The Chaperone[/color] (Quix and Bunny)]
"PRAISE THE LORD"
"Hallelujah."
Jeremiah Pickett had the crowd in the palm of his hand, every head in the crowd bobbing in agreement as he warned of eternal hellfire and damnation due to those who turned their back on the Lord. His hands flew along with his words, coat sleeves of his black jacket flapping against his arms, and his deep blue eyes sparkled with fire. "Repent and Follow the Lord, or ye shall all burn in Hell. Follow his word and ye shall reside in paradise. Do all ye believe?"
Before the crowd could answer, the man standing on a wooden stage placed his elbow on the lectern, leaned forward, cupped a hand to his right ear and repeated the question. This time, stretching his vocal chords to the limit. "DO YE BELIEVE?"
"YES."
A chorus of screamed replies reverberated around the canvas tent, but it wasn't enough.
"DO YOU BELIEVE?"
"YES."
"LET ME HEAR YOU!"
'YES."
For five minutes the back and forth continued, until finally Jeremiah was satisfied and his booming quietened, allowing hushed conversations to start up between members of the congregation. The man savoured their exultation for a few moments, then stepped away from the Lectern. "Please, allow me to continue the Lord's work. Give whatever you can afford so that I can spread His gospel throughout the country." He removed the scuffed Preacher's hat from his head, revealing a mop of stringy brown hair that fell to his shoulders, and planted a benign expression on his face. All rage and fury gone from his tone and no longer screaming, his voice still garnered the audience's attention.
Many walked past, praising his services and placing coins in the hat, filling it to the brim with copper and silver, with a glint of gold or corner of a bank-note to be seen here or there. Up close, he appeared older than he did from a distance, his full thirty-eight years with crows feet at his eyes and lips and a face weathered by the sun. Leathery, as were his hands, which were also scarred and calloused. Working man's hands, not a Preacher's. However, most didn't notice, too captured by his gracious appreciation for their generosity that didn't stop, not even when the majority of the crowd had dispersed and Pickett knew he'd almost milked the residents of Junction of all that he could. He shot a disarming grin at a Mother and ruffled the hair of the impatient young boy who tugged at the sleeves of her raggedy dress, reminding him to respect his elders.
When only the final stragglers remained to deposit their offerings, his mind drifted to the quart of whiskey awaiting in his wagon and the pleasures to be purchased at Miss Kitty's whorehouse, before the approach of an elderly lady brought him swiftly back to the present. Despite the dropping of her eyes in a display of respect, the woman's demeanour and clothing and the strong, sure grip she placed on his arm immediately told Pickett she was an out-of-towner. Not some dirt-poor rancher's placid wife struggling to provide for a family in the isolated dustbowl of Junction.
That was soon confirmed by her mention of Philadelphia, and he followed the direction of her wave, eyes alighting on Ms Vanderholm's companion. Though his appraisal of the younger woman was brief and subtle, it was thorough. Young, refined, beautiful. The type not often seen on Jeremiah's travels. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Vanderholm." Courtesy slipped glibly from his lips when he returned focus to her Aunt. "It is indeed a rarity to find the pious and virtuous this far from the cultured environs of Garden Estate, but that's precisely why I'm here. Vicious, cruel creatures without mercy, the savages who inhabit these lands can hardly be called men. However, even they must be offered the chance to repent their wickedness and kneel at the feet of Thy Holy Father."
If he was laying it on a little too thick, Jeremiah wasn't certain, Miss Vanderholm's words had piqued his interest and rat cunning instinct had him thinking that if he played his cards right, the conversation could pay off to his advantage. Just how, wasn't clear yet. "It's only my profession that has afforded me respite from their depravity, for every man deep in their heart, whether they admit it aloud, fears the wrath of God and those who serve in His Army." Every man, that was, except Jeremiah. His gaze darted back to her youthful charge, "Not a place women should travel alone," then he graced Ms Vanderholm with a sweet smile of his own. "So, pray tell me, how can I assist you and your" - Pickett refrained from using the word, lovely - "niece on what I presume to be a long and arduous journey?"
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
