Page 18 of Brimstone Hollow

“No,” he says. “I was at the school with the other committee members the rest of the evening helping organize everything. I never came back. Not until…”

“Saturday morning?”

He nods, clenching his jaw shut as if trying to hold back tears.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you.”

Another nod.

“Were you the assistant pastor?”

“Not officially,” Will says. “But, yes, that’s how it worked out. I started coming here when I was a boy. Brother Ezra helped provide tuition for a special church camp one summer and it changed my life. When I got back, I started leading the children’s Sunday school classes and, sometimes, the Bible study. Then I started helping with the outreach programs. Eventually, Brother Ezra suggested that I go to Bible college.”

“And that’s what you did?”

He nods.

“And then I came back here last year and started doing services whenever Brother Ezra couldn’t. When he was away on one of his ministry trips or if he was under the weather.”

“So, you’ll be taking over now?”

“I guess so,” he finally says, tears in his voice as he stares at the floor. “Brother Ezra always used to say that the church would be mine whenever he was ready to retire but… neither of us ever thought it would be so soon.”

He shakes his head, runs a long-fingered hand through his big curls, raking them away from his face. They fall back into place as he slumps and says, “It’s… it’s a big responsibility, leading a congregation. And… the tent revivals? I don’t even have the first idea how Brother Ezra handled that side of things. That’s where he did most of his snake handling, most of his faith healing.”

“Where did he go?” I ask.

“All over,” Will says. “All over Eastern Kentucky, parts of West Virginia, down through Virginia into North and South Carolina. Eastern Tennessee, even down to Georgia sometimes.”

I look away from him, back toward the piano, the altar, the stage, the pulpit.

“Can you think of anyone who wished Ezra harm?”

His eyes widen and his lips part in stunned surprise.

“What?” he says. “No. Brother Ezra was beloved in this community. His good works speak for themselves. You heard it for yourself tonight in the testimonies. I’m so, so sorry for his daughter. But, I can’t imagine how she would—whyshe would be suspicious. I know it’s a little quick for a funeral, but with natural burials…”

“No,” I say. “It isn’t that.”

I pause a moment, then tell him, “Katie had a vision. She saw her father in a dream—dying—and then woke and saw a hand writing on the wall. Only moments later, she got the phone call about his death.”

“A… hand writing on the wall?” Will asks, his brow furrowing.

“It means something to you,” I say. “I mean, beyond the common cliché.”

“The saying comes from the Bible,” Will says. “A story in the book of Daniel.”

“Will you tell it to me?” I ask.

I watch him, struggling with his exhaustion, his grief. In the end, it’s his call to the pulpit that finally wins out.

“The basic story,” Will says, “is that a king—Belshazzar—had risen to power and grown very rich and very proud. He hosted a feast where they drank from gold and silver vessels stolen from the Jewish temples. Suddenly, a hand appeared and wrote a message on the plaster of the wall. Neither the king nor any of his party nor any of his wizards or wise men could read what the words said. It was then that Daniel—a man of integrity and faith—was brought before them. He alone could read the words and, though the truth might have cost him his life, Daniel translated the message honestly.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

Will pauses, takes a deep breath, and then says, “In essence, it said that God had weighed Belshazzar’s deeds, found him wanting, and numbered the days of his kingdom. Belshazzar was killed that very night.”

The king has been judged. His kingdom is no more.