Ice and Fire

Chapter Nineteen

"Blessed is the worm!"

"And blessed are the scales thereof!"

"Blessed be the fang!"

"And the hollow needle!"

"Blessed is the crushing and the coil!"

"And blessed are the rattle and the skin of the great worms!"

"The Lord loves the worms of the earth and all that crawl and sting."

"As we do also love them!"

"The poison shall harm only the ungodly and the righteous sacrifice!"

"And the innocent shall walk untouched through all the lands of Canaan."

"As it was in the beginning, before sky-dark and long winter, is now and ever shall be. Our world, never ending. Amen!"

"Amen," came the echoing chorus from the huge congregation that brimmed along every bench and pew in the Temple of Snakefish, formerly the Rex Cinema and Video Palace.

One of the twin guardians, Norman Mote, had just finished the introductory call-and-response part of the a.m. service. Marianne sat at his side, with their son Joshua, the apostolic apprentice, next to his mother.

At a rough count, Ryan reckoned that virtually all the adult population of the trim little ville was there, crammed together, cheek by jowl.

It was swelteringly, sweatingly hot inside the building.

Ruby Rainer had shouted up the stairs, a few minutes after six, asking if they wanted some fresh-baked cornbread with eggs and grits before coming along to the service. They had all accepted, though Rick made heavy weather of the meal.

The freezie was looking better, like someone who had been through the fire and come out the other side purged and cleansed by the experience.

He'd walked with the others along the bustling main street to the church, helped by an old bamboo cane with a curved handle, which had been a gift from their landlady. "It was my late husband's," she'd said. "He got it from his uncle, who found it in a ruined shack up beyond the north-forty well. You're welcome to take it, Mr. Ginsberg."

Ryan had rarely seen so many people gathered together in one place.

Baron Edgar Brennan sat in the front pew, on the right with his brother Rufus. An enormously fat young man sat next along. Ryan figured he must be the nephew, Layton, pilot of the air wag. He was dressed in a suit of dark blue leather and was so large that it looked as though the bench seat might tip up if anyone else stood. The last of the worshipers in that privileged pew was Carla Petersen, who had changed her riding breeches for a pleated skirt, but was otherwise wearing the same clothes as when they'd met her in the town hall. She had turned around as Ryan led his group in, favoring them with a smile. A smile that seemed, to Ryan, to be directed rather more at J.B. than at the rest of them.

There were no children in the congregation. No one showed undue interest in the outlanders as they were shown to a bench on the left, about halfway from the front.

Zombie and his biker brothers acted as stewards, marshaling everyone into their seats, making sure that there was no smoking. They eventually lined up near the altar, looking like sec bouncers at a particularly unsalubrious gaudy house.

Ryan had been particularly interested in seeing what the Mote family looked like. Before the festivities had begun, during the period of waiting for their arrival, he had studied the inside of their strange church.

There was a large balcony toward the rear, which had been extended more recently to run around both sides of the old theater. The altar was on a dais, between old and faded curtains decorated with huge, golden tassels. The chairs for the members of the Mote family were more like thrones, covered in gilt and crudely carved in ornate, writhing snake shapes. The rear wall, behind the platform, was obscured by a bright mural.

"Delicate, isn't it, lover?" Krysty whispered, seeing where Ryan's eye was focused.

"Sure. Like having a war wag run over your face is delicate."

The painting centered on an absolutely massive mutie rattler. Bigger by far than the one that they'd butchered out in the desert, it had a silver collar with the name Mote blazoned across it in scarlet. In its jaws was a diminutive figure that was kicking its legs. There was a 3-D holo effect built into it that made the head swing hypnotically from side to side and the tiny feet wave helplessly.

Around the edge of the picture were a number of oil-drilling rigs, vanishing away into a distance that was blurred by a poor perspective. At the very edge there was a crude version of the Sierras, snowcapped, tumbling out of the mural.

The colors were extremely basic — glaring greens and crimsons, with sickly yellows and a sky of an eye-blinking and unreal blue.

Ryan's ruminations stopped suddenly when he realized that the prayers were over and Norman Mote was about to speak.

He stood a little above average height and weighed about two-forty. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, the mane of sculpted hair a uniform silver gray. His suit was also in light gray, skillfully cut to conceal his spreading waist and stubby legs. He had the puffy eyes of a regular and long-time drinker. The hands that gestured from behind the reading stand were soft and white, with manicured nails.

Norman Mote's voice was calm and friendly, warm and welcoming. Ryan immediately disliked and mistrusted the man.

"Mah dear, dear friends," he began, smiling broadly around the packed building. "Welcome to our little morning get-together. Blessed is the worm!"

"And blessed are the scales thereof," responded the congregation.

Jak was sitting to Ryan's right. He put his face closer and whispered, "Fucked if find chilled their double-best god, huh?"

Ryan nodded. There hadn't been any choice in chilling the giant mutie rattler, but that might not go down well if anyone in Snakefish found out about it.

