Synopsis

A modern retelling of the Medusa myth set in a snake-handling church in Tennessee in the summer of 1920 as they vote to ratify women’s suffrage for the entire United States.

It’s the summer of 1920 and the hollers of Tennessee are dripping with humidity and tension, the electricity in the air broken only by storms and, if you’re lucky, a travelling revival. The most famous features a lady preacher-who bestows the power on her listeners to become greater than themselves, and to handle the most venomous snakes without fear, investing them with a spiritual power they’ve never known.

Miles away in Nashville, the state legislature is about to vote on Women’s Suffrage. If it passes in Tennessee, it will become law of the land. If it fails, the measure is all but dead. It’s clear the measure will pass or fail on the slimmest margin of votes and both sides are upping the ante by playing dirty.

Elsewhere in Nashville, Theo Hood graduates from seminary. The son of his denomination’s founder, he secretly plots his own course to bring religion into the future by embracing science and the new psychology of Dr. Freud, framing theology which gives new importance to listening to women.

Because of his unconventional views, Theo is sent as a “participant observer” to the mountain hamlet of Parthenon because strange reports have been filtering in. His long journey through the woods and into the mountains is wound with confusion and strange sightings, on top of which, Theo arrives just in time to attend the funeral of the pastor he was supposed to observe-who was killed by a snake bite. The popular female revivalist becomes the new pastor.

Welcomed into the home of the mayor, who’s also the local state legislator, Theo can’t help but notice a strange pall over the town. He finds an unexpected kinship with Minerva, the pastor, who seems to have unusual powers. As Theo becomes immersed in the life of the citizens-falling in love with one of them-he is confused by what seems to be supernatural goings-on. And listening, actually listening, to the women shocks him more than anything.

During the final push of the country’s most famous suffragettes-including the leader, Bernadette Shaw, who can see death in the future of many-Theo fights to find out what’s really going on, is allowed into the fellowship of women and nearly dies for it, before finding an unexpected ally as the legislators ready to vote for women’s suffrage face what Theo knows to be a supernatural battle.

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Excerpt

THUNDER

Chapter One

Glory

They say the great revival that swept Tennessee in the election year of 1920 started small, at a coal camp meeting in 1910, when a spirit-filled preacher of the fair sex handled snakes as a sign of divine power. The forces she wielded that night were ancient and unconditional. They were enlivened, terrified, and enthralled. What occurred had neither rational explanation nor practical means of control.

It simply was.

The miners needed an outlet, God knows. Strike talk ran rampant, though they couldn’t speak their grievances in the open. But they could sure as shit mutter curses against the owners, and they did, constantly. On Monday, that guy from Nashville – the one who looked more like a weasel than any man they ever saw – went on about how the bosses were honorable men who cared for them and their families more than any union ever would. He also let them know that those fine fellows wouldn’t hesitate to boot them all out on their ungrateful asses and watch those beloveds starve if they so much as thought about unionizing come January.

Winter felt a long way off on that sweltering July night. Clouds sealed the sky like wax on a canning jar. Thunder rumbled low, nagging, and unrelenting. Normally you’d hope for the rain to bust loose and bring a little blessed relief. That night, though, the heavy air held so much water you might drown and your body would wash down the mine shaft, where you’d slide on your butt to the pits of hell. The lightning flashes in the sky came from over the ridge, but everywhere the air felt full of electricity, crackling and dangerous.

Nobody heard tell of any revival meeting. The bosses harshly forbade public gatherings. Three men on a match would constitute a violation and be fired before they got a decent lungful. When the singing started, though, the men and boys young as eight who’d worked all day hacking coal from the earth headed over, curious, in ones and twos and threes. When the miners failed to show up at their shacks for dinner, the wives and sisters and kids too young to start their lives in the mines came looking.

Somebody started clapping along with the song. Women and children joined in. Pretty soon the tattoo spread throughout the crowd, which numbered thirty or forty, all told. You couldn’t see who led the singing, whether it was a man or a woman. The husky voice carried far and soared high and low.

A song that was familiar had to be a hymn. The grownups knew they’d heard it at church back when they’d bounced on their mothers’ knees. They couldn’t place it, exactly, but they sang along all the same. Words like “praise,” “glory,” and “hallelujah” rode on the simple tune, and by the chorus all the gathered souls sang as one.

