Page 8 of The Serpent King

“So…how are you doing?” Dill asked.

“I’m living one day at a time, praise Jesus.”

“Are you…getting enough to eat?” Prison small talk was hard. Not even the weather was a topic of mutual interest.

“My needs are met. How are you and your mother?”

“Surviving. Working hard.”

His intense eyes glittered with a strange light that made Dill feel dark inside. “I’m glad to hear that. Work hard. Pay off our debts, so I can rebuild my ministry when my time here is done. Perhaps you can join me if you’ve grown mighty in faith by then.”

Dill squirmed. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, school starts tomorrow.”

His father rested his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers as if he were praying. “It’s about that time of year, isn’t it? And how will you spend this year in school? Will you be a soldier for Christ and spread the good news of salvation and its signs to your peers? Will you do the work I cannot?”

Dill shifted again in his seat and looked away. He didn’t like making eye contact with his father. His father had the kind of eyes that made people do things they knew could hurt them. “I—I mean, I don’t think my classmates really care that much what I have to say.” Perfect. A reminder of how unpopular I am combined with a reminder of how much I disappoint my dad, all rolled into one package. Visiting prison sure is fun.

His father scooted in, his eyes boring into Dill, a conspiratorial hush to his voice. “Then don’t say. Sing. Lift that voice God’s given you. Use those hands that God blessed with music. Spread the gospel through song. Young people love music.”

Dill stifled a bitter laugh. “Yeah…but not music about picking up snakes and stuff. That kind of music isn’t that popular.”

“The Spirit will move in them the way it moved in our congregation when you sang and played. And when I get out, our congregation will have grown tenfold.”

How about I just try to survive the school year? How about I don’t do anything to add to the ridicule? “Look, Dad, your—our…situation…makes it hard for me to talk to my classmates about stuff like this. They don’t really want to hear it, you know?”

His father snorted. “So we surrender to Lucifer’s device to ruin our signs ministry? We hand him victory without argument?”

“No, I—I don’t—” The surrealness of being made to feel unworthy by a prison inmate set in, preventing Dill from finishing his thought.

“Remember how you would write psalms and sing them with the praise band? Remember that?”

“Yeah. I guess. Yeah.”

Dill’s father sat back in his seat, looking off, shaking his head slightly. “Those songs were beautiful.” He stared back at Dill. “Sing one for me.”

“You mean—like right here? Now?” Dill looked for any sign that his father was joking. That would be an exceedingly rare occurrence, but still.

“Yes. The one you wrote. ‘And Christ Will Make Us Free.’ ”

“I don’t have my guitar or anything. Plus, wouldn’t it be…weird?” Dill nodded at the bored-looking guards talking among themselves.

His father turned and glanced at the guards. He turned back with a gleam in his eye. “Do you think they think we’re not weird?”

That’s a fair point. Dill blushed. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. He quickly and quietly sang the requested number a capella. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards stop conversing to listen.

“More,” his father said, applauding. “A new one.”

“I…haven’t really written any new ones for a while.”

“You’ve given up music?”

“Not exactly. I just write…different stuff now.”

His father’s face darkened. “Different stuff. God did not pour out music on your tongue so that you could sing the praises of men and whoredom.”

“I don’t write songs about whoredom. I don’t have even one song about whoredom.”

His father pointed at him. “Remember this. Christ is the way. The only way. Your path to salvation. And your music is your path to Christ. My path to Christ was the manifestation of faith signs. We lose our path to Christ; we lose our path to salvation. We lose our eternal reward. Got it?”