PS. Just a warning, this one's a little long. It spans 13 pages on Word single-spaced, so good luck reading it. I didn't want to split it up just for ease's sake, so I hope the length doesn't become a problem. In a while, I may try to add a link to the GoogleDoc for it.
"Have Souls, Will Travel"
Back before the Depression, before the war in Europe , the older folks in Horizon know a story about a town that was deceived. It was 1910, and we were but a young village. The people had lived there for nearly twenty-years, but there wasn’t a formal, legal management in place until a few years prior to this. We weren’t official yet. The people were still trying to get a feel for how a proper city should be run. We were fifty-years into the reconstruction of the South, and it wouldn’t do to have some cotton-picker fresh out of the fields run the town.
The first four years of municipality saw a council run the town’s affairs, but some started to believe that a singular decision making body would best serve Horizon, GA, so it came about in the autumn of 1910 that the council begrudgingly began to look for a mayor. A few names had appeared, from the council mostly, but none with weight enough to sway the city in a vote.
Around the same time, there was another position in the town that needed filling. In the old Southern towns like Horizon, a good preacher can make all the difference. There was the oneBaptist Church
Even when the revered Rev. Jacobs stepped in to fill that vacancy at the pulpit, his obviously temporary return did nothing to bring back the fold. Most distressed by this was the good reverend’s grandson, Young Jacobs. His parents were killed by the cold only a week after his birth, and before he could be named, so the reverend just knew him as Jacob. Because of his parents’ death, Jacob grew up in that little country church where his grandfather used to preach. His nights always ended with grandfather reading stories of scriptured past from the pulpit, Jacob playing the part of congregations on Sunday.
At the time, Jacob enjoyed the solo sermons. It was time he could share with his grandfather, and he could hear from the Word that he loved deeply. Now, though, as Young Jacobs grew into a man of 15, he knew what the empty Sundays meant. He saw a city drifting down the wide path, and a grandfather getting even closer to his final homecoming.
This particular Sunday found Rev. Jacobs preaching to an audience of two, between the Lord and his grandson, from Titus and James 2. The old man, as frail and tired as he was, still had the fire of a preacher to him, and with the most attentive audience he’d ever had, Reverend Jacobs brought the Spirit out to fight. But in the heat of his heart, his heart gave out.
Even if Young Jacobs had been the back-row Baptist sort, the flight he took to be with his grandfather would still have been more than enough to keep the man from hitting the ground. Jacob took up a spot next to his falling hero in seconds, the moment his stance began to waiver, keeping old Phillip Jacobs firm at the pulpit.
The young man carried this mountain of faith, this weighty one to bed and laid him down in comfort and rest.
“Bring…bring me…” poor Jacobs, struggling through his words.
“Here. Here is the water.”
“No!” As Phillip Jacobs tossed it away with the momentary fervor of a traveling evangelist. “I don’t need that! Bring me that Bible, son.”
Young Jacobs, now understanding, brought him the Word.
Phillip held the Book to his chest, close and tight, half in prayer, half in warning to the child in tears before him. “Lord, take me on now. I have done my work, and I have run my race, and I have done it in Your Name. I pray, Lord, that you send someone to this town who will defend them from the evil one. Defend them!”
He stopped to breathe, often forcing out this final prayer as one shutting the last wind out of a dry, cracked bellows to enflame the vital fire for the last time.
“I will find someone to save this city, Father. I will find someone.”
With a tear and a sigh, Phillip Jacobs gave up his spirit. He died on a Sunday and went on to join the great saints of the past. He was buried on a Wednesday, and hundreds came not to miss the Reverend’s final sermon. Young Jacobs stood at the graveside of the man he grew to model, the yellow-aged Bible in his hand, a blue-ember in his heart. The fury of the boy, growing out of the anger of a man, brought forth words from his chest that Young Jacobs knew not a second before they were spoken.
“Here lies Phillip Jacobs, a man of God and preacher of the Word for sixty years. He stood at the side of dying soldiers, Union and Southern alike, as a young war chaplain those many years back. He helped some of you fix your farms with hands and prayer back in the floods of 1882. He buried your children and my parents in the deadly cold of 1895. He neglected all of his own needs to bring you the Word. He gave this place life and hope, and you all let him die! He was the last thing keeping this town from going to Hell, and you let him die!”
The gravediggers were the only ones left with Jacob after a moment, when the crowds dispersed speaking of a young man’s folly and inexperience. Widow Lois assured everyone what a disappointment the young man would’ve been to his fine elder. Mr. Loews, progeny of the plantationers, and a frontrunner for the mayorship, mourned over the loss of such a great man and the ill replacement they were left with.
Young Jacobs had decided he would try to take up the mantle left by his grandfather that coming Sunday. The sign out in front clearly stated that worship began promptly at 9am, but only one person arrived from then until lunch. Even that one, he was looking for the mayoral debates.