The mine bosses sauntered out of their rough wood office, their faces stormier than the night. A goddamned public gathering right when we outlawed such goin’s on. Would they put up with such disobedience? They’d report this outrage to the owners in due time. Right then, though, they may as well try to stop the river during a flood. Instead of objecting, they joined in.

The religious among those present – and who lived in the Tennessee mountains in those days save good Christians? – could see what was happening plain as day: the Spirit was moving in their midst.

The song ended. Darkness descended. Silence fell along with it. Nobody spoke or even coughed. The children sat as hushed as the elders. After some amount of time – from a minute to an hour, depending on who told the story later – a voice sounded from the front. Rich and deep like a tenor, yet instantly recognizable as womanly.

“Glory,” it said. And again, “Glory.”

Then silence. Heavy. Pregnant. Even the cicadas and katydids liked to hold their breath.

“Holy,” said the voice. “Holy. Holy.”

Folks here and there repeated the words back to her, but nothing quelled the feeling of hushed awe.

“I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh,” she proclaimed. “Your sons and daughters shall prophesy. Your old ones shall dream dreams.”

“Yes,” people murmured. “Amen.” And it started: some folks speaking in languages no one could place.

“She was there at the first, and everything that was made was made through her.”

“Yes, preacher,” said a chorus of voices. “Amen and amen.”

“God is within her. She will not fall.”

“No, she won’t,” came a gruff voice from the back. A catch in the man’s throat said he was surprised to hear himself speak. The crowd laughed, kindheartedly.

“Blessed is she who believes all the divine promises will be fulfilled.”

Amens popped like bacon grease spattering in a pan.

The preacher lifted her hands.

A slight figure – thin, barely more than five feet tall – in a brown and green calico dress hurried from the side. The pair of oil lamps she carried illuminated her golden hair and the porcelain whiteness of her face. She placed the lamps on the ground and darted off.

The lamplight gave the congregation their first real look at the preacher. Red hair wrapped around her long, angular face in thick, serpentine braids. Her strong chin pointed toward the sky. Folks disagreed later as to whether they’d call her beautiful. None could deny that, once they’d seen her, they couldn’t look away.

She began to preach. She spoke of power. Holiness. Abundance. She told stories from the Bible. Not all the details jibed with what they recalled from Sunday School, but no matter. She had her own way with words. She spoke of paradise, and it felt real and close. “These are the words of life,” she said, lifting her voice at last and sending a thrill through the congregation.

The helper returned toting a wooden box. People scarcely noticed, until the preacher paused and pointed. “And here,” she said, “is death.” The crowd gasped as the young woman laid her burden and took a step back. “There’s death in this box,” the preacher repeated, hitting each word for emphasis. “In the Spirit, we don’t fear death. Why be afraid of the boogeyman when the giver of life stands over us, reaches inside us, stirs our senses until life itself gushes out of us like a healing river of sweet milk?”

With that, her helper bent down and opened the lid. In the hush, the hissing and rattling coming from inside sliced the night like trumpet calls. A reptilian head peeked over the rim. Then another. Forked tongues flicked out and snapped back into thin jaws. The preacher reached down and lifted a rattler, four feet long. She held it up like an offering. Its scaly, mottled brown body twisted and swayed as if moved by a wind nobody could feel. She took a second serpent in her other hand. Both opened their jaws wide to show off their fangs.

As she handled the creatures, as she spoke with authority about life and Spirit, her words gradually became strange, foreign. Yet, later, it was agreed that every last one of them understood her – in a different way, in a deeper, truer fashion.

Her flaxen-haired helper plucked a third snake from the box. She lifted it high and inscribed a circle in the air. The snake straightened its body and pointed toward the folks in the front. They all pulled back.

The creature singled out a stooped, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard. The helper offered it to him. The man recoiled. The snake lifted its head, its slit-eyes sharp. Folks nearby tensed, as if they feared it would strike out in anger at being rejected. Instead, it twisted toward a woman watching. The grime that caked her face made it impossible to judge her either young or old, but her eyes shone with a light that felt like joy. She reached out her hands and received the snake eagerly. The weight made her fall to her knees, but her grip didn’t waver.

“Behold I give you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions and over all the power of the enemy,” called the preacher. “And nothing shall by any means hurt you.”

