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Of course they'd followed him out. His congregation, those good God-fearing people, those scared people who only wanted to do what was right, of course they'd followed Joseph Seed out of Jerome Jeffries's little white church and into darkness. When Seed got up to the pulpit and began to weave his apocalyptic web, when he had raised his arms and proclaimed himself Father, Jerome had lurched from his seat and, God help him, he'd raised his fists and hurled invective unfit for his cloth. His congregation, those good God-fearing people, had only seen what was to be seen -- their pastor, wild-eyed and raving, snatching at Joseph Seed as if to hurl him from the dais. They'd seen Seed shrug him off as easily as one would a child, his composure complete, his face beatific. And they'd followed him.
There was nothing Jerome could say to them, to make it make sense. They hadn't seen what he had seen. They couldn't see what he had seen. The terrible burden of knowledge was his and his alone.
--
He'd thought the Adversary was a demon meant for him; a personal tormentor, a devil on his shoulder. He'd first encountered him in the Gulf, capering amongst the carnage, grinning in delight when he locked eyes with a wide-eyed and trembling young soldier. You see me, do you? Oh, don't look so dismayed. Rejoice! You'll be seeing me again soon, cully.
Jerome had quickly fixed his face before anyone caught him staring at shadows. He'd been seeing the unseeable since childhood through those dusky blue eyes of his, eyes that made his praying grandmother shake her head and hum sadly, her hand heavy on the crown of his head. You marked him. He yours. Watch over him extra careful, Lord.
And hadn't He? Through the war, through the crisis of faith, through the steep and agonising climb back to salvation? Hadn't He kept the Adversary at arm's length, always visible at the edge of things, always capering at the corner of his eye, but never touching Jerome directly? Hadn't He gifted His prodigal son with the most devoted and loving congregation in these United States, once he'd pledged to serve Him from the pulpit? Hadn't He put the precious and fragile soul of one Joseph Seed into his careful hands, trusting Jerome to do good by him?
"The Adversary," the demon mused -- no longer a shadow, no longer at the edge of things, now unsettlingly real and uncomfortably close, stalking up the aisle of Jerome's empty church in the gloom of evening. Smiling, as he always did, always. "That's what you call me, right? In your most impassioned pleas to Heaven? I like that. Dark Man, Man in Black, bah, so uninspired, so bland. Give me a name I can really sink my teeth into. The Adversary." Those teeth flashed then, brilliant white, a grin that could charm a saint.
"What are you doing here?" Jerome's voice is thin and reedy, one hand white-knuckling the Bible to his chest, the other half-raised and trembling. He'd always imagined this encounter differently. He'd stand up straight and tall. He'd use his preaching voice, the one that roused the sleepy parishioners every Sunday morning and rejuvenated their spirits. He'd tell that old grinning devil to begone! and he would prove himself worthy of his collar. He would not tremble, his blood cold in his veins and his balls shrinking up into his gut, like he was doing now.
The Adversary stopped mid-stride, raising a thin white hand to his chest and blinking as if taken aback. "My, what a chilly welcome! Is that any way to greet an old friend? Ah, but you must be tired -- working for that taskmaster God of yours is backbreaking work! I won't keep you too long. I just came to say thank you!"
Jerome's heart beat sluggishly. His vision was fading to grey around the edges. He moved his hand to clutch at the edge of the pulpit, leaning heavily against it. The Adversary's presence was oppressive beyond comprehension, a gravity well pulling inexorably at him, at everything in him. "T-Thank you," he repeated muzzily, his own voice sounding impossibly distant and alien to him.
"Indeed! You've given me such a wonderful gift, I couldn't wait to express my gratitude!" The demon spread his hands, and from between his hands shimmered a vision of a man. A man with a face known well to Jerome's hands and a smile known well to his heart.
"Yes," the Adversary laughed, his unbridled glee a dagger in Jerome's gut. "Yes! Such an impressionable mind. Such a passionate heart! A feast, a feast for the Adversary! He will go forth from me and herald the fruits of my labour, the culmination of all my works! Are you ready?"
Jerome is shouting now, No! No, not him! You leave him be!, stumbling from the pulpit, grasping, desperate and shit-scared. And the Adversary is dodging him, pouting in mock sympathy before again laughing, ever laughing. "Make ready, Jerome Jeffries! Put thine house in order! The bells are tolling, Jerome Jeffries! Hark! The bells! They toll for thee!"
--
And so it had come to pass. Joseph Seed had come, ridden by the Adversary, who grinned and winked at Jerome from beside him as he gathered up Jerome's flock and led them all into darkness. Those good God-fearing people had no way of knowing. They were not at fault. They were victims. They were to be cannon fodder in a war they should have never had to fight.
The gift that was Joseph Seed's precious and fragile soul, once entrusted to Jerome, now twisted beyond comprehension. A face that had once softened at Jerome's touch, now gaunt and mad-eyed. The county he had once loved, now a prison, and he its cruel warden.
There would be no time for Jerome to grieve, to beat his chest and tear at his hair and beg God for answers, for guidance, for help. There was only the fledgling Resistance, who needed him. There was only anemic hope and rank desperation. And there was...
"You," Jerome gasped, his muscles drawing up tighter than a spring trap. He shot to his feet and pointed at the newcomer accusingly, his eyes wild. "Come back for more? Huh? Come back to torment foolish old Jerome again?"
The stranger raised his hands and stepped back an inch, towards the open doors of the empty and dusty church. Jerome lowered his hand a fraction, squinting -- no. He had been mistaken. This wasn't the Adversary at all. But for a moment... for a moment...
"You sense him," the stranger said quietly, his hands settling over his heart, his gut. "The taint of him, within me. You are not the first. He is the reason I exist, but I do not come in his name."
Jerome could see, now. There was a dark aura around this newcomer, of whom there'd been faint whispers throughout the Resistance -- a man who offered aid wherever it was needed, who gave insight and repaired machines and soothed weary hearts. A saint, by all accounts. A saint with the energetic signature of a demon.
"Who in the hell are you?"
"My name is Noah," the stranger responded, offering a cautious but guileless smile. "And I think this is where I am supposed to be."
--
Soon after Noah Kingfisher arrived in Fall's End, a slipshod operation tried to take down Joseph Seed's church and failed miserably. The only member of the operation who got out unscathed was a sheriff's deputy, scooped up by Dutch Roosevelt.
Don't get involved in that Eden's Gate business, it's nasty. We need you here, away from the front lines, helping people, but Noah did not listen to Jerome. The deputy blew into town like a tornado and started to shake things up something proper, and Noah got swept right up into it. Jerome suspected that deputy's pretty face had something to do with it, and couldn't begrudge him -- but there was also something otherworldly about the two of them together, if he was honest. Noah might have had the mark of the Adversary but he had the armour of God, and Deputy Garvey had the sword.
And they were coming for Joseph Seed. Hark! The bells! They toll for thee!
God help him.
And if the Adversary was not lying, if Joseph Seed was not lying, if Noah Kingfisher's troubled gaze at the distant horizon was not lying... then God help them all.