the black horizon. Was it happening again? Her knees buckled slightly as the vibrations in her brain persisted.
She glanced back toward the house and was not surprised to see Mai Lin appear on the front porch. Her amah had an uncanny way of knowing when Grace needed her. She squeezed her husband's arm, and he looked down at her strangely. Had she called out to Mai Lin, was that why her servant had come outside?
Grace swayed as the sunset pulled her gaze toward it. She stared into that bloody ball and saw red in a Chinese chamber pot, red on her linen nightgown. Her knees gave way, but the Reverend kept her upright and held her tight to his side. Twice Mai Lin had come to her in the middle of the night when Grace had needed her most. The old woman had rubbed ointments and herbs into her skin, swinging incense to calm her. Grace had survived, although her two unborn babies had not, but the Reverend was correct. It had all been too much for even a sturdy Midwestern girl.
Grace gripped him now in hopes that his unwavering stance would stop the dizziness in her head and erase the streaks of red behind her shut eyelids. After a long moment, she came to her own rescue with a biblical truth: the thought of being made of her husband's rib seemed right. She opened her eyes and saw that he was Adam surveying his world. And she was but Eve, the lesser one, and grateful for it. She must hold on to that perspective at all costs, although other, perturbingly discordant notions had started to seep into her mind even here in this distant outpost.
Then, far off, from the direction of the smoke, they heard the faint rumble of fast-approaching horses. Two specks came into view, and within a few moments the smudges of motion became riders charging their way across the open plain.
"Nothing to concern ourselves about," the Reverend said to his wife, "Most likely men of trade on their way to market. Perhaps the cow belongs to them."
When the horses came within fifty yards, he could see that the riders were not dressed as was customary for the region, but more like nomads of the borderlands. He had seen their type in his more distant travels toward the Gobi and the Mongolian steppes. They wore sheepskin coats draped heavily over their thick shoulders. Tattered rags stuck out beneath the matted fur, as if they had been on the road for some time and had sampled a piece of attire from every district they had passed through. Smoke smudges darkened their faces, and oily strips of cloth and strings of leather held back their slick black hair. Around their waists and across their chests hung amulets and metal canisters to store snuff and other sinful potions. Long sabers slapped against their legs, and daggers poked from their belts.
The Reverend handed Wesley to Grace, who slipped around behind him as the horses pulled up abruptly in front of them. The two men began shouting. The older one gestured for the younger one to hop down. He did and circled close.
The Reverend squared his shoulders and straightened to his full six foot four inches. He stared hard into the younger man's bearded face and did not move or betray anything but calm. The older man on horseback pointed from the Reverend to the cow and back again.
With an uncustomary chuckle, the Reverend said in English,
"Why, it's only the cow they're after." Then he spoke in a local dialect and asked the men, "Is this your beast, then?"
The men froze, apparently astonished that the white man seemed to know their tongue. The younger man came near again and poked at the Reverend's topcoat with a filthy finger.
"Or perhaps you know to whom it belongs?" Grace asked.
The Reverend grimaced. While he was proud of her ability to pick up the language, he also knew the rogues would not approve of a woman speaking to them directly.
The two men suddenly turned to her and let out a startling cry that echoed on the still plain. The Reverend's jaw tightened as the younger man took his knife from its sheath. Wesley began to whimper, and the Reverend patted his head. The man's dagger began to shadow Grace's chin. The tip of the blade flipped up her lace collar, and she let out a small, involuntary gasp. The young man laughed, and the Reverend had no choice but to step forward and speak more forcefully.
"Gentlemen, we have no claim on that cow. If you have a dispute, it is with the owner. We wish to pass in peace. We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and intend to follow the exhortation of live and let live. We assume that you will do the same."
The older man's face tightened. "Lord Jesus?" he asked.
The Reverend's eyes grew bright. "Yes, you have heard of him?"
"Lord Jesus, king of the Ghost Men?" the older man asked.
The Reverend turned to Grace. "How remarkable. They know of Him and the Holy Ghost already." He looked to the men, and the edges of his lips rose in a genuine smile.
Surely, the miracle of salvation could cleanse even the filthiest of louts. And the Reverend was fast surmising that louts indeed they were: the smoke smoldering on the horizon seemed irrefutable evidence of what these hooligans had torched along the way.
The older man suddenly began to shout again. He let out a hideous cackle followed by a long, low growl. Staring down into the Reverend's blue eyes, he spat at his chest. The man thrust his saber at the sky. "No Lord Jesus! Death to Lord Jesus!"
He released a stream of sounds the likes of which the Reverend had never heard before. He felt certain the man was the devil incarnate, screaming with every intention of waking the gods— both his and theirs. The Reverend had met with fury and treachery before. He knew that to stand in the face of it, to neither turn one's cheek nor one's back but to straighten the shoulders to face one's fate, was the only way to illustrate the true strength of the Lord. He stared into the man's wild face, ignoring the spit and the curses and the swords.
Grace began to whimper and held tighter to his waist, pressing Wesley against him, too, until the child clung to his father's back like a frightened monkey.
"Please," she said, "let us alone. Take the blasted cow, we don't care. Let us be. Certainly, we have done nothing to harm you."
These words seemed to infuriate the older man beyond all else, and he threw his thick leg down over the horse. He landed with a thud on the ground, his fur boots sending up a cloud of dust. He raised his sword over Grace's head and began chanting in words the Reverend did not understand. Not words so much as sounds, rocking and keening, as if he had experienced a great loss. The older man bowed his head in soulful prayer. After a long, low moan, he looked up and clapped his hands.
The younger man appeared before the Reverend and thrust his hand into the minister's breast pocket. He snatched the white handkerchief neatly folded there. His grimy fingers held it aloft, whipping it in the breeze. The thing unfurled as he waved it in circles, and the older man laughed, although not as maniacally as before. He seemed somehow calmed by the sight of the small white flag on the breeze.
The Reverend was relieved that his wife did not insist on further communication. It was best to remain as neutral as possible. The dangerous men seemed to be releasing their fury, and perhaps that meant they would move on soon. In the meantime, the barbarians appeared positively light-hearted now. As the younger one waved the handkerchief, the two joined arms in a little dance. They each held a corner of the cloth aloft and spun around it like peasants at a festival, two simpletons rejoicing over the harvest. The Reverend managed to pat Grace's arm in feeble encouragement. The older man appeared to be humming to himself. Then, as abruptly as their prancing had begun, it ended. The older man clapped once more, and the younger man let go of his corner of the flimsy fabric and the dance was over.
The older one wiped the Reverend's handkerchief across his own perspiring forehead. He held
