Flash Fiction: The Sword of Vengeance

The click of metal on metal tapped deep inside Cheryl’s brain, the knitting needles keeping syncopated time with the preacher’s words, as if he was saying, Slay. Me. Now.

Cheryl gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and tried to focus on what he was saying, something Biblical that spoke to stabbing or swords. And the angel of the Lord wielded his sword against the ungodly. That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but words to that effect.

Cheryl took a deep breath and let the scent of pine from garlands, looped from the exposed beams and up to the peak of the ceiling, enter her bloodstream. It was truly a gift that even a week after Christmas, the odor was still pervasive. The candle flames shuddered as the choir rose to sing a medley of carols — the last she’d hear this season.

Those needles, directly behind her, sounded like swords. She wished she had a sword of her own, something with a flaming tip. Seated to her left, Dan was oblivious. When she complained, week after week, about the woman who knitted through the entire church service, Dan said, What woman? Right now, he stared at the altar, gazing at the glowing candles as if he was staring into the face of God. Or was he rooting around in his own head, visualizing his Monday morning meeting with a big customer, mentally outlining the tactics he’d use to close the sale?

Cheryl turned slightly to her right. A man she’d never seen before was sitting next to her. The moment she saw his narrowed eyes and the set of his lips, she knew he wasn’t oblivious at all. His eye twitched with each clack of the needles. After a few minutes, the twitch grew faster and she realized the needles were tapping faster, as if the woman was out in the December air, teeth chattering.

Cheryl had lost touch with what verse the choir had reached in their rendition of Joy To The World. There were a lot of verses and she wasn’t familiar with most of them. All she heard was the metal clicking at a rate faster than her heart. She felt, almost more than saw, the fluttering of the young man’s eyelid, turning into a tremor, racing to keep pace.

The clicking grew more insistent. Cheryl wrenched around to glare at the woman. She stayed twisted to the side, watching the needles. She glanced up. The woman’s pale, watery eyes, possibly incapable of seeing, looked gentle. A smile wound around her lips.

Cheryl jerked back around. Surely the others seated nearby heard the clicking.

Her awareness of the young man was more intense and she wondered whether he’d moved closer or her senses were heightened. His white shirt wasn’t as clean as it had looked initially. It seemed to wilt, falling against his skin like melted wax. The man turned, not even glancing at Cheryl, his expression pinched into a sharp glare.

It was beyond rude to knit during a church service, to behave as if the proceedings were a rock band or a football game that could be ignored while you munched popcorn or played games on your mobile device.

The man was definitely closer. Cheryl didn’t like it, yet at the same time, he was half-turned and leaning over the pew giving the woman what could rightfully be called the evil eye. He stayed like that for several seconds, then turned back around and shifted to the right.

The choir burst into a shower of Hark the Herald Angels Sing, the volume suddenly louder than it had been, their bodies trembling with enthusiasm. A woman on the end, standing several inches apart from the group, opened her mouth so wide, Cheryl thought her soul would burst out of her throat. Her face was red, shining and damp. She looked as if she might explode, and Cheryl began to worry the singer was close to having a heart attack or a stroke.

The young man leaned his elbows on his knees, as if he too, was fascinated by the red-faced woman and her nearness to a possible medical emergency.

Despite the volume of the twenty-person choir, the clicking of metal needles continued to provide an audible percussion track. The young man sidled away from Cheryl, then straightened his back as if he was about to get up. A moment later he cried out. His voice was so loud, so filled with pain, the choir stopped mid “o” in the extended “o” of Gloria in Excelsis Deo. The man clutched his hand, screaming. Blood spread around his fingers and trickled down his wrist.

A knitting needle with a blood-coated tip lay on the pew next to Cheryl. She glanced away and saw her small red leather purse on the floor. She leaned forward to retrieve it. She wasn’t sure how it had fallen without her noticing. The man moaned softly. He turned and stumbled past others in her row, bumping knees and whimpering until he reached the aisle, then ran to the back doors.

Cheryl realized the clicking had stopped. She turned and saw the woman holding a single needle.

“You never know who’s going to slink in for some holiday cheer,” said the woman.

As the choir repeated the chorus, Cheryl nodded, not quite sure what she was agreeing with, but the woman was so definite, it seemed to require agreement.

“He was going to take your purse,” said the woman. She reached into her bag and pulled out another pale green needle. The clicking resumed.

© Copyright Cathryn Grant 2011