Is The Reverend Dead? is an unconventional mystery inspired by remote island life. I plan to share a chapter every Sunday and Wednesday until Sunday, April 17--Easter Sunday.
Banners by Jeanne Lewis
Cross by a Mayne Island glass artist
Is The Reverend Dead?
Chapter One
The church looks much the same every Sunday. Two milk-white candles in polished brass candle holders stand on either side of the communion table. It’s the first Sunday in Lent. A purple cloth covers the table.
Everyone likes Christmas, with its tinsel and carols and gift exchanges. But I’ve always preferred Lent. Christmas-Christians delight in filling their heads with sugar plum dreams of what they’re going to get, but my eyes are wide open carefully considering what I’m going to give up for 40 days.
What will it be this year? Eating chocolate? Playing cards? Listening to music? My mind drifts from one possibility to the other until Revered Paulson leaves the vestry, slamming the door behind him—signaling the organist to stop playing. Like a squirrel gathering nuts, he draws my attention. He paces back and forth in front of the communion table and I know he means business. The candle flames dance in the breeze and I pray there won’t be a fire. I visualize flames catching hold of his robe and snaking up until—. I shove that sinful thought out of my mind.
As I’m going deaf in my left ear, I’ve been forced to move from my usual pew by the door to a pew directly in front of the pulpit.
Reverend Paulson wraps his fingers around the lip of the pulpit, leans forward, and peers at us, his parishioners. From the look on his face, I know he isn’t pleased by what he sees. He is God’s Bloodhound, sniffing out sin. They try to hide in their Sunday best. It doesn’t matter. Reverend Paulson can’t be fooled. He’ll track down the sinful, drag them to the sacred fire, and purify them.
“Sinner.” Reverend Paulson points his index finger like a gun. Despite his advancing years, he’s still an imposing man. “Sinner!” He roars again. He hammers a fist onto the pulpit. Over the years his fist has beaten a groove into the oak pulpit’s smooth surface. “Why have you come to his sacred place?”
“For mercy,” the chant begins. “Save us.”
“God is eternally powerful. He uplifts the righteous and crushes the sinful under his heel.” Bang down goes his fist. “Why should He spare you?” Reverend Paulson sips from his glass. He carefully sets it back down beside his open weathered leather-bound Bible.
“Over and over again he calls to you. Time and again he offers you His sacred Word.” Bang.
“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as you Saviour? He is calling to you. Will you answer him? Sinner, will you repent?" Bang. "He is hanging, bleeding on the cross. Sinner, do you feel regret for what you have done?" He raises his arm, fist coiled, swings back but his voice falls to a whisper, “Sin—.” His fist misses its mark. He teeters back and disappears behind the wall-like pulpit. We all hear him fall. I leap from my pew. As quickly as I can with my sore hip, I race to his side. Black robe rumpled, white hair tousled, motionless, he lies on the floor. Fearing the worst, I search for a pulse. He’s… He’s… De… Has he been poisoned? I find his glass by his Bible and sniff. Oh, the smell. It has to be poison. I search for a suspect but only find worried face after worried face.
Can we reclaim the term 'literary fiction'
--An interview between Roz Morris and Imogen Clark
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