Grizz took the International out in the fields with a haybine and rack running behind it. He was late for this final cutting and in a foul mood, realizing he would likely have to buy hay from the next county over to feed his cattle through winter after the poor harvest. Haying this way took two men, normally, one to catch the bales spitting out the bine and stack them on the hayrack, the other to drive the tractor and scoop up the loose hay into the thresher, running along the even rows. Without Seth, Grizz had to stop every thirty yards or so and hand carry the tumbled bales to the rack and climb up to stack them himself—long, slow, hot work.
It took him two hours to get the first rack filled, so when he came up from the fields and saw a strange truck in his driveway, a rust-eaten Silverado, he cursed under his breath. What stepped out of the truck was not the young, boyish pastor Grizz had been expecting but an old spidery man with long arms. He was clad in a wool suit and carried a slender black briefcase.
Even after Grizz shut off the tractor it continued to hum and tick. The worst of his work awaited him. He’d have to unload the rack and shoot the bales up the conveyor belt into the hayloft, where the temperature likely broiled near one hundred degrees. It was too hot for this late in fall, the heat and drought relentless. He rinsed his face at the pump, in icy water drawn deep from the well.
“Looks like hard work,” the man said as he came toward Grizz.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said, water dripping from his beard.
The visitor introduced himself as a preacher from over in Amroy named Cyrus Easton, and when he opened his Bible and began to read to Grizz about the end of times, Grizz stopped him by setting his hand on his shoulder and squeezing hard. “You don’t even know where you are or who I am, do you? I’m Seth Fallon, and this is just outside Lone Mountain. Almost a week ago my son killed a man and then went into the corn and ate his gun. So, I’m not meaning to be rude, but you’re the last person on earth I want to talk to right now.”
The end of the world. The apocalypse. Grizz smiled, completely unhinged. What a sick sense of humor God must have to send a man like this to him on such a day.
Cyrus pulled away from him and reached into his briefcase, extracting a brochure he left in the grass rather than hand him directly. “I heard about it on the radio,” he said, softer. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’ll come back another time.” He snapped his briefcase shut and peered up at the other man expectantly. “Might be I could tell you about heaven and how it’s possible for you and your son to be among the chosen.”
“You come back here and I’ll snap your neck with my bare hands.”
“Well, okay, then,” Cyrus said, gesturing at the brochure and walking to his truck. “You can look that over.” Then he seemed to think of something important because he paused midway. “ ‘Here I tell you a mystery,” he said, lifting his voice as though he were addressing not only Grizz but the cows in the pasture and the rest of creation. “ ‘We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.’ ”
HERE I TELL YOU a mystery. Grizz had been waiting for news from the county, biding his time. He was not a man to bide time. After the little preacher man left, Grizz abandoned the rack of hay bales. Let the rain ruin them, let them rot. There were questions about Seth he had been pushing aside.
An hour later he parked his truck under the trees at the old landing. In a normal year the shade near the river hummed with bloodsuckers, but the summer of drought had palsied the oaks and stripped the cottonwoods bare. He left his truck and made for where he thought the place might be, freshly fallen leaves crackling under his boots and releasing a dusty smell, like burned cinnamon, into the grove. The river beyond was little more than a stream, so shallow he could walk across it and hardly wet his ankles.