"Amen," the old man said aloud, finishing his prayer. He stretched out his arthritic, tired legs. Both knees popped like the BB gun he had used in his younger days to shoo away the hungry crows from his garden. He grimaced at the sound--a constant reminder of his age--and at the pain that was his daily companion. Something told him, perhaps it was the Lord whispering to him, to enjoy the warm season. Come this time next year, his old legs wouldn't be much use to him anymore.

A silence enveloped the church valley. The yellow warblers hushed. The blowing wind stopped and the air grew still. A chill spread across the old man's body. He'd lived long enough to know the way of the spirits, to listen when they shouted across the heavens to warn the other side of danger.

Outside, a small alien paused at the foot of the steps. It glanced upward at the white-painted spire that held the brass bell used for calling the congregation on Sunday mornings. The broad leaves of a tall sycamore shadowed the church from the midday sun, giving protection and comfort. The alien climbed the nine wooden steps up to the doorway and entered through the ornate entrance. Angels and demons welcomed it inside.

The alien moved with a grace befitting its slender build and smooth, alabaster skin. The old man had seen one of these before. A Shadow, they'd called it. It had been ... what ... twenty-three years since last he'd seen one? But there it was, no mistaking. Those large almond eyes in an oval, slightly humanoid face. No mouth. Skin that resembled the plastic of his sister's childhood dolls. Shadows wore no clothes, nor did they demonstrate modesty, avarice, or lust. The man wondered if the Shadows had succeeded in the Garden where man had failed.

Many other thoughts crossed his mind as he watched the alien walk forward. He watched as it touched the back of each pew with padded white fingers. It made little noise, no perceptible sounds of breathing, and even the sound of its bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor was muted like feathers falling from the sky.

The old man stood up. After all, this was the Lord's House and he had a duty to perform. "Hello," he said. "I'm Preacher Jeremiah Jones."

The Shadow paused. Those big, strange eyes stared back at Jeremiah and then at the old wooden cross hanging from the stucco wall behind the pulpit. A moment of worry passed through the preacher's bones. Worry fueled by the deadly sin of pride. The cross had been in the church for 300 years; a true artifact, handmade to perfection and passed down through the protective custody of thirty-one preachers at Harlan Baptist Church. He often considered it divine, almost in the same sense the Roman Church had once believed in miraculous power of objects such as grails and ancient shrouds. It didn't take the awestruck presence of a Shadow to convince him of the power of the cross that hung at his back each and every Sunday morning during his sermon.

"I am ... John."

"Amen, praise Jesus!" The preacher skipped a holy dance unlike anything he'd done since his snake-handling days as a deacon back at the one room Pentecostal church down around Martin's Fork. The Shadow had touched a finger to a green box hanging around its neck by a piece of yellow string, activating some type of voice machine.

Last time the preacher had seen one of these creatures, they didn't have such vocal contraptions. But that was twenty-three years ago. Right before his last trip down the Cumberland River to Nashville as the town's supply runner. Now Larson and Cullen handled the duties, two buck-toothed lads, both crazy on the shine and the women. They'd landed in jail a number of times at lift outpost while waiting for the teams of men to carry their raft around Cumberland Falls and delayed the town's supplies, but for the most part, they got the job done.

"I come from the University of Kentucky," John said through his green box. "I am an anthropologist."

That caught Jeremiah's attention. An anthropologist? This did not bode well. The fair folks of Harlan had been living in their utopia of isolation for over forty years. Due to the inaccessibility of the countryside and the fright caused by the Collapse, the only people who had visited the world outside these mountains were the raft captains looking to sell timber for supplies. That meant Larson and Cullen, him, and his dead buddy Maxie Henson. Many of the folks around these parts had never seen a Shadow, let alone such fancy things as newspapers, bathrooms, or people not born and bred in Harlan.

"Your church is wonderful," John said. "We do not have these back at the University, or anywhere else."

A world without the Word of God? No wonder He sent the Collapse on us, foreseeing our heathen ways. "Praise Jesus," was all Jeremiah could muster in response. The typically loquacious man found himself silenced by the visitor.

