He regards the Beader's kitsune statuette, the Bellmaker's bellmaking instructions / deck of cards, the Archivist's List of the Dead, and the Basketweaver's Ch'mekelekeske woven basket. He takes the cards, jumps down from the table, pulls the table back from the oak, then restores it of its pistols. Cards in hand, he walks off, back to the hideous shack.
The sky clears and the Circuit Preacher arrives. He's a short, unobtrusive-looking man wearing a dark green polyester suit. The bow tie around his neck is tied tightly - so tight as to seem painful. In fact, he squirms and coughs and pulls at it constantly. Sweat beads along his brow beneath a shining wave of set and molded hair.
He introduces himself. She stares.
Don't suppose you're from here, then? he asks.
She blinks.
You from Russia?
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Lituanen, echt deutsch, she says plainly.
Even in Russia I'm led to believe they have word of the Good News of our Lord Jesus Christ, opens the Circuit Preacher. Even as far as the northern reaches of Russia, it's true.
She looks away, absently fingering the hem of her blouse.
Mistaking her incomprehension for atheistic snobbery, he gently recounts to her a sermon he gave to a congregation in a small town just south of the state border.
Son of man, the Lord tells him, set thy face toward the mountains of Israel and prophecy against them - and say, Ye mountains of Israel, hear the word of the Lord God: Behold, I, even I, will bring a sword upon you, and I will destroy your high places. In all your dwellingplaces the cities shall be laid waste, and the high places shall be desolatye; and your idols may be broken and cease, and your images may be cut down, and your works may be abolished.
The Choreographer shakes her head.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