“Lord. Your Word says that where one plus another is gathered in Your name, there you are, too. Well it’s just me! You here? You hear me, Lord?! Are you here?”
He stepped out from behind the cross that adorned the pulpit and back into the pews, leaving his grandfather’s Bible behind. Young Jacobs then began to pray for one to defend this town from the Devil, just as Phillip Jacobs had a week prior.
At that moment, as if sensing a call, the doors opened to reveal a tall and empty man, thin in frame as one who had not touched food in a decade, wearing a black flat-top hat to match a monochromatic suit of the same sable quality.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
“None but I,” replied Young Jacobs. “Who are you?”
“My name is Reverend Beels. Being a minister, I felt this an apt place to begin upon my arrival in town. You are?”
“I’m Young Jacobs. My grandfather was used to preach the Word from this pulpit, but he’s died and left it to me, and no one here will listen. I fear this town will succumb to the fires of the evil one if I don’t manage to stop him myself.”
“Well I’m here to do what I can. The name’s Ichabod Beels and I am a travelling preacher of sorts. I suppose you could call it fate or providence, or whatever you will, but I would very much like to aid you on this holy crusade.”
Jacob could not believe the turn of events that befell him. Here stood a real and true minister at the time when the young town of Horizon
“Let me go grab my coat and I’ll introduce you to the town. They need to know who’s going to occupy this post come Sunday.”
Now Ichabod had only been at this travelling preacher business for a short while, only about ten years or so. But it was certainly a young man’s game, and Ichabod Beels stood to be no more than thirty-three years of age. He travelled around to small towns primarily in the South where religion still took hold over reason. He had most recently hailed from the village Andover , which is no longer called Andover
“Now, son. Don’t go tying me down just yet. A man of divine service has no home and no place to rest his head. I have to be certain this is where I am most effectively to do my work before I agree to stay.” It didn’t much matter what Beels said. Young Jacobs was determined to keep Ichabod and his tongue from leaving town, and Ichabod knew it.
Even on this cool November afternoon, the town streets were bustling with Sunday noon traffic. People walked in and out of the shops in their as of yet unused Sunday best. The single restaurant in town prepared a feast of chicken and vegetables bought fresh from the country farmers inhabiting this corner of the world. Young mothers walked their children from store to store, each little one wondering which door held a toyshop. Sadly for them, no store-bought playthings could be found within ten-miles of Main St. Horizon.
The mayoral campaign hit a stride, each viable candidate slapping his feet to the planks and flapping his jaws to the wind. Each man cast a vision for what would make this town the next capital of Georgia
Mr. Loews was certain that the future of Horizon stood in progress, leaving the farmers the land that they already had cultivated, but using what remained untouched for industry and Reconstructionists. “If those Yankees want to throw some money at us to improve the once glorious South that they destroyed, I say we take it! The anxious crowds, eager for more fire from this modern-day Balaam. His words and wisdom drew them up into a voting frenzy, ready to elect Mr. Loews President.
“Now, now listen, y’all. This is a farming community, and it should stay that way if we have any hope of surviving in this world.” Lukas Wages, another candidate for mayor, was also the progeny of plantationers. His family had owned half of the land that makes up everything just this side of Horizon, from County-Line River
“Joe, you and I have farmed this region for twenty years, and your family, like mine, was farming up the state of Georgia for almost a hundred or so years prior. What in God’s name could possibly change that?” He was quickly losing the solidly Mr. Loews crowd. “And…and…even if it did change, what makes you think that’s what this town really needs? Mr. Loews, here, he just wants to run all the farmers here out of business so he can buy up their land!”
And there it was. Lukas Wages unwittingly made the one political move that scared the capitally minded Mr. Loews. Not only was it the bitter truth, but it was enough to scare the farmers back to Lukas. His only saving grace was that crowds are indeed fickle and easily swayed. In this case, all he needed to sway was their attention. “And behold, here comes the lamb who takes away the sins of the world. If it isn’t our resident fiery preacher, come once more to condemn us all to fire and brimstone.”
“I condemn no one, Mr. Loews; it is you who condemn yourselves by ignoring what my grandfather tried to teach you for the last half-century! You condemn yourselves by abandoning God!” Young Jacobs once again found himself defending his grandfather’s church to these soulless creatures. They would mock and ridicule the memory of such a great man in his presence, and Young Jacobs wouldn’t stand for it.
“Boy, none of us has abandoned God, so much as we have abandoned that God-forsaken box you so loosely call a church. That place died with your grandfather, and there is no way that you’d draw a flock in fit to lead half as well as he could,” Mr. Loews spoke, a gleeful certainty of victory tainting that velvety drawl.
