Minister Tremble
Near New Orleans, Louisiana
Asleep on a cot, the old man blinked his eyes open as the prisoner gagged and convulsed on the dirt floor across the room. Late afternoon light slanted through the filthy window and left the room in dim shadow. He turned his head toward the corner where he kept the girl, her ankle chain staked to the floor to prevent escape.
His Lord's good work required a prophet. When he purchased the girl, he’d been assured she possessed a seer's ability. So far, she remained a disappointment. The girl had been Minister Tremble's guest for eight long months and not a single vision had she shared.
“What's wrong with you, girl?” The minister listened to her moan for several moments before he sat up and brushed at his dirty robe. “I already fed you, didn't I? I watered you too.”
The prisoner's back arched and she inhaled sharply. “Um—uh, uh—”
With a spryness that belied his skeletal frame, the old man sprang from his bed to the cabinet along the wall and struck a match to the lantern. He held the lamp high to illuminate the small cabin, as he squinted at the girl.
Her dress, the same she'd worn when he bought her, lay in shreds across her back, from hip to shoulder. The cutting edge of his belt had bit deep to rip material and flesh and left bloody welts on her skin. With skin, dry and peeling, and her tightly curled black hair falling out in patches, she looked closer to fifty than fifteen.
“Speak up, you witch—you succubus.” He dared approach no closer. Several times the demon within her had tempted him to couple with her. She aroused in him the desire to forget his self-imposed abstinence with visions of her naked flesh. He had beaten her, and himself, until temptation passed.
He squawked in surprise when she flipped onto her back. His mouth dropped open as her eyes rolled back in her head and tremors wracked her body.
A bloody froth ran from her mouth, across her hollowed cheeks and onto the dirt floor. Her cracked lips moved, and he edged closer, anxious to hear her words.
“Uh—mm—uh, ba... ba...” She gasped, then began again. “Be—behold the power of the—of the Twyned. Their time has come.” She choked, and a spray of blood spattered her face. After several choked breaths, she continued, “Know them by their b—birth—crowned beneath the full moon, on the witches’ High Sabbat.”
Another seizure shook the emaciated girl and the old man scampered back against the wall. This was more like what he had expected months ago. He must prepare for the coming of his Lord. He needed prophetic counsel to show him what he must do to assure a place for himself at his Lord's Table for their triumphant feast.
Her convulsion slowed. Her mouth moved several times before she spoke. “The Demon has awakened. By Fire and Earth, he shall be defeated—lest the Twyne fails—then death shall reign.” Blood filled her mouth. She became still, and her eyes dimmed.
The old man fell to his knees and gave thanks, unconcerned his seer lay dead. He had been blessed with a prophecy and the coming was nigh.
I must not hesitate to act.
He struggled to his feet and stumbled to the corner of the room, where he pulled a locked metal box from above the cupboard. The key hung on a leather string around his neck, tucked safely beneath his robes. He withdrew the key and opened the box.
With few earthly needs, his savings had grown to a respectable sum. He hoarded the donations collected each Sunday beneath his revival tent near the edge of the swamp. The old minister counted out fifty dollars then added twenty-five more. He would pay half when he commissioned the Lord's work, with the remainder paid upon completion.
He put the box away, and without a glance at the body in the corner, he stepped from the cabin into the swampland, and headed south toward town.
It was a short walk to his pirogue, a flat-bottomed canoe he kept hidden beside the bayou. Once on the water, he paddled swiftly down the channel to the canal. Another thirty minutes saw him secure his craft at the canal public dock, and shuffle down the cobbled street toward the riverfront. He had a particular riverboat in mind.
A parishioner had spoken to him last Sunday about a bounty hunter who lived in New Orleans. The church member begged prayers for the man, who played the devil's games aboard riverboats and carried the mark of Lucifer on his face. They'd even gone so far as to warn him they'd seen this gambler on Allen Tremble's boat, the minister's own cousin. Minister Tremble promised to pray for the Godless sinner, and now he intended to hire him. It would suit his purpose just fine if the spawn of Lucifer became the instrument through which he fulfilled his Lord's commands. God's way was surely mysterious.