The Shadow stepped up to the pew and looked out over the church. "I would like to hear you sermonize."

"Yes ... yes, I mean, of course. Tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. sharp. The bell can be heard for three miles off on a clear day, I reckon."

John nodded and continued on to the front of the little church until it reached the holy cross hanging from the wall. "This is a lovely religious artifact. How wonderful it is," it said.

"Praise Jesus," Jeremiah said again.

A child ran into the church, breaking up the shared moment of reverie. It was little Mikey Smith from down Baxter. Mikey usually helped clean the building before services. "Hey Preacher, momma's made a blackberry pie and.... "He'd spotted the Shadow behind the pulpit, watched as it lovingly stroked the cross. The boy's face turned white.

"It's okay, Mikey. We have a visitor from Lexington," Jeremiah said. "This is John."

Like a frightened squirrel, the kid made a skidding turn in his sandals and sprinted back out of the church, hollering for his momma.

Jeremiah felt a twinge of worry tickle his nerves. He remembered the calling of the spirits. "Now I don't want to be unseemly in God's house, John, but I think you best be heading back down the river. Nothing but trouble to be found here for your kind."

John turned around and looked at the preacher. Those eyes, so beautiful. Jeremiah recalled a snippet of a fairytale he'd once heard ... My, what big eyes you have....

"You ask that I leave? But there is so much to see and document. You know that I bring no harm to you."

"But it's not safe."

"Preacher Jeremiah. I want to worship with you."

Jeremiah swallowed hard as he heard the sudden commotion build outside the church. That didn't take long. Larson and Cullen, the town's raft captains--and the town's de facto leaders--came stomping up the wooden steps. Once inside, they slammed the door shut behind them hard enough to rattle the church bell. Both carried shotguns.

"I'll be goddamn, Cullen, it's one of those little grey freaks."

"Mr. Larson," Jeremiah admonished, "you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain!"

Larson leveled his shotgun at Jeremiah. "Shut your mouth, old man. You know how I feel about you and your church. Scaring people with your talk of hell and damnation, but you know what, I've seen hell and damnation, I see it every six weeks when me and Cullen go up the river, so I don't want to hear a goddamn word out of you." Larson's stone-cold gaze froze Jeremiah's tongue.

Cullen carried a ridiculously large double-barreled shotgun. At present, it was pointed at John's head.

"Why you here, Grey?" Larson asked.

"To study," John answered.

Cullen and Larson laughed. "We don't want no studying. Why you think we're stuck ass-deep in these here hills?" Larson said.

"I do not know," John said. "Appalachian cultural history shows a tendency toward xenophobia."

Cullen looked at Larson. "Xeno-what?"

"You got two choices, Grey. Tell us why you're here and die quickly. Or don't tell us and die a slow, agonizing, painful death."

"I am an anthropologist," John said. If the alien showed fear through its voice, the box didn't register it.

"A what?" Larson asked Cullen. "I got to tell ya, it might be fun to set this one loose in the woods. Ol' Blue hasn't had a good hunt all year."

The pair laughed and poked each other in the ribs.

Larson nodded at Cullen. "Cover me while I tie this ol' boy up." The husky riverboat captain grabbed the alien and forced its arms behind its back. He drew out two feet of hemp cord from a baggy pocket and tied John's arms together.

"Is that necessary," Jeremiah objected. "He's not here to harm nobody. He came to worship."

Larson pushed John forward until all three stood in front of the preacher. "You old fool, when was the last time you been up the river? Twenty years? You have no idea what's changed in that time, what the Greys do. You haven't seen the rows of crucified children along the crumbling highways. You haven't witnessed the execution of women by flogging in the public squares. Next time you get to thinking this Grey isn't here to harm nobody, you think about that, will you?" To accentuate his point, Larson lifted the nearest of the pews and knocked it over. Hymnals and Bibles clattered across the floor. "Come on, Cullen."

They left, pushing the tiny alien in front of them.