The quiet stranger figured that now would be the appropriate time to interrupt the failure that was his young friend’s tirade. “That is precisely why he has asked me to fill in for the late Reverend Jacobs for the time being. My name is Ichabod Beels, and I assure you that no man is condemned who enters the Lord’s church. Follow me, and I will show you the path to life. Follow me, and I will lead you to the promises found in the Book. Follow me, and I will bring you the truth, and it will change your life!”
If there was one thing Mr. Loews was capable of, it was recognizing a worthy adversary, and his fears were buzzing all about this man. And since nothing benefits a Southern politician more than being aligned with the right preacher, “As mayor of Horizon, let me welcome you to our town, and let me be the first to sit in on your first Vesper service here in Horizon, tonight at the church down the street.”
Burdened Young Jacobs feared that his friend would not be able to stand this obvious challenge by the now self-acclaimed mayor, but this changed when Rev. Beels answered the call. “It would be my honor to host yourself, and every other person in ear-shot this evening. Though it is quick, I am a preacher. As a preacher, I am in the business of collecting souls, and that is one business in which I can afford no delays. Tonight!” The crowd was in a roar, so they probably couldn’t hear him whisper to an eager Young Jacobs, “Come to my wagon immediately. We have work to do.”
Once they left the fevered crowd. Young Jacobs saw a side of the Reverend he had not yet seen. This side was single-minded and quickly moving. He gathered books and supplies, grabbing things up for the evening worship. The man was asked to operate much quicker than he expected, and this night was to be flawless if his time in Horizon were to be met with any success.
“Ichabod.”
No answer. Clearing his throat and trying again…
“Ichabod.”
No answer. Jacob almost thought it best to sit and wait, but then he spoke.
“Oh, yes. What can you do? Just help me prepare the building for this evening. Candles. We need many candles. Ah! Yes! And if you are to help me, you must be a duly appointed and appropriately recompensed layman. Here, take this pen and sign here.”
As Ichabod handed the pen over, the wagon rattled as if kicked by the horses, and Jacobs’ hand slipped and painfully met the sharpened end of his writing utensil. He went to wipe the blood off, but was stopped by Ichabod. “Not that it would matter, you’ve already spilled some in the ink-well. Just sign so I can pay you from the offering legally and we’ll move on with it.”
The Reverend’s grandson took a minute to absorb the imposing document. He’d never been exposed to such a legal document before, excepting when he witnessed his grandfathers will a week ago, and then his parents’ will before that. He was only used to the language of these grave documents. He had no idea how to take this thing now. Unable to read it, the boy placed his red-stained signature on the parchment in his sight.
Young Jacobs was so thankful for this answered prayer, as they headed on towards the evening. He just knew that his grandfather would be so proud of what he was doing for the church and who he had found to come in and save the city ofHorizon
“Good. And now we can get started. Carry these things into the building and we’ll get a move on. We are going to need lots of candles.”
The scene was set, the good reverend was ready, and the people were arriving. The young man had never doubted Beels’ ability to set a stage, prep a church, or deliver a sermon, though he had not yet in the meager eight hours of their acquaintance seen any evidence of this, but he was ashamed to admit some doubt in this most recent mentor’s ability to draw a crowd. If the reverend Ichabod Beels were capable of anything, it was drawing a crowd.
The people flocked to see him. Not only did the vastest majority of Horizon arrive to witness the coming of a new voice from the dessert, but there was standing room only for the late arrivals from all over Myrtle, the Springs, Chinquapin Grove, even a few from the capital! Word spreads quickly, of that there is no doubt.
Unlike any Southern preacher you’ve ever seen, Ichabod Beels started preaching fifteen minutes early, likely on account of the fact that even if anyone else were left to arrive, they’d have never got in. It was good for him to do this, because the crowd was most certainly getting restless, and his voice had a way of soothing the most vicious crowd like a farmer putting down a stampede with a flute. They eased into their seats, those punctual enough to have one, and prepared their ears for the golden speech that began to flow.
The children who were there that day, the ones who inevitably grew into the old men who told the story, best remember the fiery tongue that Ichabod spoke with. That is what they spoke of, but Young Jacobs latched on to something else. While the conjured crowds heard a roaring revival, full of screaming and devil hatin’, Young Jacobs heard only what was not there.
In all of his words and gesticulations, the good reverend never once prayed.
To the casual observer, it may seem odd if noticed at all, but to a young Georgia
“That’s a keen eye you got there. Keen indeed! Most folks would’ve passed off on it as a …pure mistake! But no! Not this protégé of parables before me, no sir. It was indeed intentional, yes.” After the church meeting, the two soldiers of souls had a proverbial come-to-Jesus meeting.
“But why, is what I don’t understand. You had all those people there. They were leaning on every word you had to say, and you never once prayed. Heck, I don’t think I ever heard you say the Lord’s name, not once!”
