Sylvia’s mouth fell open again.

“Well,” Sylvia said. “My word. I guess that could be just a coincidence that you’re misreading. That don’t rightly make her no witch. Sounds more like an angel to me if she saved that boy.”

“She was casting a spell, I tell ya. She’s a witch,” Tom said.

“She isn’t a witch,” Charles repeated and grimaced at how loud his voice had become. He stared at Tom in a manner that suggested it would be wise to no longer suggest otherwise. “Witches do evil,” Charles continued. “What you’re describing is conjuring spells that the Cherokee people used for good, not evil. They used lots of verbal formulas, or chants as you say, even some to conjure up weather. And they used herbs for medicine. Witches used herbs for poison, and evil witches like the Raven Mocker took lives instead of saving them.”

Sylvia very nearly fainted.

“My sister was only doing what was done to her as a child,” Charles said. “She wanted to help Angelica become a Cherokee priest. To do that, she had to bury her first so she could say her old self was dead and buried. After the leaves were burned she rose as a priest. That’s the way it’s always been done.”

“Why—why on earth would your sister want to do that to a child?” Sylvia asked.

Charles dropped his voice. “Because that girl, Angelica, is an identical twin, and the Cherokees believed twins had supernatural powers. They often became priests, especially the younger twin, which Angelica was.”

“Is she a witch...I mean, a priest?” Sylvia asked.

“Hmm,” Charles snorted. “That’s old superstition. The kind of thinking my sister held with. Not me, which is why I don’t see my great niece often. She doesn’t approve of my lack of faith.”

“What about them beads she carries?” Tom asked.

Charles had grown tired of the conversation. He exhaled and looked down at Tom.

“Beads and crystals were used for divination,” Charles said. “A priest would hold a black bead in the left hand to signify death or disaster and a white bead in the right hand to signify health and happiness. The beads were moved slowly between the tips of the index fingers and thumbs. The strength of the motion told the priest if the outcome in question would be favorable or unfavorable.”

The church bell rang and visibly jolted Sylvia. “Well, my word! That story and them church bells plum near stopped my heart!” She said. “We best get inside.” Sylvia and the men walked in.

Inside, eight rows of simple wooden benches divided the aisle that led the eyes to the pastor’s pulpit. Between the front pew and the pastor on the right side of the church were three more benches, each turned perpendicular to the nave of the congregation’s benches. These were for the small choir, comprised of enthusiastic, if not harmonious, mountain voices, young and old. A door on the far end behind the benches led to a small room where Angelica had dropped the girls off for Sunday School an hour before.

On the left side of the church, just below the pastor’s chancel, was a beautiful piano, a gift from the estate of the recently deceased Gladys Wilcox, who had been a member of the church for all of her ninety-four years. In that time she had reared three children, spoiled nine grandchildren, traveled once out of Rabun County and saved enough money in her snuff jars to buy the piano for the church as stipulated in her will.

Blake remembered thinking years before of how he would have made the church bigger, more fancy, if he had been consulted on the design. Even then he wasn’t really religious. He never really “got it” and felt that people went to church because they were supposed to. Because they lived in a small community and, if they didn’t, others would look down on them. So they went for the ham and egg suppers, for the potluck dinners, tried to stay awake for the sermons and wasted a good day each week, Blake thought. Some had even more time to waste as they went both Sunday morning and evening, and then again Wednesday night!

But they had something that money couldn’t buy, Blake had begun to realize. They had each other and were there to comfort one another in times of need. Blake knew that this was his time of need. He also knew he had no right to ask for help, for forgiveness. He had given nothing to the community. Had shunned it, in fact, as he pursued his own dreams selfishly. He was always too busy, he had told Angelica with a straight face, because it was largely true. But the larger truth was that he wanted nothing to do with this or any church. Sitting there made him feel uncomfortable. Angelica led him to the second row on the right side and saved a spot for the girls for when they were dismissed. Blake sat next to the aisle.

He turned to his right and looked behind, recognizing most of the faces he had grown up among. Faces both familiar and strange to him at the same time. They nodded at him in a welcoming manner, inviting him to stay and visit often with their peaceful smiles. Blake returned the nods, returned the smiles as he took in the faces, in search of comfort and reassurance. Making eye contact with friendly faces allowed Blake to feel more at ease. He stood a little taller and turned left to look for faces on the other side. Memories flooded back to him from faces that had known him all along. Faces that he had abandoned, had forgotten. A calm swept over him as he welcomed them all, feeling like a security blanket that comforted him. His eyes finished their sweep when they met the preacher, seated with his Bible in his lap with an empty chair on one side of him and the pulpit on the other.

The music began playing asking for all to rise and sing to begin the worship. Blake stood and took Angelica’s hand. As he did, the door opened from the Sunday School. The children walked out and found their parents or guardians. Walking behind the children, dressed in his clean and pressed sheriff’s uniform, was Lonnie Jacobs. Blake inhaled and held his breath as his body tensed. Shit! he said silently, his mind forgetting where his vulgar mouth was.

The sheriff walked to the front and took the empty chair next to the pastor.

What in God’s name is he doing here? Blake thought to himself, realizing the irony of his question given the setting. And then Blake remembered. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs was also Pastor Lonnie Jacobs of the Bull Creek Baptist Church. Blake had completely forgotten, only vaguely recalling the fact that Lonnie had become a pastor before being elected sheriff.

Lonnie had made the highly publicized decision to run for sheriff when Blake was in junior high, saying that ministers were in the world to make a positive difference, and what better way than to use his understanding of God’s word to take on societal problems and enforce the law. “The Lord has me here in this moment and this is how he wants to use me,” Lonnie had said in his campaign interview for the Clayton Tribune. The Atlanta Journal Constitution also covered those words and the campaign, much to the amusement of the educated masses to the south. The message would have fallen on deaf ears in most parts of the country, and certainly in Atlanta for that matter. But in the rural belly of the Bible Belt the chords of Lonnie’s calling rang true. He was elected by forty-seven votes, a landslide.

Lonnie’s eyes surveyed the room with both compassion and righteousness. His eyes met Blake’s, held them for a moment, and continued around the room. The pastor invited the congregation to be seated and began by saying what the others had already known. That they were honored to have a guest pastor that day from the other side of Rainey Mountain, who was here to spread the word of God and to deliver a special sermon. Lonnie thanked the pastor and stood before the pulpit. Blake didn’t take his eyes off him, outwardly appearing to be supremely interested in what he was saying. Inside Blake’s mind was another story as his worst fears zoomed and crashed into one another, occasionally interrupted by a poignant word or phrase from the sheriff.