Reverend Thaddeus Morrow, Rector of the Morris Island Free Church of the Revelation, gets to his feet and surveys his congregation. They are sweating freely, he notes, with satisfaction; though the windows of the Church are wide open, the heat of the late summer still penetrates like a miasma. Not a person makes a move to mop their faces, though a few hold handkerchiefs in their laps. They know better than to seek comfort when the Reverend is watching.
He gives them a full minute of his survey, sufficient time for the last words of the hymn to die out, and for silence to take hold, a silence broken only by the creaking of the ceiling fans overhead and the calls of the marsh fowl without. When it is time, Reverend Thaddeus climbs the two steps that lead up to the pulpit, then places both forearms on the lectern. High above the congregation now, he surveys them,, his gaze flitting from head to head until he finds the three he is looking for.
Franklin and Marion Oates sit side by side, he in his best plain suit (without tie), his wife in a cream long-sleeved dress. Franklin is hatless, as is correct, and Marion has her head covered, also as is correct. Both are in their early fifties, he knew, and good God-fearing folk. The couple had dispelled any doubts Morrow might have had about their Faith by coming to him five days ago. It is a hard thing to give up a child, especially an only one, but in doing just that, the Oates had reminded Morrow of Father Abraham, ready to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, at the altar, to do God's bidding. God had rescued Isaac. With His Grace, Morrow hopes that they might do the same for young Anna.
They had come to him unannounced, Franklin knocking on the door of the Rectory just after lunch, a time when the heat was at its highest and all sensible folk should be in doors. Morrow had led them in, given them seats, offered them refreshments. The couple had refused, sitting ill at ease and stiff, side by side on the sofa. Franklin had done the talking, his wife still as a statue except for the wringing of her hands in her lap.
Morrow had rejected Franklin's concerns, but, as Franklin went on and produced the evidence, Morrow had to agree that Sin was afoot.
"Sunday," Morrow had said as he showed them out. "We will deal with the matter on the Lord's Day." At that, Marion had burst into tears. Morrow had given her a tap on the shoulder, nodded at her husband, and closed the door on them.
Morrow's gaze moves sideways, resting on the object of their concerns. Young Anna Oates, just twenty-one a month ago, sits beside her mother, head bowed, staring at the floor. Her dark hair is bound in a bun and concealed under a scarf. She wears a plain long-sleeved blouse, and a grey skirt that only reveals her ankles. She appears, to all the world, to be God fearing, but Morrow knew that Evil wears the face of Innocence. Those inclined to Vice might describe as Anna as beautiful: her eyes were hazel brown, her nose delicate, her lips full. She had, in the last few years, blossomed from a stick of a child to a young woman. Despite her plain clothing, the swivel of her hips and the thrust of her breasts were a constant distraction. He had noticed the way the men watched her as she walked down the aisle. It had worried him a little, but he had thought nothing of it. After all, the Oates were good God-fearing folk, and Anna a good God-fearing child. Until he knew she was not.
The Free Church had purchased Morris Island five years ago and almost all of its 300 inhabitants are Church members. The waters of the Copahee Sound protect them from the vices and temptations of the mainland not a mile west. Yet contact with the outside world is unavoidable. The Reverend knew to be vigilant for Evil. He had watched for it in every turn of phrase, in every movement. He had expected it, but not in the form that it appeared to have arrived in.
He takes a breath. His sigh is clearly audible over the PA system. He begins.
