BACKGROUND: It’s 1888. On the Nelson’s family farm, north of the new town of Annandale, Minnesota, Reverend Halvar Ingegaard and his wife have taken over. Upon discovering giant skeletons on the property, the minister has made it his mission to spread the news.
 
Mighty Men of Old
 
Uncle Halvar woke up singing hymns, and he sang them loudly.
 
Where are our fathers gone?
 
Whither gone the mighty men of old?
 
The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings
 
In sacred books enrolled.
 
He stopped singing only to tell Mundy to hitch the horse to the wagon. Mundy knew better than to ask his reverend uncle why they needed the wagon, and so he did as he was told while his uncle returned to singing.
 
Gone to the resting place of man,
 
His long, his silent home;
 
Where ages past have gone before,
 
Where future ages come.
 
When they reached Annandale, his uncle ran into the general store, then to the smithy, then over to Dunton the casket-makers shop. Up and down the street he ran, darting into each doorway, grabbing people by the arms, shouting at men on horseback, until a crowd gathered in the street asking one another what the commotion was all about.
 
“You must come see the Nephilim!” he shouted with a wild gleam in his eyes. “We have found a race of ancient giants!”
 
A few men felt obliged to follow him back to the wagon, and once a group of five or so upstanding citizens were gathered there, another five decided they better find out what was going on. At the entrance to his shop, the proprietor folded his arms in front of him, trying to look uninterested, but he too leaned in for a good look.
 
Uncle Halvar climbed on the back and now towered over the crowd of onlookers. Then Mundy understood why his uncle had wanted to take the wagon to town: he had a ready-made stage. His uncle told the crowd about what they had dug up at the Nelson farm. He explained the story from Genesis and how the angels mated with the daughters of men to create the mighty men of old, and now he had proof that the story was true. Some of their eyes widened, unsure of the minister’s mental state. Others listened placidly, as if he were listing off the prices for butter and wheat bushels. He told them how the discovery was proof that the Bible was literally true, proof that it indeed was the divine Word of God, and how they needed to attend his sermon that coming Sunday.
 
“Spread the word!” He told them all. “You will never hear the likes of this message again!”
 
Whether they believed his claims or not, the townspeople must have spread the word. That next Sunday, horses and carts lined the street in front of the white clapboard church. People from Maple Lake and South Haven and even a big landowner from Kimball were pressed hip to hip on the wooden pews. The aisles were clogged with half-shined boots and dusty parasols. The young people stood along the back wall so the grown-ups had enough pews.
 
After the preliminary invocation, Uncle Halvar’s son read a verse from the big Bible on the pulpit.
 
“This morning’s reading is from Genesis, chapter six, verse four,” Tomas said. His voice quaked and sounded uncertain. “There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown. Amen.”
 
“Amen,” the congregation responded before their voices fought over which key the opening hymn should be sung. The hymn faded and all was silent except for the creaking pews, wriggling behinds seeking a comfortable spot on the hard wooden benches.
 
Reverend Halvar Ingegaard rose to begin his sermon. In a shot, he was off in his maniacal style, telling of the giant skeletons and the Truth of Salvation apparent all around us. He spoke quickly then slowly, but always loud, loud, loud, thumping the pulpit, his blows deadened by the weight of the Bible beneath his fists. This went on for ten minutes, then twenty minutes, a torrent of bold claims woven together with snippets of scripture until finally some heathen farmer from French Lake or thereabouts yelled out, “Prove it!”
 
Reverend Ingegaard’s head snapped toward the man, and Mundy recognized that look. If his uncle could have reached from where he stood, he might have slapped the man across the face.
 
“The Apostle Paul wrote, faith is the evidence of things unseen. But for those of you with less faith than that…” A slow smile rose on his lips. He signaled to his son who swiftly ascended the dais and shifted a crate into view. Reverend Ingegaard reached into it and lifted a giant skull over his head. He shook the giant skull, turning it so its eye sockets could be seen by all, each as big as two men’s fists.
 
“Here’s your proof, brother! Here’s your proof, sister!”
 
The church filled with gasps. Children in the back recoiled in horror, and the smallest among them began wailing. Old Joe Garret, the oldest parishioner, asked what all the fuss was about, because his sight wasn’t as sharp as it used to be.
 
“The heroes of old!” Reverend Ingegaard shouted to Old Joe. “The unconquered warriors! Genesis Six!”
 
Aunt Helga lifted her hands to shoulder height, mouthing a quiet hallelujah.

*****

The sun raised its head above the edge of the earth, tinting the eastern horizon purple and pink and chasing off the last fading stars. Only the setting moon watched Mundy as he entered the woods to track a fox. He knew he would find a circle of feathers, white but painted in blood splatter and muck, and then he would look for tracks leading him to the fox den. A chill passed through him as he neared the remaining burial mound, as tall as him, but surely deeper than he could ever reach. Maybe more giant skeletons waited for the Resurrection, like forgotten music waiting to be played.
 
A wagon approached, spilling the hum of excited voices as the wheels ground on their axles and the draw horses snorted. Bobbing on bales of hay, mostly men, but a handful of women had ridden to the Nelson farm. And then another wagon approached with more people. They were strangers to Mundy, except for the wagon drivers whom he recognized from town.
 