They were both a deep red, Beels out of fury, and Jacobs out of shame. “Not to question your wisdom, sir,” as he tried to back-peddle his way into the mentor’s good graces, “but why would you do that? Teach me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then I most certainly shall. You obviously know the story. You know about the cross and all.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“And I am sure you pray frequently.”
“Constantly.”
“Then you’re familiar with how these things are viewed by outsiders. They are offensive in nature, and we must be careful to negatively affect people with these…these…”
“Pillars?”
“Symbols. After all, that is all they are is symbols. And we mustn’t scare away the flock with a poorly drawn wolf when we can bring them in with the image of food.”
“No, I guess you’re right.” Young Jacobs was still less than certain, but he was willing to learn.
“You will learn from me in time. You’re grown so used to this old-fashioned ministry, and you see what good it did you. Sometimes all I need is time to break old habits, or introduce new ones. Off to bed, now. We’ve got a long week ahead.” The reverend spoke of work with a confidence that his message was ready to take root.
“Great. I’ve prepared the master bedroom for you, it is right above the church in the …”
“No. No…thank you, no. I’ll be fine in the cart. This place belongs to you and your grandfather, and that is a place that I will only invade during my working hours.”
Young Jacobs went on to his room, next to the one that used to belong to his grandfather. True, it seemed wrong to offer that man his grandfather’s bed, but Young Jacobs felt that any servant of the Lord was due his wage, and that was a clause that Ichabod Beels did not escape. Still, Young Jacobs went to bed dreaming on these things and considering them in his heart. When was it right to mention the Lord? When could he display that old cross that Ichabod had moved from the pulpit? Why would his grandfather steer him so wrong? Poor Jacobs tossed with these thoughts most of the night, only grabbing some sleep with the promise of hard work the next day, the first of many promises that Ichabod Beels would deliver on.
Though a decade late for the start of the century clean sweep, a mess of changes came to Horizon that month. The potential mayors agreed to postpone the election. It seemed a new candidate was being discussed. For the church, Ichabod had made up his mind to replace every plank and board in that old place, starting with the pulpit. He and Young Jacobs worked night and day, and by Sunday, the pulpit was brand new. It looked great, and the people could feel a change in Ichabod. He took his old demeanor and stepped it up a bit. If his old sermons were fire, this was a blaze of holiness out to win Horizon’s souls. That was what he always told Young Jacobs. “You and me: We’re in a battle for the souls of Horizon’s people, and it’s gonna take all we’ve got to win.”
But with all of the new boards and talk of political, even spiritual revolution in Horizon, one thing never changed. Ichabod wouldn’t pray. Ichabod wouldn’t read from the Bible, nor would he even touch one. Ichabod wouldn’t mention Jesus. And although he could speak fire up from the pulpit, according to Young Jacobs, Ichabod wouldn’t preach.
Anytime he’d try to bring it up, Ichabod would just call him a foolish young man in need of training, a fact that the well-versed young fool took as an insult. And as with most impetuous young men, the Jacobs boy blew.
It happened on the fourth Tuesday since Ichabod came in to town, and it was getting close to Christmas. While Young Jacobs stewed over the so-called sermon from two days prior, moving things that he assumed were moved to make room for the Nativity scene, Ichabod broke the camel’s back. He tried to make Young Jacobs remove the old cross from his grandfather’s church.
Though he obviously was not there, Young Jacobs had countless times heard the story of how his father and grandfather built that cross together, first part of the church built, in-fact, from the wood that once stood on that very spot. He heard how the two, his father only about ten years-old, prayed about how best to serve the town, and wound up building a cross, then a church to put it in. And he would be damned before he let anyone remove it.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t. This cross belongs here. In this church. It’s all that’s left of my father and grandfather. I can’t remove it.”
“Listen, boy. You said you would do whatever it took to help me, and this is how you can help me. Remove that cross!”
“I’m sorry, Ichabod, but…” as he searched for the right words, he at last spoke something that just never seemed possible when he said, “the hell I will!”
Now anyone could attest to the fire in Ichabod Beels’ voice. Anyone could vouch for that who had heard him speak. But that day in Horizon, GA, Young Jacobs became the only person in the state who knew the fire in his eyes and in his grin.
Opened wide, unwittingly showing the point of a tooth, Ichabod Beels spoke more truth than he ever had before. “The Hell you will.”
There are a few moments in life when people begin to realize the first in a long string of bad decisions. It was here where Young Jacobs began to realize that he had made the worst of all when he invited this one in to what was once a great church.
“You should really practice up on reading legal documents, or should have. Especially the ones you sign in blood.” All of the legends and rumors of souls wasted on his black schemes, none meant a thing to Young Jacobs now as the Beast passed sentencing on him. “You signed, and your mine: Mind, body, and soul,” adding some real bite to that last bit. “You’ve got no hope, no exit, and no rights. Well, that’s not true. You do have the right to determine when I take you. At any time, you can forfeit this life and join mine for eternity. Now, if I am so inclined to offer you mercy, and I never am, you will be free to live your life from that moment on, and I can’t touch you. Not ever.” Now abandoning the false civility in favor of the roar he is more used to, “This is binding! You have no way out of it, so you better just live by it. Now do as I say.”
