The baptismal pool of First Baptist is beneath the pulpit. Horace knew this. As a child sitting in services, his mind often drifted to the fact that beneath the rampaging minister were gallons of water. Now the slats of wood that made the floor of the pulpit began to shake and clatter, the water was bubbling, bubbling as if something wanted exit. Then, with uncanny suddenness, the water leapt up—yes, he thought as he witnessed it, it is as if it were alive—like a wave, sending splintered wood, chairs, lamps, Bibles, plants, tatters of carpet, and hymnals in a moist conflagration, wet fire, into the air. The dark-clad figure was gone. But the water began to rain down on Horace standing before the altar, and the articles and planks battered him, and he began to lose his breath, not able to stand, and he fought and tried to run, and was knocked down, but could not escape the water, and could not find air, and thought, Am I to die like this, and when he had finally given up, disoriented, withdrawn, thinking, Death, come, there was suddenly . . . silence.

Afraid to open his eyes, his ears opened first, and he heard:

Take me to the water

Take me to the water

Take me to the water

To be baptized

He knew where he was now, among those who spawned him. He opened his eyes, finding that his wounds were no more, and wondered where the ubiquitous voice had gone.

I know I got religion

I know I got religion

He could see it from where he stood. The baptismal pool, the floor of the pulpit—not disintegrated—but propped up like the mouth of an alligator, on poles. To Horace it appeared a deep concrete crater, the color of storm clouds. In the middle of the pool stood the Reverend Hezekiah Barden, his head resting securely on his shoulders, a solemn, reassuring expression on his face. He now wore a special white robe that billowed in slow motion beneath the water; Horace could hear the water trickle down from the faucet that had run all the night before to fill the pool for this morning. The old women and the old men sang:

Take me to the water

Take me to the water

Take me to the water

To be baptized

Haunting. Ancient. The chant conjured in him feelings of funerals, yet not the sadness. It moved him in a solemn way; their voices blended, merged, focused . . . on him? The song seemed to reach out from their combined souls and tug him, pull him forward. But he was scared as he stood at the edge—it was too steep, surely he would fall, crack his skull on the cold concrete and turn the purifying water to scarlet.