It Is Well With My Soul

The Preacher turns to the congregation, a gleam of reverent fervour in his eye. “Brothers and Sisters, to commemorate the returning of Christ from the grave, we give unto our God the flesh and blood of man. Now join me in song as we divide the spirit from the flesh.” The congregation, with a practised yet present excitement, not unlike a crowd at a rally, begins to sing the hymn in question. The name need not be spoken, everyone knew what was meant, and the tune by heart.

The cage door at the back of the crowd creaks open, and the sack-headed man stuffed inside flops out onto the dirt below. The sack-headed man, now free from his cage, attempts to stand and flee this place before two strongmen, scarred and deformed, with dents in their heads and noses removed, grab him by his arms and force him down the aisle, his knees scraping across the ground.

The strongmen drag the sack-headed man up the wooden stairs, splinters piercing the sack-headed man’s legs, and throw him upon the predella and stand on either side of the altar. The Preacher cues the congregation to keep singing and rips the sack off the no longer sack-headed man’s face. His hypnotic eyes meet those of the man on the floor. “I pray the Lord have mercy on your soul sinner. Let this sacrifice absolve not only your sins but the sins of everyone here.”

The man spits in the face of the Preacher. “God will never forgive your sins you old fuck. May the fires of hell claim your eternal soul.” The Preacher wipes the spit off his face and nods to the two strongmen. The strongmen grab the man and stand him up on the altar. They then slip his crown of fibre over his head and around his neck. The Preacher walks over to the lever beside the altar. “I have lived a pious life sinner, I lead a community of well respected and good people, and the lord is so demanding of fresh sacrifice. Any last words sinner?”

The man, now with rope around his neck, looks around the gallows that this town calls a church and shouts over the singing crowd. “ALL OF YOU HAVE LIVED IN SIN AND YOU WILL DIE IN SIN! WHEN THE LAST HAIR ON YOUR PREACHER’S HEAD TURNS GRAY I SHALL RETURN TO SEEK VENGEANCE! SO LET IT BE WRIT-” The Preacher pulls the lever, dropping the false floor out from under the man, leaving him dangling, clutching his neck. The man looks at the Preacher as the light fades from his eyes and mumbles “so let it be done.” As everything fades to black, the man hears the crowd still singing.

It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well with my soul

The Preacher looks at the body of the dangling man, now lifeless and grins. Another communion well made, it was time for his congregation to drink after the hymn was over. Everything was well in the town. His god smiles up at the town. Soon this god would be free.

After the service was concluded, the strongmen took the lifeless body of the man down the hill and tossed him upon the pile. One strongman looks to the other and asks, “You think god wants this?”

“I think you need to keep your mouth shut. Something is listening, and if it’s God I don’t want him angry at us.”

“All this blood… I don’t think there’s anythin’ about this in the good book”

The other strongman sighs. “Exodus 7:17-20, Revelations 16:3 and 16:4, Acts 2:19-20. Do I need to go on”

“Well…yeah. B-but that’s all old testament shit. What about Jesus? Love thy neighbour as you love thyself and that shit?”

“LOVE THY NEIGHBOR?!” The second strongman cackles at the thought. “Jesus? The man who slayed the lepers? The pig slaughterer? The one who made his disciples consume the flesh and blood of man? Who cut off the ear of the lawman and hung Judas for reporting his crime? That Jesus? You been drinkin’ again?”

“I remember learnin’ it differently. Though it was a while ago I suppose.”

“Man, you really ain't payin’ attention during sermon is you?"

Their business done, the two strongmen head back to town

“Suppose not.”

Some years later down the track, the Preacher looks in the mirror and notices a single grey hair in his once pure black hair. He considers it for a moment, wondering at it, but also wondering why he’s spent so much time on it. It's just grey hair, not a harbinger. Suddenly, the Preacher is taken out of his trance by his wife calling him for dinner. He straightens up and heads down for dinner. His reflection, grinning like a madman, watches him walk out of the room. “Soon.” it mouths.