To say his burden was heavy would be to say that his cross was wooden. It was painfully obvious by the soreness on his face and the thorns in his palms. As Young Jacobs carried that cross out to the burn pile, then past that into the woods for safekeeping, he could feel the lost link to his sheltered past slipping away. It was all gone, or would be soon. What hurt the most was imagining the tears on his grandfather’s face as he died. Could he have known the fate that was to be dealt his last earthly treasure? Young Jacobs knew that he brought sorrow to his grandfather’s death, and for that alone, he wept.
Young Jacobs did not remember falling asleep.
But he surely remembered waking up.
There stood Ichabod over him, now abandoning the fiery grin he previously held for nothing but the heat of his scowl. The cross was still where Jacobs had left it, leaning up against the most senior tree in this forested land, Ichabod’s eyes floating back and forth from the sleeping attendant to the wooden crucifix. “We must not cling to these relics of the past, Young Fool.”
At the word of his voice and the flick of a finger, the ground seemed to sprout flames, pushing furiously up the cross in the woods. Nothing else in these woods that touched flame even bore a scorch, but the cross shone through like a star hitting the sky. It was like the flame protected it’s own, or simply touched none but what it was allowed. Young Jacobs fell asleep and drew this deceiver to his spot in the woods. He failed to conceal the cross’ location, and now it was to burn. Perhaps forever. Jacobs knew not what power his new boss held, but it was far more than was contained by the boy.
He wanted to run, but his Master’s voice said, “Stop.” Not so much said it, but he felt the voice in him. He was told that this was important. This was something he had no choice but to watch.
If nothing else, the Beast had him by the neck. Young Jacobs stared at the blaze until he saw nothing. The exhaustion of anguish and the lack of air returned him to a state of death-like sleep. After all, that is what he wanted. There is honor to a good death, because a good death only comes from a life of meaning. There is beauty in a good death. The death like his grandfather’s. Death like his father’s, intended to save the life of another. That is what Jacob wanted, for he felt it was the best he could now hope for.
Young Jacobs returned to himself in the bed that his grandfather Slept in. Without fail, Ichabod Beels towered over him, eyes of flame and red anguish looking with death upon him. That man’s demeanor had changed, likely due to the fact that he no longer had reason to conceal his truth. As any good preacher should, Ichabod Beels wanted to win souls. Except he meant to win them for himself.
The stricken boy rose slowly. His eyes were still fuzzy with sleep and his neck was still sore from the strangling. The headache he was sure that hadn’t been there before persisted with a vengeance. Whatever Ichabod had done to him, he did a real bang-up job.
“Get up,” was the curt wake-up call. Something angered Beels. That, or he just wasn’t a morning person, Jacob surmised. When Jacob refused out of mere inability, the warning was returned, and make no mistake, it was certainly a warning. “Get up.”
“I can’t move. You dang near choked the life out of me last night in the woods.”
“Who says I didn’t try? Now get up. You’re mine until I say otherwise, but don’t worry. My assistants tend to have a short life span. We’ve got work to do.”
Ichabod had heard the rumors of his potential mayoral candidacy, and he was not given to missing this monumental of an opportunity. It was but a week before elections, and Ichabod had work to do. He wasn’t planning on making an outright campaign, but rather arriving at the last public debate and trying to shame both candidates. One benefit of being in his position was that Ichabod knew what to say to and about anyone. If he wanted to catch a man off-guard, it wasn’t difficult.
Beels had the little subservient one hook up the team and ready themselves a trip to town. Though they could have just as easily walked, he wanted the carriage to be visible when he made his bid for mayor. Making Young Jacobs do a little extra work wasn’t a bad little perk, either. When Jacobs had finally gotten everything together, they made their way into town.
It was as if the two were marshals in some sort of grand parade as the streets waved in excitement at the sight. “How’ya doin’ today, Preacher?” one man would shout out. The kind lady up on the sidewalk would toss up a, “Can’t wait to hear your preachin’ on Sunday, Beels,” with a salacious smile, holding juniors hand while her husband was inside picking up the weekly supplies. The world had noticed their arrival and wanted to celebrate the occasion.
Mr. Loews was down at the end of the street talking to his wife, sharing glances with our kind, young blonde from before. Lukas Wages was on his way, but he had to sell the crops from his farm to the grocer. This late in the season, he really couldn’t afford to let them sit around for long. The last debate was to start at 1:05pm, and the town clock just chimed the hour. Everyone started to move downtown towards the wooden platform that once nearly hosted the Horizon public gallows. Today would almost certainly determine the future mayor of Horizon, and perhaps just a little bit more.
