“The sin belongs to the sinner, Mister Bullock,” he touched the scarf though distant.

“So, he hung himself to escape this judgment,” he shook his head.

Theodore turned and nodded, “Yes, he hung himself by his choices.”

“It must have been hard,” the bounty hunter nodded. “I was in the War, and I lost men, who I regarded as brothers, heroes, or even a son. Fate is beyond my understanding.”

“We can only have faith and hold to the Covenant.”

“There is nothing I can say,” the bounty hunter said, “I lost every one I loved. It never stops hurting.”

“I hope, Cassidy, after the Revival of Carnisvale,” hand touched the scrap of fabric, which had belonged to Dermot, “we can move on.”

“The Revival will not stop your pain,” he said though gently, “it will hurt less with time.”

“It will never hurt less,” moaned the Elder.

“If you won’t stop it, will you delay it?” asked Cassidy. “What is the Revival anyways? What does Obadiah have planned?”

Theodore frowned, “I actually don’t know.”

“So, you will just do as he says?” Cassidy scowled. “What if it breaks your Covenant?”

“I’m sure it won’t,” he said, but eyes searched the lovely furnishings.

“Please, Mister Griffith, at least consider getting the other Elders to ask Obadiah the nature of the Revival,” pleaded the bounty hunter.

“I’ll consider it,” the Elder sighed, and Cassidy smiled.

A knock came to the door, and both men turned confused. To it Theodore stepped to see who wrapped at his home. A young man stood, nervous yet resolute.

“Mister Todd commands your presence at his home, Mister Bullock,” he strove for sternness, but shook with his own words.

Cassidy looked to Theodore, who grew still, lips again a slash. The bounty hunter thought of Tabitha the Elder’s twin. Away with the young man the bounty hunter walked. He kept pace with the brisk speed, until they left town behind. Up into a mountain, a holy place for the sect, they moved fast. Griswold Todd lived away from the rest of Sulky Hills, almost a secret. Though the trek was arduous and long, the young man dared never to slow.

At last they reached House Todd, both drenched in sweat. Where all of Sulky Hills was modest, the home was almost deliberately ugly. A disgust of aesthetics permeated from the squashed design in defiance of beauty. It guaranteed no solace, no comfort. Out of the town, it was in the worse condition. Blasphemy disease allowed to devour it, the blight’s destruction was welcomed, just end for sins. It leaned as an old man does body worn from life. Obdurate construction kept it up to spite its deterioration. It clung to life, Cassidy mused, so to suffer for purification.

The young man stopped head down. Cassidy stood before the House Todd. Out of the door popped the face of Griswold, like some ogre in a child’s faerie tale. With a baleful eye, the Elder dismissed the guide. For a moment, the ancient man judged Cassidy openly, measured each sin.

“You sent for me, Mister Todd?” asked Cassidy, careful in tone.

“Yes, Mister Bullock,” he grumbled, “I would not wait for you to seek me out.” Gnarled hands, knuckles swollen, clenched in to fists with a snap and then relaxed. “You come to judge us! Outsider,” he accused, “you reek of sins. You slander a holy man!”

“Cassidy’s grin grew stony, but thought of Obadiah’s smirk and relaxed. “I said what I believe to be true,” azure eyes locked onto the man’s steel gaze, “and for me to say otherwise would be a lie.”

Eyes narrowed, “Obadiah knows of the world’s moral decay, decadence and evil. What do you know of suffering for ones beliefs?”

Hard grin now wolfish, his eyes were harder, “I’ve been beaten, stabbed, shot, imprisoned, bled, and tortured standing up for the law and country. All I have left is my duty.”

Griswold’s mouth work as if gnawing on something sour, “Maybe, you can see reason, Mister Bullock. The Revival of Carnisvale will peel away the Blasphemy. To each sin there must be equal, vigorous contrition.” Inside he gestured the bounty hunter to come, joints crackled.

Compared to the interior, the exterior was extravagant. Broken furniture was left where they had fallen apart. Most looked uncomfortable, and Cassidy wondered if the old man ever felt comfort. Idea of a child raised in such a house chilled him. Such a place would crush a vibrant lad, life made to suffer.

The ancient holy man stood, glared from under hoary brow. “After we speak, Mister Bullock,” he prothesized, “You’ll know that the Revival is our only hope.”

“Did Obadiah tell you his intentions?” he asked.

“To an extent,” returned Griswold, “though it’ll be painful, forgiveness is earned, and we must stick to the Covenant!”

“Ah,” Cassidy rubbed his stubble, “so some measure of pain is involved. Did he mean mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual, Mister Todd?”

Lips opened, mouth the color of liver, and then closed, “I would think all,” he said, “but if we have forgiveness and blight lifted, it will be worth the sacrifice.”

Cassidy thought of the false preacher and traps he had laid, “I actually came here to talk about Dermot, your son.”

Wrathful ghost turned to feeble man, at the name of his son. “I failed my son,” he whispered, “and by my weakness, I damned him to his fate.”

“I got the impression more were to blame,” Cassidy said.

“Oh Mister Morgan defiled him,” eyes darkened, “and that is how Theodore was able to sully him. Tabitha was right to come to us.” Old man eyes wondered, lost. “I wanted to save my son,” Griswold confessed, “but he was beyond my abilities.”

“I still don’t understand Dermot’s crime,” he shook his head.

The old man lowered his head. “Theodore recanted, confessed his errors, for he feared expulsion. I went too far, perhaps, hurt my son, but he was unyielding in his conviction as his father.”