The sun had begun to set as he hurried along the dock to the boat he believed belonged to his cousin. At the gangway to the craft, a large muscular watchman greeted patrons as they boarded the river boat.
The minister bowed his head when he made eye contact with the man, and then approached with his eyes downcast. “Excuse me, young man, could you tell me if this is Allen Tremble's boat?”
The big man, dressed in a crewman's gray uniform, regarded the ragged minister with visible disdain. “Captain Tremble is the owner of this vessel. What business do you have with him?”
“I was—that is—I heard there might be a man on board who seeks employment. I am Captain Tremble's cousin, and if the Lord wills it, I may be able to supply work for this man.”
The watchman nodded as a few passengers departed, and then returned his attention to the minister. “Do you have the name of this man, or do you want to speak with your cousin?”
“Oh, no, don't bother the captain. I would, however, like to speak with a man they call Hunter, if he’s on board. He has a notable scar on his face.”
For the next few minutes, the man ignored the minister and welcomed several people on board by name. Finally, he turned to the persistent old man, glared at him for a moment, and then waved to a crew member who stood across the gangway. The young man stepped over to the watchman who bent down to whisper in his ear.
“No,” the crewman replied. “The game hasn't started. They're waiting for the last player to arrive.”
“Fine, then. Would you tell Mr. Hunter there's an individual, dockside, who wishes to speak with him?” The watchman raised an eyebrow and cast an annoyed glance at the minister. “He says he wants to offer Mr. Hunter a job.”
The crewman nodded and disappeared inside the boat.
The watchman and the minister waited in silence and watched foot and carriage traffic along the waterfront. A rented carriage came to a stop several feet from the gangway, and a handsomely dressed gentleman stepped from the coach. He held out his hand to assist a woman from the vehicle, and then proceeded to the gangway with the young woman on his arm.
The gentleman smiled, tipped his top hat to the watchman, and presented him with a card from his vest pocket. “Samuel Kline,” the man said with a smile. “And guest.” He then proceeded up the gangway into the riverboat.
The watchman slipped the card into his pocket and looked down at the minister. “That's the last passenger.” He turned away from the old man and crossed the gangway.
“But—but—” Minister Tremble stammered as the watchman ignored him and disappeared into the dark interior of the boat. He rolled his hands and looked around for assistance or inspiration. This opportunity had been set before him, he couldn't let it pass. With a quick inhale, he tucked his chin and set foot on the gangway to follow the watchman inside. He stopped when a man appeared out of the darkened doorway.
The man stood as tall as the watchman, but wore formal evening attire. His straight black hair had been combed back and tied in a cue at the collar of his jacket. An old scar ran from the outside of his left eye to his chin, and showed pale beside his tanned skin. His dark gaze locked with the minister's as he stepped across the footbridge. “Are you the man who asked to speak with me? I don't believe we've met,” the gambler said, without hesitation.
“My name's Minister Tremble. I've been assigned a glorious task by our Lord. He has put you in my path to assist me. That is, if you are Mr. Hunter.”
The dark-haired man's eyebrow rose, and he nodded. “I am. Unfortunately, we are about to shove off. Can this glorious task wait a few more hours?”
The old man licked his lips and hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Where should I wait?” He looked around to hide his displeasure.
I must pray for patience.
“This would be up to you, monsieur.” Hunter shrugged wide shoulders and pointed up the wharf as he turned toward the boat. “You could wait at the Riverside Boarding House, two blocks east, or you could wait on the dock.” The gambler crossed the gangway, then glanced back at the minister. “We'll be back in about four hours. If you're here when I return, I'll listen to what you have to say. Au revoir.”
Minister Tremble watched the him disappear into the dark interior of the vessel. The crew pulled the gangway in and secured the entryway. The paddleboat inched away from the dock and began its slow turn into the Mississippi.
The minister watched the boat, while he recited Bible passages to himself, and repeated a portion of the seer's prophecy. “By Fire and Earth, he shall be defeated.”