As Lukas walked up, a minute to spare, Mr. Loews took his chance to start the pot shots early. “Welcome to our debate, Lukas. I’m so glad that this important position didn’t interfere with your farming too much. Why don’t you join us when you’ve got a minute, okay?” The people thought about it, and they saw the problem. Just like Joe Loews wanted to happen, the people slowly gave up their trusting of Lukas. If he would be (almost) late to a debate this important, what else might be impeded by his occupation? The obvious choice would then be to go with someone who had more time. Someone who sold his farm. Mr. Loews, perhaps?
The debate went smoothly for a while. There were no real surprises. When they talked about farming and land use, it was always Lukas for farming and Loews for selling to business. When they talked about the future of Horizon, Lukas went farms and Loews went factories. Obviously, they had to, seeing as how there were only one or two issues in which they actually differed.
The moment finally came, however, when someone broke open the debate, just like Ichabod had hoped for. Looking for another voice to speak in his favor, Mr. Loews called on Beels. “Do you have any questions for us, Reverend?”
Ichabod grinned, relishing this moment where he could improve his own stock and play the political system.
“For you, Mr. Loews, tell me. How do you feel about adultery?”
The shocked silence that followed for Mr. Loews was not due just to the question he had been asked, but also in the revelation that the preacher’s red eyes stared through the soul inside him. He could see through the veneer of flesh into the heart beating within his ribs. To the crowd below, it was obvious that he was stunned. No matter the answer he managed to salvage at this point, the crowd could tell that this question bothered him, and they all could tell why. His wife almost laughed audibly. Mr. Loews finally managed to get something about sin and how the future of the city did not include such filth. They all saw past it. Even Young Jacobs enjoyed it, knowing good and well what the man was doing.
As much as he enjoyed seeing Mr. Loews brought down to level, Young Jacobs feared the turn of Ichabod’s gaze. It only took an insistence by the Reverend to turn the crowd on Loews, but Lukas was a good man. There was no telling what tools Ichabod would call on to bring down the best man in Horizon. And Young Jacobs knew this. He knew what was coming, and he knew it would be ugly. Although the boy was as of yet unsure how to act, he was led to believe that action was in fact inevitable. Jacobs would have to stand against the Devil to save this man and this town, even though doing so would bring certain damnation. It would be a sacrifice of the gravest kind, but it would be a sacrifice of the most dire kind.
“And for you, Mr. Lukas. I have a few questions.” Honestly, Ichabod Beels was reaching here. He knew that the stunt with Loews made this farmhouse American look to be a bonified saint in their eyes, and that was hardly an easy force to work against. When he finally found the right half-truth, Ichabod Beels burned the air with his words. “Is it true that your grandfather gave sanctuary to Northern soldiers during the war? That he hid them and supplied them?”
Each and every eye and ear fell on the farmer Lukas as he was caught pants down at the question. For all he knew, that family rumor had died with Mr. Lindsay, his grandfather, ten years ago. “Aren’t you going to explain yourself, Lukas?” Ichabod’s accent from the Deep South …real deep…etched another level to the question. The crowd started calling for crucifixion, it felt like to the farmer, unused to the fickle nature of the political scene.
“Well, Lukas?” they shouted, “Tell us!” One particularly vulgar farmhand added, “Are you a blue baby, Lukas?” At least that’s how the more polite people tell the story.
“It was…It was…We had a…There was a…my cousin. He lived up in Union , Georgia
The mob was at him. Even Loews started shouting at this Yankee lover. Strange enough, he hadn’t even been born yet when this happened. Lukas was only about forty. But his family was guilty, so he was guilty.
“And that same cousin, that Yank, was he not found shot a few years later heading over to his neighbor’s wife? And did your own father not have a tendency to spend his nights and earnings down at the bar?”
Lukas had been beat. Through his schemes and lies, and sideways defamations, Ichabod Beels had vilified the most righteous man in the county. Nobody in town wondered at how this newcomer already knew so much about everyone. They just took it all in. The crowds were shouting, preparing to run the poor man out of town before he could even catch his breath, he’d been flipped so fast. Yet the reverend caught them back quick when he spoke up. “Is there anyone else we can rely on? Is there no man in this town worthy to lead? Is there none righteous enough to reclaim the spirit of this place?”
His speech was lacking for a cheer, but this was only as the people thought through what he was saying. As always, his impassioned plea inspired them to thought, and it was exactly the thought he wanted. “Why don’t…why don’t you do it?” Scott Stone, the storeowner, was the first to sound the death knell. Slowly, his utterance brought the murmurs which in turn grew to conversations which erupted into cheers.
Young Jacobs, horrified, watched as the plan rolled out perfectly and naturally like raindrops off the tree leaves. It was beautiful to watch, but impossible in its consequences.
“STOP!”