Mote continued to smile around, rubbing his hands together in an odd washing motion. Ryan heard Doc whispering something about the perfumes of Arabia, but he didn't get the reference.

"We have new brothers and sisters to welcome to our humble gathering," Mote continued. "I will ask them to introduce themselves to us, one by one. Perhaps, Mr. Cawdor, you would care to begin to do the honors for us?"

"Sure, Reverend. Name's Ryan Cawdor and I'd like to thank the kindly ville of Snakefish for helping me and my friends."

"I'm Krysty Wroth and I'd like to back up what Ryan said. Thanks."

Norman Mote held up an imperious hand. "Such thanks do credit. But there are those in the ville who think that generosity begins at home. Too much kindness to those from outside means less wealth for those within Snakefish."

"Wealth isn't all," someone countered from the front of the congregation. Ryan was sure it was Baron Edgar Brennan or his brother, Rufus.

"Some say, some say," Marianne Mote called from her golden throne.

It was the first time she'd spoken, but the co-guardian of the temple made a big impression, just by sitting there.

She was short, struggling to make four-ten. Marianne was also struggling, by the look of her, to keep her waist down under forty inches. She wore very heavy makeup, which made her look like an aging gaudy queen. She was dressed in a loose, rustling gown of what was either snakeskin or a very clever imitation of it. And her belt was silver, like the collar that Ryan remembered all too clearly from around the throat of Azrael. She wore shoes with totteringly high heels. The piled-up hair was of a shimmering blond color — obviously a wig. Marianne Mote was one of the finest bits of mutton dressed as lamb that Ryan had ever seen.

Her eyes had the flat, incurious dullness of a killer shark.

Norman turned to her and gave a slight bow, moving to face the congregation once more. "I must apologize to everyone here in the name of the Great Worm for the interruptions. Pray carry on introducing yourselves, outlanders."

"John Dix. Good t'be here."

"Jak Lauren. Same."

"Richard Neal Ginsberg. I'd like to say that I appreciate the kindness shown to me personally. Good to see strangers treated so well. Thank you."

"Lori Quint."

"Theophilus Algernon Tanner." Doc bowed deeply to everyone around him and glanced up at the people in the balconies. "I've been to a lot of places and have seen a lot of things, which is better than seeing a lot of places and being a lot of things. I guess." The old man shook his head disappointedly. "Not tuned in for my kind of humor. Well, let it pass. So it goes. I'll simply add my own gratitude to those of you who've been kind to us."

He sat down and Norman Mote clapped his hands together, very softly and gently. "We thank you all, brothers and sisters. We trust that in the days to come you'll all find some way of putting back into Snakefish what you're taking out."

"Most generous little ville in the west," Krysty whispered sarcastically.

The service was complex and long. There were innumerable readings and prayers, not all of them centering on snakes. But most of them did. Some of the religious elements were more traditional, with hymns that were more recognizable. But again and again either Norman or Marianne Mote returned to the reptilian theme — coiling, striking and crushing.

Their son, Joshua, preached a short sermon, which he read with stumbling difficulty from a series of large cue cards. He was in his early twenties, had sagging, unhealthy skin and puffy eyes, and wore a shirt of pale blue silk and a neck thong holding a large, polished nugget of turquoise. He was barefooted. Blond curls peeked out from under the brim of a black Stetson-style hat. His voice was faltering and high-pitched.

His reading was a supposed parable about a family who owned a lot of wheat but gave so much away that they began to run short and suffer themselves for their generosity.

"For wheat, read 'oil,' I guess," Ryan whispered to Krysty.

Swiftly becoming obvious was the extent to which the ville was divided. Baron Brennan had seemed a friendly and generous old man, but the roots of a long-buried bitterness were becoming exposed. And it was also becoming clear that the baron's hold on the power in Snakefish was as nebulous as the dew upon a summer pasture.

Joshua finished his reading and sat down again on his chair.

"Before our final prayer for the morning," Norman Mote announced, "I shall give out one or two important notices."

Ryan saw that there was a strip of wooden carving above the stage. The lettering, deeply incised and in shadow, was difficult to read. By putting his head on one side he was able to decipher it: The Ophidian Way Is the True Way.

"What's ophidian, Doc?" he muttered.

"Means to do with snakes. That's all," came the reply. "From 'ophis,' a snake in Greek."

"Please shut down on the talking during services, Brother Ryan," Norman Mote called with the sweetest and most conciliatory smile, a smile that fell a good few miles short of reaching his eyes.

"Sorry, Brother Norman," Ryan replied.

"The notices. Sister Laurentia is holding a clambake on Thursday next. Three in the afternoon, is it not, Sister? I see her nodding in the balcony there. Praise the Worm, Sister."

A faint "Amen" filtered down from the gallery above them.

"Some bad news. Zombie has reported to me that the base on the fringes of Death Valley has been raided twice more by stickies. I shall be talking to Baron Edgar to find out what he intends to do about this further incursion to our gas supply." There was a buzz of chatter. Ryan was able to see that Edgar Brennan was talking animatedly to Carla Petersen and to his nephew, Layton.

