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The words poured out of Isaiah. “Your bank is gonna fail, mister. You’re going to lose all your money. Every cent. You’ll jump from the roof of a high building and smash yourself down below.”
The man yanked his hand free. Isaiah felt dizzy. Theta was running toward him. The man’s face was scared and angry. “Are you one of them?”
“Come on, Isaiah. Let’s go,” Theta said, cursing herself for using Isaiah’s real name.
“I couldn’t help it, Theta,” Isaiah was saying. Theta had pulled him into the dressing tent, where she sponged his face with cool water.
“Don’t worry,” Theta said. “I can’t always control mine, either.”
Theta wrung out the sponge and returned to her compartment. Once again, there were dried leaves and flower petals all over the floor. Furious, Theta swept up a handful of the crumbling petals and marched off the train, straight over to Evie, who was still decked out in her clown costume and talking to Sam. “Okay. The first coupla times were mildly funny, Evil. Not anymore,” Theta fumed. She shoved the handful of dead flowers into Evie’s hand. “If you’re going to drag half the forest into our compartment, can you clean up after yourself? I’m not your maid.”
“Theta, what’s eating you?” Sam asked.
“Stay outta this, Lloyd. This is between me and Evil.”
“Honestly, Theta. I haven’t the foggiest.”
“You didn’t put those in our compartment as some kinda prank?” Theta said.
“On the level, no,” Evie said.
“Well, then who did?”
SERMON
Viola Campbell strode through the land of the dead in her blue-black coat of many feathers. All were sleeping here, having given up their bounty of electric life to keep the breach open and the King of Crows free to move between worlds as he wished. It all went to him, save for the smallest dregs, just enough to keep the dead hungry and mindless and in thrall to him. Viola did not see him. Under the jaundiced moon, she raised her arms. In life, her elegant hands had been the envy of many as they rested upon her Bible, her eyes closed in prayer. Small, downy feathers sprouted from the backs of them now, and her nails were the sharp, curved claws of a bird. Her voice had become raspy, given to squawks and caws. She did not know how much longer she would have the faculty of speech, and she meant to use it while she still could.
“I would speak,” she said to the diseased elms, to the slugs and maggots riddling the threadbare clothing of the dead, to the dead themselves.
“Speak…” the dead echoed, one voice.
“Yes,” Viola said. “I would tell you a story.”
“Only he tells the stories,” the dead intoned. “Only the King of Crows.”
“Not this story. This is a story of the river.” Viola smiled. A smile was reassuring. The dead settled. “A story of the river. Hear the word.”
The moon shed its cold light on Viola’s shoulders. “The river is a watery sword that cuts the nation in two.”
“The river, the river, the river is a sword,” the dead answered.
“Yes,” Viola said. “Call-and-response.”
“Call. And response.”
CALL: The river is a ghost, a legacy in sediment, in silt, in sorrow.
RESPONSE: The river is a ghost.
CALL: The river flows and swirls, cuts and gouges. It shapes the land. The river is an outlaw. It will not be subdued. It will not be colonized.
RESPONSE: The river is an outlaw; it will not be subdued.
CALL: The river bears the history. What is past is also current.
RESPONSE: The river bears the history.
CALL: The river is a witness.