They did.
Every pair of eyes was on Young Jacobs. Even Phrank, the one-eyed beggar who slept in the alleys, was watching.
“Can’t you people see what’s happening? This man is…” Jacob, trying to see if now was the right time to unveil his master, “he’s playing you! That’s what he does! He tricked you today, and he tricked you at the dawn of time. He’s the Devil in the truest sense, and all of you are just eating him up! He is going to steal the souls of this town, and you won’t know until it’s too late, just like he did to me. He wants to steal your soul while you want to make him mayor! And I know he’s gonna send me to Hell for saying this, but I had to do it. In fact, I’d rather you just take me now, Devil! Beelzebub, take me now. Send me to the Pit like you promised. Come on! Not like it matters anymore, anyhow, seeing as how you’ve got this fool town eating out of your hand!”
It was at this exact moment when a human had managed to outwit the Devil. Ichabod was trapped, and Young Jacobs had trapped him. The look of surprise on Beels’ face told the boy all he needed to know. You see, the deal was that whenever Jacobs wanted, he could ask the Devil to take him and, if he refused, whatever hold was on the boy’s soul would be forfeit. Beels couldn’t take him now, or else the whole town would see that he was telling the truth. Otherwise, he would lose this soul, and Beels knew that he couldn’t afford to lose this soul.
“That – that power lies elsewhere.” But the boy would not fall for those word games, no matter how hard he tried.
“So does that mean you won’t send me to Hell?”
“I am no devil,” he laughed, trying to convince himself and the sorely confused crowds.
“So does that mean you won’t send me to Hell,” he asked again, each syllable emphasized in a solidly stern manner.
“Not today, not tomorrow, not ever! I will not send you to Hell, Young Jacobs!” And right then, the Reverend knew that somewhere, a contract was consumed in its own unholy flames. And Jacobs knew that, somehow, his burden had been removed. He was free.
Just when he started to relish the moment, that Trickster figured out another way to play. “But I tell you what I will do. I will take up the burden of mayorship, and retain my church, so that I can preach truth and protect this town from people like you who would seek to ruin it. Those who would seek to destroy the souls of Horizon, the souls of these fine people. And I shall run them out of town with the furious vengeance of all the power that is granted me. You call me a devil, but I offer this proof to the contrary. A house against itself cannot stand, and I most assuredly now stand against whatever devil is prompting you to act. Evil like yours will not be tolerated, and it will not be suffered to rest as we pursue to force it out. We, as a city, burgeoning and bursting into this century, will root out all evil from this pure town. We will burn you!”
And as the people cheered, as the Reverend roared, the boy ran. He ran for miles, out of town, past the church, into the woods. He ran past the fear, and he ran past the anger, knowing that his own salvation spelled doom for Horizon. Though his bloodstained signature was gone, their blood was on his hands. Young Jacobs ran from his God, and his grandfather, and his father, knowing that his foolish stunt had delivered them all into the hands of the Evil One. He ran and he ran until he no longer heard the celebrations in the street and until he no longer felt the cold November air burn at his lungs. He ran and he ran until he no longer could run. He fell asleep somewhere in the woods, many miles outside of Horizon.
While he slept, Jacobs dreamed of the words he had heard some time ago, it seemed, when his grandfather passed away. He saw him there again, lying as one already dead on the bed before him, the old-wood church still surrounding. His words played in the boy’s dream, “I pray, Lord, that you will send someone to this town who will defend them from the Evil One. Defend them!”
In the dream, once more, the boy spoke to his grandfather, but now the words were different. “I’m sorry, Father. I have tried, and I have failed. I couldn’t find the one you sought, and now he has them.”
Again, the final tears of a dying man were seen on Phillip’s face, but his head turned towards Young Jacobs and he screamed with a voice no longer belonging to the dead and frail; “Defend them!”
These unearthly screams woke the boy who had slept well past time, for it was no longer night, but early Sunday morning. He recognized this place, for it was where he learned that his captor was in fact the Devil. It was where he burned the old wooden cross. Yet, even though Jacobs had seen the cross burn, there it stood. It was not gone, and nor was it charred. The ground around it, having been slain of hellfire, would never grow again, but this cross itself stood untouched by the flame.
It was then that he realized the truth. All this time, Phillip had been talking about him. Phillip had been talking about his grandson. This was who he saw saving the town, and this who he had expectantly prayed for. And for as long as someone stood up and preached the Truth in Horizon, no man could ever take this city. No man, no devil, no one.
It was early Sunday, and Ichabod began again to preach. He spoke to the people about hard work, and about giving of your self to his service. The new pulpit, adorned with two gold candlesticks at each side, fit Ichabod well. He was readying the altar call, shouting fire and brimstone, calling people forward to service to his church when the back doors flew open with the force of a hurricane wind, sending the full house of would be worshippers to their feet.