"Go chill the coil-bound mutie bastards!" someone yelled from the back. Ryan would have laid jack that it was the gun dealer, John Dern.

"Amen, amen to that, brother," Mote called, lifting his hands for quiet. "One more thing. At feeding last night, there was no sign of our beloved Azrael. Belial and the others came to the call, but not Prince Azrael himself."

"Could be shedding, Pa," Joshua Mote hissed from the rear of the platform.

"No, Apostolic Apprentice Joshua, no. It is the wrong time for Azrael to shed. No. It has happened before that he has missed a feeding."

"Maybe caught him a juicy stickie," Marianne Mote suggested.

"Maybe, my dearest. Maybe that. Anyway, I'd like eyes and ears kept open for any news of Azrael Twelve. That's all. We'll end on our usual prayer, brothers and sisters. Let us pray."

There was a series of pattered responses, similar to those that had opened the service. A final, swelling "Amen," and it was time to leave.

As they filed out, there was a double line of the Last Heroes, standing so casually out in the bright morning sunshine. Zombie caught Ryan's eye.

"Reverend Mote'd like a word, brother. His room at the back."

"I'd like to go and see him." He turned to the others. "Be out soon. Wait for me."

Zombie walked through the empty church, escorted by Riddler and Dick the Hat. Ryan strolled at his elbow, deliberately taking his time.

"Come on in," Norman Mote invited. "Zombie, you wait in here. Other two outside the door. Don't want to be interrupted till I say so."

The Mote family was relaxing in a suite of elegant rooms behind the temple. Norman was smoking a large cigar, feet resting on a table. Joshua was picking his nose and thumbing through a crudely colored porn mag. Marianne had changed into a loose gown of chem-cloud-pink chiffon that swirled loosely about her as she moved. Ryan couldn't help noticing that she hadn't been very careful about the fastening and it kept swinging open to show the top of her thighs. The reverend mother looked like she didn't believe in wearing panties.

"Nice church," Ryan said. "Good number of the folk of Snakefish there."

"Break their piss-ant knees if they didn't come," Joshua mumbled.

"Now, now." Norman smiled. "Boy will have his joke, Ryan. You understand that? You got any children of your own?"

He was taken off guard by the question. It had been such a long time since anyone had asked him that. Oddly Krysty had never asked him. She'd talked about their future together. Even kind of hinted that maybe one day she'd like kids. But she'd never asked him...

"No. I don't think..."

"You don't think, Ryan?" Marianne Mote laughed. Close up the resemblances he'd noticed were stronger. The gaudy queen with the dead eyes. And she was years older than he'd even guessed.

"That's right."

"Mean you don't know? Lots of little Ryans running around Deathlands looking for their long-lost daddy? I declare!"

Norman resumed control of the conversation. "Just wanted a word, Ryan. One or two folks say you and your... party look mighty like a load of mercies. What d'you say to that?"

"I say that I don't like answering the same question more than once."

There was a shocked silence in the room and, for the first time, Ryan realized that he was dealing with real power.

"Daddy asks a question, folks answer it," Joshua hissed.

"That's right," Zombie added. "Reverend Mote says 'jump' and you just say 'how high?' and do it."

But Norman wasn't thrown by Ryan's attitude. "Now this is the core and kernel of why I wanted a quiet word. I see that you seven outlanders have the look of... of folks that can handle themselves if there was any trouble. I just wanted to satisfy myself that you hadn't been hired by..." He paused then carried on. "By anyone in the ville to take their side if there was to be some sort of difficulty."

"Or firefight," Joshua said loudly.

"Yeah. A scale-blasted firefight," Zombie enthused, clenching his fists.

Marianne swept closer to Ryan, so that he could smell a cloying scent, overlaying the stale odor of her body.

"We don't believe it will come to that, Ryan. But you have arrived, no doubt by coincidence, at a key time for the ville. There is change in the air. Most of us believe that what comes from the ville belongs to the ville. All of it."

"The gas," Ryan said.

Norman nodded. "Indeed. Man of perception, Ryan Cawdor. I saw that right away. Now, if... let's imagine you might have been hired by someone." He raised up a hasty hand. "I know what you say about happening by. First time's happenstance. Second time it's pure luck. Third time and you're on your back staring up at the sky. We'd double whatever you'd been paid. Double it, clear and free."

"Bear it in mind," Ryan said.

Mote moved closer. "I'm not a man to fuck around with."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice flat and steady. "Stick your prick into my business, and you'll get it cut off."

"Yeah, Reverend."

"Go and have a nice day now. Zombie, see Brother Cawdor here off these premises. Good day."

"Well?" Krysty pressed when Ryan joined his friends.

Ryan took a deep breath of the morning air, tasting the sickly taint of gasoline. He grinned. "Like you said, lover. Friendliest little ville in the whole fire-blasted west."