Emboldened, the woman rose to her feet, cradling the snake like a beloved pet. The helper returned to the box and drew out another. This time, a man approached her, hands outstretched. She handed it to him with a dazzling smile, then plucked up a fourth serpent and strode toward the open hands of many who only moments before had been cowering.

A new song started up, started by the preacher, maybe the helper, some thought they heard voices coming from the woods. The tune spread through the ranks. “Somebody touched me,” it went. “A mighty, mighty hand.”

Most everyone handled snakes, passing them one to another as the singing continued, punctuated by spontaneous shouts of “glory” and “power” and “yes, Jesus.” Miners who in a lifetime hadn’t pocketed a penny beyond what they owed the company store stood tall as they felt their burdens lift. Their wives, and the women there to do wifely duty, bathed in a glow that could only be love. The children danced and cheered.

As the evening grew late, the sky started spitting rain. The squall did little to dampen the enthusiasm. Seemed like nothing could, until a girl of ten held aloft a rattler as long as she was tall. With a rapturous smile on her face and a lively rhythm in her feet, she danced over to a couple of roughnecks who’d lingered at the edges all night. Both men raised their hands in anxious gestures that she took as an appeal to share the blessing. As she came close, one of them struck out. His flailing hands knocked the serpent to the ground. It hissed and slithered back and forth, spooking those nearby who’d been calm as lambs only seconds before.

Folks panicked and scattered, running into one another. Fists flew, along with curses. The girl’s sobs carried clearly over the hubbub. The man who’d caused her to drop the serpent shouted, “That’s what you’uns deserve.” Folks stopped and listened. “Shouldn’t never let no woman be no preacher. It’s a sin, pure and simple.”

The crowd sounded a new kind of call and response, some backing up the roughnecks as if they’d been reminded of a fact they’d overlooked, others shouting them down. The roughnecks strode to the front. The second man now spoke up, his voice louder than the first’s. “This woman who calls herself a preacher and the bitch that’s helpin’ her ain’t nothin’ but phonies.”

“Devil-witches,” said the first man.

“Whores,” said the second.

The crowd drew back, leaving the two women standing in the center of the circle. The preacher eyed the two men intently, her face an unreadable mask. Her helper’s twisted face, now redder than the preacher’s hair, showed her fury plainly. She sprang toward the men, but the preacher’s hand shot out fast as a coiled snake could strike. Her fingers grazed her helper’s shoulder softly, but the touch seemed to drain her anger. In any case, it halted her. The women and the roughnecks stood, two pairs of statues staring each other down.

Nobody had the least idea how to defuse the explosive situation. Then a tall man sporting a shock of bushy gray hair stepped up. Everybody recognized the Overman. He wielded the truly divine power in their lives – the ability to hire and fire. “This all’s gotta stop right now,” he said. Facing the two men who’d started the fracas, he demanded their names.

“Gideon,” said the first. His tone hinted he’d rather fight than talk, but a speck of self-preservation stored in a musty corner of his brain must’ve kept his belligerent instincts in check.

“Zach,” said the second, like they’d just met someplace and were getting acquainted, friendly-like.

“Stay right there,” said the Overman. Both men did as he said.

The Overman lifted his hands to the crowd. “Church is over,” he said in a booming voice. “Everybody head home. First shift better be on time in the morning. God bless ya.”

The crowd was dispersed by ones and twos and threes. Family members found each other and headed off. Some shot curious or worried glances at the roughnecks and the women. Mostly they seemed exhausted but happy, sharing smiles and hugs to a degree seldom seen in the camp.

“Don’t know where you ladies been stayin’, but it’s too late to get there tonight,” said the Overman to the preacher. “We got a nice cabin here. Keep it for the owners when they visit. That’s never, so it happens to be available.”

The preacher nodded thanks.

“Should I be worryin’ over where your snakes done got to?” asked the Overman. His attempt to sound casual gave away how anxious he felt.

The preacher gestured toward her helper, who’d already begun collecting snakes and lifting them into the box they’d arrived in. She moved with calm concentration. The snakes, for their part, lined up like school children for lessons. The helper closed the lid with a solid thump. The click as she snapped the latch echoed in the darkness.

The Overman explained that the owners’ cabin sat up the slope for privacy and directed one of his enforcers to show the women the way. They headed off.