Many years later, when most of the old congregation have either gotten old or died, the Preacher greets his reflection in the mirror, wondering where the time went. His previously shiny black hair had gone all grey, and his once smooth face was now a wrinkled old piece of leather, scarred and sun worn. If he was being honest with himself he had maybe a good few years. But, hopefully, through Providence, he could live to 100. He stares into his mirror, and his reflection stares back. After some prayerful moments spent in self-reflection, he hears his wife call him down for easter dinner. The sermon today didn’t go well, the sacrifice got away, but he was eventually recaptured and killed. To err is to be human as they say, and the Preacher was sure that god would forgive. That’s when the screaming started. The Preacher, shocked, glances at the mirror as he runs out of the room. His reflection smiles a big toothy smile and waves goodbye.

The Preacher runs downstairs to find the door open and the town ablaze. Blood flows through the streets, and the screams of burning women and children fill the air. The Preacher stares in abject horror at the scene of destruction unfolding before him, completely missing the shattered front door lying on the ground beside him. A shot rings out behind the Preacher. He turns around to find his dining room in a state of complete chaos. The chairs have been thrown against the walls, shattered into tiny pieces. The dinner, carefully laid out on the table, is now strewn across the room. And blood, blood covers the once-white satin tablecloth, it covers the wallpaper, it leads in a trail to the living room. The Preacher follows the trail of blood to the living room, where his wife lies bleeding on the floor. The Preacher runs over to his dying wife, cradling her dying body in his arms, screaming at the sky, begging for his god to answer him. And in his moment of weakness, with his head to the sky and his neck exposed, the noose descended around him, tightening and dragging him out into the street. The Preacher struggles, tugging at the rope around his neck in vain. A raspy voice emanates from the space behind him. “I pray the Lord have mercy on your soul sinner, but I don’t think he likes you very much.”
“Who are you?” The preacher spits in-between ragged breaths.
“I am the righteous hand of God, sinner. I am your reckoning, the holy fire sent to burn your town to the ground.”
They reach the gallows the Preacher calls a church. The stranger drags the Preacher up the wooden stairs, splinters piercing the Preacher’s legs, and throws him upon the predella. The Preacher is finally able to get a look at his kidnapper. The man stands tall, covered from head to toe in black leather. Clad in a tattered trench coat with two 6 guns strapped to his waist, his face hidden in shadow by his black hat, the Drifter stands on the predella. The Preacher spits at the drifter and yells “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?! DO YOU HAVE THE SLIGHTEST IDEA WHO YOU DECIDED TO FUCK WITH TODAY?! I AM A MAN OF THE LORD! HIS GRACE SMILES DOWN UPON ME! I AM BLESSED WITH HIS PROVIDENCE, DO YOU HEAR ME?! I AM THE LIGHT! THE HOLY MAN OF THIS CURSED PLACE! I AM THE RIGHT HAND OF THE FA-hrrrk.” The Preacher’s mad rant was cut short by the drifter yanking up on the rope around his neck. The Drifter drags the Preacher over to the gallows and begins to attach the rope.
“You are none of those things. No holy power has given you grace or providence. You are not a pious man, you are a charlatan, a thief, robbing men of their lives and this town of their souls. You haven't changed since we were last here, have you?” The Drifter lifts his head, letting the Preacher get a good look at his face. The Preacher screams in terror. The face under the hat was a skull, bleached in the sun, hollow and lifeless. “We met many years ago on this day, on this very spot in fact.” chatters the skull. “I told you we would meet again someday, and that your town would die. Today is that day” The Drifter keeps working on gallows, making sure everything is in working order. “Can you hear the song they sing, the souls of the damned in that town there?” The Preacher shuts his eyes and tries to ignore the unholy abomination before him. He hears the screams of people and buildings burning, and out of that chaos and death, a song floats into the Preacher’s ears. The Preacher stares at the burning city, mouth agape in shock. Almost as if the city itself was singing a song it knew by heart.

“NO! NO!” The Preacher cries out, struggling against the rope, suddenly very aware of his situation.

The Drifter laughs. “Oh yes. It appears these dead souls sing for you as they sang for me those many years ago.”

“Please,” the Preacher begs, “please let me go, I’ll do anything you want!”

The Drifter grins. “Anything?”

“ANYTHING!”

The Drifter straightens up and walks over to the Altar.

“Then die.”

The Drifter pulls the lever and the floor drops out from the Preacher. As the Preacher swings back and forth, clutching his neck, and his sight begins to fade, the Drifter sings with the city.

It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well with my soul