The first driver announced, “Here it is!”
 
All conversation ceased, and their solemn silence contrasted with the wagons straining to a halt on the path leading to the cabin. Uncle Halvar appeared, already dressed in his preacher clothes. He reprised his Mighty Men of Old sermon from the previous week.
 
One man broke off from the group. His curly, red hair and matching mutton chops framed a pair of piercing green eyes set too close together, like a doll’s face, only with thick, rusty sideburns.
 
“The name’s Thaddeus Colton. Here from the St. Paul Dispatch. I hope you’ll tolerate me asking you a few questions.”
 
The edges of Uncle Halvar’s wild hair caught in the breeze, fluttering like a flock of sparrows winging over a field of cut wheat.
 
“I would be delighted. Your readers need first to understand the importance of this revelation. In this modern age, the people are led astray by the so-called scientists who have abandoned faith—true faith—and replaced God in their hearts with the false god of reason. Our little farm has yielded an abundant harvest for the faithful. A grim bounty that proves what science would deny: the holy truths of the scripture!”
 
“Let’s talk plain, Reverend,” the reporter said. “Give our readers a clear picture. What exactly did you find?”
 
“Let me show you!”
 
“Yes, sir, Reverend! Seeing is believing, as I’m sure your Bible says.” The reporter clapped a hand on Uncle Halvar’s back in assumed camaraderie, but Uncle Halvar stepped clear of his reach.
 
“Actually, it says quite the opposite, yet the Lord has seen fit to provide us with proof, just the same.” They reached the makeshift tent that protected the giant skeletons. The group listened with rapt attention until Uncle Halvar pulled back the corner-tattered canvas to show them the bones. One woman fainted with a sigh.
 
“Here, in the soil of my humble little farm, the skeletons of warriors eight and nine feet tall, await their final judgment by a court of angels. Looking into the skulls of these giants, into the faces of these mighty men who knew angels as their fathers. It forces any reasonable man to conclude: this is the proof that the modern age requires, that the Holy Bible is more than the instruction for a moral life! It is the true history of this world. The bones of giants, sons of the angels whose blood mingled with the flesh of human daughters in the account in Genesis, chapter the sixth.”
 
Mr. Colton’s close-set eyes blinked rapidly. “I wouldn’t have believed it! Not without seeing it.”
 
“It is as Jesus said to his disciple, Thomas: Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”
 
“Well, that may not be the risen Christ you’ve found in the ground, but you may have some pretty goddamned big Indians!”
 
The exultant joy drained from Uncle Halvar’s demeanor.
 
“These are no Indians! These are the sons of angels! These are the mighty men of old! The Nephilim! You must say this precisely.” He grabbed the reporter by the collar and, himself towering a full foot over the reporter, gave an indication of the advantage those buried warriors must have leveraged against their mortal enemies.
 
“Reverend, I will write what I see. And what I see are seven of the biggest Indian skeletons I’ve ever set eyes on. I’ll certainly add your claims to the story. You make a compelling case.” He grabbed the minister’s wrists and pulled them from his lapel. “You’ll have to trust that God will guide the readers to the same conclusion you’ve reached.”
 
The surveyor, Mr. Lewis, rode up, and decided he didn’t like what he saw. He took a deep breath and looked hard at Uncle Halvar. “You’ve sown a seed, Reverend, that assuredly will blossom in fields you never intended to reap.”
 
Eventually the gawkers got their fill. They piled on the wagons in a babble of chatter that echoed down the path leading to town.
 
“What happens now?” Mundy asked, looking up at the surveyor.
 
“Your uncle has cast the die for your family in a game he is certain to lose. The men I warned your uncle about, they will be here sooner than later.”
 
“But why?”
 
“They collect relics, shells, and dead things from all over the world, and they bring them back to Washington D.C.”
 
“What do they do with them?”
 
“They hide them from people, just to keep their story straight,” Lewis explained. “It’s the same throughout history. Your uncle would be wise to deny everything.”
 
Mundy shook his head slowly. “I don’t think Uncle Halvar will deny it, do you?”
 
“If there were a way to reason with a man of faith, Mundy, I sure haven’t seen it. About as useful as poking a big bear with a short stick. Once I saw a fellow, a deeply religious sort, hold two rattlesnakes that were longer than his arm. I said ‘Walton, you better toss them buggers well clear of you and run like the blazes,’ but he said the Bible told him to do it. Then one of them twisted around enough to bite him, and he flinched, and the other one got him, too. At first, he was holding on to them because he felt strong, protected. But then when he was dying, he wouldn’t let them go, because he was afraid of being wrong.”
 
“What happened then?” Mundy asked.
 
Mr. Lewis shrugged. “I shot them.”
 
“I mean the man. What happened to him?”
 
“I shot him too, to put him out of his suffering. Nothing else to do for him.”
 
 
© Chaunce Stanton 2020
 
This story is an excerpt from Chapter fourteen of the novel Grave Of Songs, by Chaunce Stanton, independently published 2020