Читать книгу The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish - Allan Stratton - Страница 7
ОглавлениеGod’s Judgment
Eyewitness reports of the tragedy were as varied as the Gospels. Nonbelievers, outside the tent, focused on the explosion of the generator, and the sight of the eyes of God, ripped from the side of the trailer, whirling in a metallic ring of fire into the heavens. Believers within recounted visitations by the beasts of Revelation, and of electrical wires transformed to the snake of Eden spitting fire as they whipped and darted in demonic pursuit of sinners.
Most famous within this apocalyptic tradition was the account of Mr. Bud Smith, featured in the Stratford Beacon Herald. Mr. Smith declared that the Pit of Hell had opened up to the right of his lawn chair, releasing a Satanic legion of armed skeletons that he’d single-handedly dispatched with the aid of his cane. The Herald declined to report that old age had been bringing the grizzled ancient similar visions on a more or less weekly basis.
Most widely circulated, however, was the version of Mrs. Betty Wertz, written for King Features Syndicate by then cub reporter K.O. Doyle.
I SAW TIMMY BEEFORD DIE
by Mrs. Betty Wertz
As told to Mr. K.O. Doyle
It was a terrible night, the night Timmy Beeford died. Died, dead, in the Tent of the Holy Redemption!
Under the big top, the air was so hot you could bake muffins. And so high you’d swear the Bennett brains were fresh from yesterday.
Worst of all, the service was late. According to Brother Floyd Cruickshank, his partner Brother Percy Brubacher had been detained by the Lord. “That’s all very well,” said I to my Tom, “but it means we’re left suffocating in an abattoir.”
Brother Floyd could see the flock was restless. He urged a singalong. So me, Tom, and the rest of the Bethel gospel choir took to the stage with our song sheets.
No sooner had we launched into “Power in the Blood,” than a snap storm hit. Thunder and lightning to beat the band, building to the third chorus, when out of nowhere Brother Percy staggered up the aisle, soaking wet, hollering in tongues.
We have the like at church each Sunday, hands heavenward, palms up, but never before the invocation. The sounds lit the crowd like a brusher, tongue-speaking blazing through the tent. It was as if we’d been beset by demons.
I wonder if folks went strange on account of the heat or something in the mayonnaise. Whatever it was, it was madness, and above it all the squeals of a child. “Apple cider! Apple cider!”
I looked over to the boys. Timmy Beeford was standing on the front-row pew, pointing at Brother Percy with one hand, while he made the crazy sign with the other.
Right then and there, I should have marched off that stage and given those kids what-for. Instead I froze. And in the seconds that followed, I lost the chance to act forever. For I wasn’t the only one to hear wee Timmy. Brother Percy’s eyes bulged and his index finger flew forward. “THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN. EXODUS 20, VERSE 7.”
The congregation snapped to attention. A moment of silence, except for the storm. Timmy woke to the rage before him. Too late.
“WOE TO BLASPHEMERS, FOR THEY SHALL BE STRUCK DEAD, AND GREAT SHALL BE THE TERROR THEREOF!”
No doubt Brother Percy only meant to give the lad a scare. But no sooner did those words fly from his mouth than lightning hit the metal cross on top of the tent.
A roar like Armageddon. The pole split in two, cords severed, wires fried, bulbs exploded, glass sprayed, as the bolt shot down the line outside and hit the generator. An explosion. In the pitch black, the creak of bars bending! The tent was caving! Bedlam! Everywhere, a mob of screaming worshipers scrambling to escape!
I feared the boys would be crushed underfoot. A raging bear, I tore through the dark to find my cubs. Found them. Grabbed them. Carried them to safety.
But something was wrong. Timmy was a lump, as pale as the moon.
“He got tangled in wire,” Billy wailed. “It sparked something crazy. Mommy — Mommy — he’s dead!”
As God is my witness, so he was.