“Submit yourselves to God! Resist the Devil!”
“What are you doing here, boy?” Ichabod was not a fan of interruptions. Or surprises. And here stood both, a dirty and unkempt young man carrying some great bundle of wood that Beels did not yet recognize. As Young Jacobs marched towards the front of the church, one foot forward at a time, with a greater purpose in each step than he had ever moved with, the old hand-carved cross came into focus.
“Resist the Devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and He will draw nigh to you. Cleanse your hands, ye sinners,” this line echoing with conviction throughout the Church, “And purify your hearts, ye double minded. Be afflicted, and mourn, and weep. Let your laughter be turned to mourning, and your joy to heaviness.” As he dropped the cross at the front, before every soul in Horizon, directly speaking to each heart with ears to hear in that room, he found the voice that once belonged to Phillip Jacobs, the voice that could speak the Devil out of the room. “Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He shall lift you up.”
Ichabod wanted to speak, but could not. He wanted to refute this show, but he could not.
“And I will resist you, Beels. I will resist you.”
The boy spoke with a newfound power, rivaling and even surpassing that of his short-term mentor. Even still, Ichabod had to try.
“Do you think that any of these people believe this insane display? Leave, boy, before I have you arrested for trespassing on my property.”
“This church is the property of God, it is my home, and you should be leaving. I own this building, Ichabod. Now go!”
“Yours? You signed a contract that, if I do say so myself, supersedes that will.”
“Show me.”
And again, he had been beat. There was no contract. It had burned away with the boy’s release. So there stood Ichabod powerless once more. He had no choice but to leave and take the flock with him. As the people followed Ichabod out, Jacobs replaced that heathen pulpit with his grandfather’s cross, the one that he had triumphantly lifted up and carried down the streets of Horizon.
Then, he picked up right where Phillip had left off: preaching to an empty room. It went that way for most of the next year, except when a hapless drifter would settle into the back pews of Horizon’s oldest church for a comforting sermon from the ever-faithful Rev. Jacobs. It wasn’t until that next November when he recaptured his first parishioner. Farmer Lukas decided that he belonged in a church in Horizon after all, and he felt that he belonged with Rev. Jacobs.
Ichabod would often try to incite a war with the young man, but it never worked. He could not trap the Young Jacobs, who just kept on preaching. He preached and he preached, slowly regaining the sheep who had come to notice something wrong with their chosen shepherd.
After he had lost all but a few wandering souls, the day finally came when Ichabod Beels moved out of town, abandoning the post of preacher and politician. Though he cited work in another town, everyone else knew it to be health related. He was growing weaker and weaker in the Shadow of Jacobs’ church, falling further and further from his former glory due to Rev. Jacobs and his thriving flock.
It was almost five years to the day when he finally left Horizon. Phillip’s grandson had succeeded. He had resisted the Devil, and he fled. For the next sixty years, Rev. Young Jacobs served the growing and changing community of Horizon, always sleeping in that room behind the church. He married well over one-thousand couples, including about two-hundred second-generation weddings and another fifty third-generation weddings. He advised the politicians of the county, on one case even three governors and the President. He counseled people through loss and grief, enduring four major wars, and the sons of Horizon leaving, never to return. He became the life of that town, right up until the day he died.
It was late November of 1975 when he passed away, surrounded by family and friends. They say he died smiling, looking over to his sons and grandsons, along with Rev. Shills, the succeeding pastor of what was now Horizon Baptist Church
People would cry, and some laugh, thinking back on what he had done for them. They all talked of that time in the 50’s when he helped talk a drifter down from the roof of a local warehouse. They laughed at when he said the prayer at a Horizon football game, calling the coach out on benching the best player they had just because of his color. Indirectly, of course. They marveled at how he kept the town from imploding during the near race riot of 1954. And the oldest ones of them remember when he opened the church late one Sunday with word of the attack on Pearl Harbor to pray for our country, and again when word of the atomic bomb dropped in Japan
All told, over twenty-thousand people came to Horizon in November of 1975 to bury the loved and the late Rev. Jacobs. They talked of many incidents and laughed at many stories, but the one that only a few would ever dare breath word of was the time when a young boy from backwoods Georgia stood toe-to-toe with the Devil and won. Though it was perhaps the greatest thing ever to happen in this town, few people dare mention how Young Jacobs saved the city of Horizon
The story is but a rumor now, the tale of old men out on gas station rocking chairs, most of them having only heard it from their fathers, but there is an oft remembered headstone in the long-lived church cemetery, one belonging to Phillip and Young Jacobs, along with his parents, that reads, “So long as a man of the Word preaches Truth in the city of Horizon, it shall be safe.” And there is a spot in the woods surrounding Horizon that, for as long as anyone can remember, has never grown. And no matter how old it gets, no one will dare to throw out the old hand-carved cross of Horizon Baptist Church
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