The Bastard Hand Read Online Free PDF

outrage.
    I’d been overlooked. I stood up, began easing my way to the far end of the church. The only thing to do was find the nearest exit and get my ass out of there. So long, Rev. Nice knowing you.
    The whole time, Reverend Childe struggled to be heard. But no one was listening. Just as I’d reached the wall and was making my way toward the front doors, he hefted his Bible in the air, then slammed it down forcefully on the floor.
    It made an incredible noise, cutting through the shouts and screams of the congregation and echoing vividly throughout the church.
    As the echo died, there was an audible gasp from every mouth. I stopped in my tracks and stared. All eyes were on Childe now, and silence again reigned.
    Looking back at each and every one of them, Childe said, “There you go. There’s your Bible. Why don’t you just go all the way with it? Why don’t you just stomp on that sucker ’til there ain’t nothing left but a pulpy mass?”
    No one spoke.
    Childe crossed his arms. “Go on,” he said. “If you ain’t got no respect for what it says, go on and stomp on it.”
    The Devil himself had appeared in a cloud of smoke and fire right there in the middle of the church. No one dared to move or speak. Reverend Childe had just performed an incredible blasphemy, and the anger had turned to numb dread.
    Finally, Reverend Page stepped forward, his voice shaking. “Reverend Childe . . . maybe you’d be good enough to explain the meaning of this outrage.”
    Childe nodded, then leaned over to pick up his Bible from the floor. He made a show of dusting it off, setting it gently on the podium. Then he pointed to the old woman with a long bony finger. “You, Sister. How did that make you feel?”
    She only stared at him, unbelieving. Childe turned to someone else, posed the same question. Still no answer. He asked three more people, “How did that make you feel?” and then the old man who suggested beating the devil out of him spoke up. He said, “Angry. It made me angry as hell.”
    A smattering of people nodded, voiced agreement. The fury had died down, but fists were still clenched.
    Childe said, “Anger. The righteous anger of men against degradation.”
    A confused murmur went through the crowd. Everyone glanced at each other, hoping that someone would understand what this was all about. No one did. The violent atmosphere surged again.
    Before it could peak, Reverend Childe said, “Brothers and Sisters, you had every right to be angry. All your lives you’ve heard that word. Nigger. You’ve struggled to be good Christians in a world that sometimes seems as if it wasn’t made for you. You’ve dealt with every kind of humiliation, every variety of degradation. You’ve fought for your human dignity, the dignity God gave you, and you’ve reveled in whatever small triumphs you’ve been able to achieve. And for what?”
    His words were met with silence, and my heart beat fast.
    He said, “For what? So that some white man could come into your church—your one safe haven—and call you a nigger.”
    More mumbling through the congregation, torn between anger and confusion. I had no idea where he was going with this, but I did know that it would be a miracle if he walked out of this church in one piece.
    Reverend Page shook his head, said, “This is all very . . . Reverend, please explain what this is all about. You can’t just come in here and—”
    “I’ll tell you what it’s all about,” Childe said. “It’s about anger! It’s about rage, Reverend!” He cast his eyes back on the congregation, eyes that suddenly burned fever-bright, glittering. “It’s about hatred! But mostly . . . mostly, Brothers and Sisters . . .” and his voice went low, “ . . . it’s about control.”
    That softly spoken word had more impact than all the shouting and screaming. It seemed to ring against the far walls, one lone ghost of a word in the silence.
    I felt a cold chill crawl up my back. Strangely, my hands