Gideon and Zach watched, not moving a muscle for fear of what the Overman might do. This job didn’t pay that much, but nothing else around there paid anything.

The Overman wasted no time. “Yer fired,” he said. “Get your sorry asses out tonight.”

Their earlier bluster having faded, the most defiance the two could muster was not moving right away, which might’ve been due to shock as much as anything. One of the enforcers took a step their way, and they turned tail and ran.

Over the next few hours, the clouds thinned to nothing, revealing the full moon hidden behind them. The Thunder Moon, some called it. Others knew it as the Buck Moon, July being the month the male deer start growing their antlers.

Somewhere around three o’clock in the morning, Gideon and Zach made their stumbling way up the path and back toward the camp. The moon behind them cast long, sharp shadows. The one personal item they’d judged worth retrieving from their shack had been the last bottle of homemade whiskey.

Gideon and Zach decided they weren’t mad at the Overman, all things considered. Also, every plan they hatched for taking revenge on the man seemed to end with them getting hanged. Those women, though – the men had a score to settle with them. The phony preacher most of all. The little one didn’t say much, but she sure as hell had a lot of fire in her. Teaching those two a lesson would make the whole night worthwhile, even if you counted losing their jobs.

The owners’ cabin sat so far away from everything else they’d be able to have their fun – mete out the proper punishment – right there. No need to drag the blasphemous cunts off. Nobody’d hear their objections. The louder they screamed, the better.

Mud from the earlier rain caked their boots as they trudged up the trail, their silence charged equally with anger and self-righteousness. Both entertained themselves imagining how they’d use the little one. Gideon pictured her pleading for him to stop. Zach envisioned her begging for more.

Neither of the men had been with a woman since the camp whores cut them off over that incident with the fat one who’d sassed Gideon. You’d have thought they’d killed her the way the floozies carried on, when all they’d done was given her a better smile to take to the next camp.

The men’s murderous reveries kept them company until the moonlight revealed the owners’ cabin up ahead. If either noticed how the other one’s cock fought to get out of his pants, he didn’t mention it. Zach felt so excited, he couldn’t help but bust out in a big grin as he started toward the cabin door.

Something bothered Gideon, though. He stood stock still. “You hear that?”

Zach listened hard. Shook his head. “I don’t hear a Goddamned thing.”

“That’s what I mean. No bugs, no wind. Why’d it get so quiet all of a sudden?”

At that moment, they did hear something.

A hiss. Then another. Then a rattling sound.

Weird things, but it was hot as hell, and that could bring out all the varmints.

“Watch yer step,” said Zach, starting up again.

They hadn’t gotten far when they saw something in the moonlight that liked to nail their feet into the ground. Terror’s a funny thing, what it does to you. Their hearts pounded with all the speed their legs lacked.

At first, they saw only one, but that crazy thing had to be twice the size of the biggest snake they’d ever laid eyes on or heard tell of. Then there were two. Five. Ten. And none of them had any trouble moving.

The men had one thing right. Nobody could hear their screams.

About the Author

Robert Owens Scott was an Emmy-winning writer and editor. A graduate of Union Seminary in New York City, he worked at Trinity Church Wall Street as the editor-in-chief of Spirituality & Health Magazine, then as Director of Trinity Institute, which did deep dives into relevant issues of the day. When he first arrived in New York City, he studied at the Neighborhood Playhouse and was the assistant to famous acting coach Sanford Meisner. Bob was the founding artistic director of The Working Theater and won awards for his teleplays and produced plays.

After moving to the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, Bob became fascinated with the early culture of the Appalachians and how people interact as culture changes from the inside out. A feminist with a heart for people and a passion for folk horror, he explored those ideas in his last novel Less the Horror Than the Grace, the Medusa myth set in a snake handling church in 1920, as the vote for Women’s Suffrage came to the Tennessee statehouse.

Bob died unexpectedly in a scuba diving accident in Roatan, Honduras, in May, 2024.

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Sharon Linnéa (editor) was Bob’s wife. She worked as a book editor in NYC, and as a staff writer and ghostwriter for three national magazines and websites before leaving to write full time. She has published 22 books including biographies, thrillers and mysteries. Her current series is The Bartender’s Guide to Murder.

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