard it, they said, This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub the prince of the devils.
And Jesus . . . said unto them . . .
. . . if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself. How shall then his kingdom stand?
(Matthew twelve, twenty-two to twenty-six.)
He’d pictured it hitting Love in a swarm, eating that holier-than-thou snarl off his face. But Love stood firm. Spitting back, from the very same chapter: “O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? For an evil man out of . . . evil . . . bringeth forth evil things.”