Clara’s people accept this hypocrisy in silence, except for Willie Hall who lifts his Bible in the air and calls out: “These yere rich men is fulla violence, these inhabitants hereof is a-speakin’ lies, and their tongues is deceitful in their mouth! Micah 6:12!” And that stirs some of Abner Baxter’s people, slowly creeping up the hill below, to shout Biblical epithets and heap scorn of their own, though Abner himself remains silent. “God’s agonna mizzerbly destroy these wicked men, deceivin’ and bein’ deceived!”
“No, no,” says the banker with a forced smile. “It is precisely the truth that we seek and freedom from deceitful—”
“Please, please,” says Darren, raising his hand and waving away this meaningless preamble. “I have the impression, Mr. Cavanaugh,” he says, hearing his own voice crisp and clear in the midday quiet, “that, although he is hidden from us, you have brought someone to show to us.”
That catches the banker off-guard, indeed everyone on the Mount, except maybe Billy Don. Who is probably frowning, poor boy. The banker draws back and studies Darren soberly. “Yes, it’s true, young man,” he says. “That empty grave you’re standing beside is intended, I understand, for the remains of your founder, the lapsed Catholic Giovanni Bruno, whom you believe is dead. But he is not. You have been misled. He has been professionally cared for these past five years in the mental institution, where he was sent after the criminal outrages on this hill. Here he is. Mr. Giovanni Bruno.”
The pathetic creature in hospital pajamas who appears at the top of the hill, held up between two burly white-coated male nurses, is shaved, nearly bald, pale as paper, thin and stooped, glassy-eyed. Clearly, he has been heavily drugged. His jaw hangs slackly, his naked big-eared head tips toward one shoulder, his knees sag. A poor bewildered man, whoever he is, being used cynically by corrupt authorities. An empty shell. Even if it is Bruno, it is not Bruno. People shake their fists and there are shouts of “Impostor!” and “Fake!” Colin runs hysterically at them—“That’s not him! I saw him die!”—then runs away, runs at them again, runs away, in a wild shrieking toing and froing. Several of those on the hilltop above them duck in alarm, but the banker solemnly holds his ground, watching Colin as if watching an animal in the zoo. Darren catches Colin as he staggers breathlessly by, pulls him under his arm. He is all a-tremble, as after his nightmares. There is a distant murmur of thunder. “Easy, Colin. It’s all right. We’ll make them go away now.”
“I can show you proof,” the banker says.
“Why don’t you people leave us alone?” Clara asks plaintively.
“That’s like asking the body to pay no attention to its cancers,” the banker replies, and there are angry mutterings from both groups of Brunist Followers.
Darren hands the mine pick to Colin—“Hold this for me, Colin. Careful! Don’t let it fall!”—and walks over to ask Clara’s permission to approach the visitors. She nods and he climbs the hill toward them, clutching her dodecagonal medallion concealed under his tunic, feeling no fear but uncertain as to what he might do next. Each side of Clara’s medallion stands for something, as defined by the First Followers — like ascent and descent, the disaster and rescue, etc. — with three sides representing illumination, mystic fusion, and transformation, which Darren has come to think of as the three final stages of the Rapture, something Clara is incapable of understanding, justifying his appropriation. Illumination is what he is seeking now, and he rubs that edge of the medallion, and as he does so, the old hill seems to wobble and darken and black bits in its soil sparkle as if to illuminate his path up the slope. Clouds have rolled in overhead; more distinct rumbles of thunder can be heard in the near distance. The banker has removed his sunglasses to glance up at the sky before gazing imperiously down upon Darren. A big man made bigger by the hilltop he commands. Darren returns the gaze calmly, finding power in those unblinking gray-blue eyes, but also a vast, soulless emptiness. Beyond redemption. Aware of it, and therefore disillusioned and embittered. “I only wish to speak to your prisoner,” Darren says.
“He is not a prisoner.” He nods at the two nurses and they bring him forward.
Darren senses a ghostly presence; the man exudes a chill. The sores on his arms could be signs of decomposition. A resurrected dead man? He thinks of that open grave at the old cemetery. The man’s eyes flicker over Darren’s tunic, the first signs of some kind of life, then over Darren’s shoulder at the hill and the others on it. Perhaps in recognition: if it is he, he has been here before. Watching him closely, Darren realizes that though he will not say so to the others, almost certainly this is indeed Giovanni Bruno. Or was. A kind of ghostly shadow. He is expressionless on the surface, but something is stirring underneath. There is another rumble of thunder. Louder. Closer. The man looks up as though in anticipation. Or terror. They all look up. When they look down again, the man’s eyes are closed and he is struggling to speak. “Dark…” he says. He sounds like he is strangling. He opens his eyes, his gaze fixed upon Darren. Darren feels momentarily pinned in space. “Light,” he says in that same strangled croak, and Darren knows he has been privileged. Dark…light. A false vision? A paradoxical one? Or a true vision that is itself dark and fearsome? Blinding. Darren, his back to Clara, risks reaching into his tunic and pulling out the medallion. He shows it to the man. The nurses are unable to stop the man from crossing himself in the Catholic way and falling to his knees, his hands pressed together in worship. It is precisely the effect Darren was hoping for. Or, rather, that he supposed God would grant. Then the man’s eyes roll back showing their whites, a kind of unearthly wail emerges, and frothy bubbles appear on his lips; he is trembling all over like a rag being shaken. Darren tucks the medallion back.
The nurses, cursing, their needles out, give Darren a hard shove, sending him staggering backwards, whereupon, with an angry shout, his friends from the camp charge the nurses and something of a scuffle breaks out. The banker imposes himself, threatening arrests in a bellowing voice. The police draw their weapons, and it is all over as soon as it has begun. The one they say is the Prophet Bruno is carried away, now completely lifeless. Is he even breathing? Was he before? As they turn to leave, the banker announces through the megaphone, his jaws clenched: “As a result of the barbaric murder of the county sheriff and the arrival in the area of dangerous elements known to be associated with your unlawful cult, let me advise you, the National Guard is being flown in tomorrow and state troopers are on their way. This hill will be off limits.”