Sun-Struck Eagle: Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
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It is several years since the world became fury in the eyes of the dark-haired boy. He and his brother are grown now, almost men in their own right. Near two decades of toil the hot Texas sun has shaped and sculpted their bodies into a pair of living farm tools. Their hands, torn and blistered and healed a thousand times over. Their arms, strong and sinewy. Their legs, as sturdy as cast iron. They are perfected for work on the homestead. Day-in and day-out they awake before the sun and become one with the red Texas dirt. Six days a week they work to scrape by a measly living alongside their Father. Wool and potatoes, potatoes and wool, for six days a week. But today is the seventh day, and if there is one thing that Father takes more seriously than his work, it is his church. Every Sunday he rides the family’s lone mule—a scrawny, pathetic excuse for a creature—and the boys follow in tow, on foot. Six miles there and six miles back. Every Sunday, no matter the heat, the dust, even the occasional downpour of rain. This Sunday is no different. The boys put down their shovels and pitchforks and pick up their bibles, and soon enough they find themselves sitting in the front row of the modest, pale, wooden church.
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Dust flitters in the air around the packed pews, catching small rays of sunlight that pierce through the hand-painted white boards holding up the tar-black roof of this house of God. Nearly the whole county is packed into the dilapidated structure. Elderly women in their finest dresses sit fanning themselves, new mothers bounce babies on their knees, the young folk shift nervously in their seats. The church is a bustling hive of motion and commotion. Gossip rings off the boards and echoes in hushed tones throughout—never enough to understand the full tale, but fragments that speak to some sort of scandal or perceived slight. A child out of wedlock, a fight in the bar, troubles at home. It is a concerto of noise.
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As each successive family enters through the rickety set of doors at the back of the church, the symphony grows. Louder and louder, the breath of two-dozen conversations fills the room, making it hotter and hotter. Each sentence, question, gasp, and sigh is a bellows that fans unseen flames swelling within this house of God. The Bloch family enters, and now come the MacArthurs—another dozen conversations erupt. Apparently their crop failed this year. The youngest daughter is a dullard. The father is a drunk. More instruments for the fiery orchestra. The flames leap and jump and dance around the room, spreading from pew to pew, leaving no parishioner untouched. A bout of laughter to the left, a stunned snort to the right. Sweat drips from every brow and spittle hangs from every lip. Now come the Smiths, now the O’Connells, now the Junds. There is seemingly no end to the tales of greed and jealousy and fornication. The room is ablaze; sweltering with a torrent of sin. Hotter and hotter it becomes. Noise and dust and commotion. Sweat and spit and heat. Sunlight and scandal and then, silence.
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A small, slender man rises behind the pulpit. A freeze falls upon the room. The cacophony has been killed—the entire congregation holds its breath; even the wailing newborns hush their cries in anticipation. Somewhere at the back of the church, a fly begins to buzz. Floating in between the pews, it lands on a woman’s shoulder, then takes flight and finds rest on an arm rest. It makes its way forward, from parishioner to parishioner, cutting through the deathly silence—an unawares intruder into the world of man. It makes its way to the pulpit where the preacher has taken roost. The small man takes his time. He does not look at the crowd. Head down, his wide-brimmed hat is dark as midnight, and his pristine black suit matches its hue. His white shirt is spotless. His tie clutches to his toothpick throat. The buzz of the journeying insect comes to rest just in front of him. Silence is restored. The preacher produces a large, worn bible and places it in front of him. He slowly raises his head to meet eyes with the fly, and then with his congregation. A noise escapes his lips—a whisper. All strain to hear. He whispers again—further in they lean to understand. The whisper is a question.
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Who are you? The crowd is silent.
Who are you? Louder now, it is asked.
WHO are YOU? A shout.
The crowd stiffens in response. The question rings off the boards and reverberates throughout the room. Woman, the preacher points to a young mother in the third row, who are you? Stammering, her delicate hands tear into her nails—I’m Mrs. Dolores Jund, sir. And you, he points to a man in the back—old and frail with grayed wisps of what used to be hair—who are you? Why, I’m Mr. Peter Jacobson, sir. And what about you? The preacher stretches out his hand and lays aim at a rotund woman to the left of the pews. A response spills from her rosy red jowls, I’m Misses Jane Blackwater, sir.
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Wrong. You are all wrong. All of you. The preacher’s voice is gravely and strong, radiating with surprising confidence from such a small man. You have given me your names, but none of you have told me who you are. There is a pause. I, for example, I am this fly. He gestures to the insect still perched on the precipice of the pulpit—it takes flight and buzzes up into the rafters of the church, passing through dust and sunlight that illuminate its wings as it ascends, the eyes of the congregation follow it up along its path. That, that is who I am, the gravel voice snaps all attention back to the preacher. I am that fly, that very one that you see there. I have come into your life to visit each and every one of you in your homes—in your lives—to spread His word from my wings. But, look, for the fly’s time on this Earth is not long. He shoots his finger into the air and points to the rafters where the fly now clings lazily to a rotting crossbeam. It shuffles its winds, attempts to take flight, and falls out of the air straight down to the floorboards in front of the boy Luke and his family. The crowd gasps.
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My time is limited on this Earth, too. That is why I must come to you with the buzz and fury that I do. For I have met Him and know His word, and it is I who must deliver His message to you. But, there is a question. Before you can know, HE has a question. The very same question I asked you here today my brothers and sisters. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you must look inside yourselves and tell me—tell our LORD—who are you? The preacher looks out into the crowd with wild eyes, ablaze with the conviction and furious love that only true devotion can inspire. The whites of his sunken eyes cast their gaze upon an entire county; an entire world in one room. His voice pushes dirt and dust forward from the pulpit. You are more than your names, brothers and sisters. His small frame begins to rise up from the poorly-painted off-white wood behind which he stands. You are more than your professions. You are more than your possessions. Still he rises, almost impossibly high now above the podium here his bible rests. So, tell me, children of God, who you truly are. The congregation is in a frenzy; women weep, men are raucous in their cheer. Hundreds shout their response. NO, the preacher bellows. Do not tell me here my brothers and sisters—you must show me who you are. You must show God who you are. You must prove your nature to Him.
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The riot subsides, the preacher sinks down low behind his roost, his slender, pale, neck no longer visible behind the dust-ridden bible before him. He takes a breath; silence dominates the room once again. He speaks. So, before it is too late—his eyes settle on the dead fly lain at the feet of the dark-haired boy Luke—go and prove who you are. The preacher’s gaze rises to lock with the boy. They hold for a second, maybe two. Luke breaks his stare with the preacher and looks to and through the window to his right. Somewhere in the distance a dark cloud is forming over a ridge.
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The congregation files out one-by-one outside of the pale, wooden church. The parishioners say their goodbyes—hugs and handshakes. The slim preacher produces a yellowed handkerchief form his breast pocket and wipes the dust that has caked on his sweat-drenched brow. He collects his belongings, lowers himself from the pulpit, steals another glance at the boy, and retreats through a door at the side of the church.
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Father and the two boys stay behind to pray a little longer. Barney sits silent with his eyes closed; head down with his bright golden locks covering half of his face. Father does the same; the pale lines beside the corners of his eyes where the sun has scorched him a little less now visible with his lids gently shut. Luke still gazes out through the window to his right. The storm clouds rumble closer. An armadillo buries itself in the sand. A rattlesnake finds cover under a rock. The air becomes sweet with moisture. A streak of lightning fills the sky with a pale flash. The Father and two sons make their way home amidst the downpour. That night they light their lanterns and eat potatoes and hash.