She was standing down front on that little stage when Chambliss
lifted it out of the crate, closed his eyes, and prayed over it. He
wasn't more than forty-five years old then, his black hair cut close
and sharp like he'd spent time in the army, and he might have
for all I knew about him. I don't think a single one of us knew
for sure where he came from, and I figure anyone who said they
did had probably been lied to. Once he finished praying over that
snake, he handed it to Molly. She took it from him just as gentle
as if someone was passing her a newborn baby, this woman who'd
never had a child of her own, a widow whose husband had been
dead for more than twenty years, his chest crushed up when his
tractor rolled over and pinned him upside a tree.
But like I said, she held that copperhead like a baby, and she
took her glasses off and looked at it up close like it was a baby
too, tears running down her face and her lips moving like she was
praying or talking to it in such a soft way that only it could hear
her. Everybody around her was too wrapped up in themselves
to pay any attention, dancing and carrying on and hollering out
words couldn't nobody understand but themselves. But Chambliss
stood there and watched Molly. He held that microphone
over his heart with that terrible-looking hand he'd set on fire
years before in the basement of Ponder's feed store. I'd heard that
him and some men from the church were meeting for worship
down in that basement, drinking lamp oil and handling fire too,
and I don't know just how it happened, but somehow or another
Chambliss got his sleeve set on fire and it tore right through his
shirt and burned his arm up something awful. They said later
that his fingers were even melted together, and he had to pull
them apart and set them in splints to keep them separated while
they were healing. I didn't ever see his whole arm because that
man didn't ever roll that right sleeve up, maybe the left one, but
not that one. I reckon I can't blame him. That right hand was just
an awful sight, even after it got healed.
Like I said, Chambliss stood back while Molly handled that
snake and he watched her catch hold of the Holy Ghost, and
when he felt like she was good and filled up with it he went to
her and put his good hand on her head. Then he took up that
microphone and prayed into it. I remember just exactly what he
said because it was the last time I ever heard that man preach. It
was the last time I ever stepped foot inside that church until now.
He said, "O dear, sweet Jesus, take this woman and fill her up
with your spirit from head to foot. Fill us all, sweet Jesus, with
your good Holy Ghost. Lift us up in your name, dear Lord." And
when he said that, he put his good hand under her elbow and
helped her lift that snake up over her head. He moved away real
slow, and she just held it there above her like she was making sure
God could see it, her eyes closed tight, her feet running in place,
her mouth alive and moving in a prayer she probably hadn't ever
prayed in her life.
When she lowered that copperhead is when it happened.
The first time it struck it caught her just under her left eye, right
along her cheekbone. And when she went to pull it off her face
it got her on her right hand, right in between her thumb and her
finger, and it wouldn't let go. She hollered out and cracked that
snake like a bullwhip, but it was too strong. Chambliss dropped
his microphone, and him and two of the deacons laid her down
right there in front of the church. They held her still and finally
got that snake's fangs to turn her hand loose. You could tell by
the way they handled it that they didn't want to hurt it, and they
didn't want themselves to get bit either. Chambliss picked it up
just as gentle as he could and then opened the top of that crate
with the toe of his boot and let that thing slide right back inside.
Everybody stopped their dancing when they heard Molly hollering,
and soon the music stopped too. That church was quieter
than it had ever been until Chambliss got down on his knee
beside Molly and put that microphone up to her lips like he expected
her to say something. "Go ahead," he said to her, but all
you could hear was the sound of her panting like she couldn't
catch her breath. Somebody brought her a glass of water, and
those two deacons helped her raise herself up and take a drink.
When they sat her up, you could see that her cheek had started
to turn blue, and they had to tip the water glass into her mouth
because her lips were almost swollen shut.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...