man thrust his saber at the sky. "No Lord Jesus! Death to Lord Jesus!"
He released a stream of sounds the likes of which the Reverend had never heard before. He felt certain the man was the devil incarnate, screaming with every intention of waking the gods— both his and theirs. The Reverend had met with fury and treachery before. He knew that to stand in the face of it, to neither turn one's cheek nor one's back but to straighten the shoulders to face one's fate, was the only way to illustrate the true strength of the Lord. He stared into the man's wild face, ignoring the spit and the curses and the swords.
Grace began to whimper and held tighter to his waist, pressing Wesley against him, too, until the child clung to his father's back like a frightened monkey.
"Please," she said, "let us alone. Take the blasted cow, we don't care. Let us be. Certainly, we have done nothing to harm you."
These words seemed to infuriate the older man beyond all else, and he threw his thick leg down over the horse. He landed with a thud on the ground, his fur boots sending up a cloud of dust. He raised his sword over Grace's head and began chanting in words the Reverend did not understand. Not words so much as sounds, rocking and keening, as if he had experienced a great loss. The older man bowed his head in soulful prayer. After a long, low moan, he looked up and clapped his hands.
The younger man appeared before the Reverend and thrust his hand into the minister's breast pocket. He snatched the white handkerchief neatly folded there. His grimy fingers held it aloft, whipping it in the breeze. The thing unfurled as he waved it in circles, and the older man laughed, although not as maniacally as before. He seemed somehow calmed by the sight of the small white flag on the breeze.
The Reverend was relieved that his wife did not insist on further communication. It was best to remain as neutral as possible. The dangerous men seemed to be releasing their fury, and perhaps that meant they would move on soon. In the meantime, the barbarians appeared positively light-hearted now. As the younger one waved the handkerchief, the two joined arms in a little dance. They each held a corner of the cloth aloft and spun around it like peasants at a festival, two simpletons rejoicing over the harvest. The Reverend managed to pat Grace's arm in feeble encouragement. The older man appeared to be humming to himself. Then, as abruptly as their prancing had begun, it ended. The older man clapped once more, and the younger man let go of his corner of the flimsy fabric and the dance was over.
The older one wiped the Reverend's handkerchief across his own perspiring forehead. He held it out before his face and inspected it. The black initials— J. W. W: John Wesley Watson— hung in the air. The man nodded in confident affirmation, although of what the Reverend could not know. Then the fellow let out a high, happy cry of triumph.
Baffling people, Grace thought as she watched the man stuff the handkerchief into one of his many pouches. As he did so, she noticed something that equally surprised her: hanging from the dirty, embroidered sack was another strip of cloth that appeared to be made of the same fine linen as her husband's handkerchief. Thin and gray from use, the edge of this other piece of fabric looked identical to the one the man's thick hands stuffed inside now.
The Reverend appeared mesmerized by this sight, too, although he did not seem concerned about the coincidence. His face remained steely and firm until Grace noticed the slight twitching of his eyebrow, a tic from his boyhood whenever self-doubt captured him. The older bandit pulled the red string on the pouch. He let out a long, satisfied sound, then looked directly at the Reverend and pointed, his eyes fierce and sure.
The Reverend suddenly whipped around and shouted at Grace. "Go, woman, get inside with Wesley and lock the doors!"
Grace heard her husband's words and wanted to obey, but her arms wouldn't let go of his sleeve. He pried her fingers off and pushed her toward the cottage. With effort, Grace finally began to move.
"Run, Grace, run!" the Reverend yelled again.
Clutching Wesley to her chest, she hurried up the rocky path in the direction of the cottage. She heard Mai Lin