Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [97]
He stopped then and got out, peering among the ramshackle houses and sheds to the cluster of buildings that formed the town center. One street led in and out. Windblown pieces of paper and old leaves were piled against the walls, and broken branches and scraps of tar paper lay scattered about. A few of the roofs had collapsed in on the houses, and most of the window glass was gone. Derelict cars, trucks, and even tractors sat rusting away in yards and in the surrounding fields. A farm town, probably close to three hundred years old, its life ended perhaps twenty years ago, it sat waiting for someone to reclaim it. But no one ever would.
He was sizing up a grove of withered oak trees for a place to park the AV when the old man walked out of the shadows from between the buildings. He was tall and stooped with white hair and skin that was leathery and deeply lined. He must have been handsome once, and Logan supposed he still was—in that rough, weathered sort of way old men sometimes were. Even from twenty yards away and with the light failing, he could see the clear blue light of the other’s eyes.
“Good evening to you, Brother,” the old man greeted. He walked up and extended his hand.
Logan shook it. “Evening.”
“Come a long way? You look tired.”
“I’ve been driving since sunrise.”
The old man nodded toward the freeway. “Hard work on these roads. See anyone on your way?”
“Just shadows and ghosts.”
“That’s most of what there is now. Might I inquire of your name? It lends a familiarity to conversation to be on a first-name basis.” His smile was warm and disarming. Logan shrugged. “I’m Logan Tom.”
“Brother Logan,” the other acknowledged and released his hand. “You may call me Preacher. Everybody does. It defines both my profession and my identity.
My own name ceased to have relevance a long time ago—so long ago I can barely recall it. I’m simply Preacher now, a shepherd to my flock.”
Logan glanced past him to the deserted town. “Your flock seems as if it might have scattered.”
The Preacher smiled. “Well, as they say, looks are deceiving. My flock of fifty years ago, when I was a young minister starting out, is dead or gone, almost the whole of them, along with the church in which I gave my sermons and spoke of my faith. But when you undertake a ministry to those seeking guidance, you don’t pick and choose your flock or your pulpit; you take what comes your way and minister where you can.”
Logan nodded. “A few of those in need have found their way here, have they?”
The Preacher leaned forward, brow furrowing. “Are you a believer in the Word, Brother Logan?”
Logan hesitated, and the clear blue eyes fixed on him. “I believe in the Word, Preacher,” he said, wary now. “Maybe not the same Word you believe in, though.”
“I ask not to be rude, but because I have heard that there are servants of the Word who carry black staffs of the sort you grip so firmly in your right hand.”
Logan glanced down. He had forgotten he was holding the staff. It was so much a part of him by now that he had taken it with him when he left the Lightning with barely a second thought.
“The staff and its bearer are the Word’s own cleansing fire, I am told,” the Preacher went on with a hushed reverence. “You are welcome here, sir. In this poor outback, in this withered and dusty gathering place of wounded souls, we still do what we can to serve the Word and her Knights.” He smiled reassuringly. “Can I offer you something of food and drink? We haven’t much, but we would be honored to share it with you.”
Logan almost said no, then decided that doing so would be an unnecessary insult and a disappointment to the old man. What did it hurt for him to accept the invitation? He had planned on spending the night here anyway, and it would be nice to eat indoors for a change.
“I can only stay a little while, Preacher,” he said.
The old man nodded. “Let me be honest with you, Brother Logan. This invitation is well meant, but selfish, too. It would mean a great deal to those to whom I minister if they could visit with you. Trial and tribulation and time