I met Cassius on an April night, he was walking roadside.

All know Mississippi can present oppressive summer weather, but April was normally a gentler, more indifferent time on the calendar.  This April was different; its sun shared more in common with July’s than mid-spring.  The temperature on my dash read ninety-five and the sun had already retreated.  One step away from air conditioning and sweat would bead on forehead like on bathroom mirror after a hot shower.  My inclination was never to stop for man or beast seen walking the highways, especially post sunset, but when I saw him making way across gas station lot, having passed him a quarter mile earlier, I was compelled to ask him if he needed aide.  He was more monk than marauder and there was a kindness in his face and in his manner that reached out and presumed to buoy even the most down hearted.  For me, I was bound for Meridian, a hundred and twenty three miles from the map point we now occupied.  When ride was offered, and destination asked, Cassius said without hesitation he was due in Meridian.  Suspicious, my mind told me he deduced from license plate or dealership logo, but when I engaged him I became convinced he didn’t know my vehicle from the fifteen to twenty on the premises.  Cassius thanked me sincerely and climbed aboard.

For ten miles he said nothing despite my occasional prompting, instead he surveyed the thickening spring foliage like it was all new, not this year’s new, more like he had never seen a greening landscape.  When finally he had soaked up enough of the Mississippi countryside, he turned to me and thanked me a second time for the ride.

Seeing he had opened the door, I tried again, “Are you from Meridian?”

“No”, he answered with a pleasant smile.

“Traveling for work then?” I pushed.

“You might say so,” he said with no further elaboration.

Okay, he isn’t a conversationalist.  I reasoned it was best to proceed in relative silence and I turned up the radio.

Fifty miles into the journey a diner’s neon lights beckoned and I pulled into an open spot, “let’s get something to eat.”

We sat in a booth, ordered, and waited for our plates.

It was shaping up to be a quiet dining experience and I picked up my phone and began searching for a toy my granddaughter had to have for her birthday.

“Have you heard of lighting boy?” Cassius asked.

“I’m sorry, lighting?” I sought to clarify.

“Lightning boy, do you remember?” he asked again.

“Oh…that kid…that YouTube video of the kid dancing in a storm—lightning everywhere—that boy?” I leaned forward intrigued.

“That was me.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“Wow, I figured that poor kid, I mean you didn’t make it.  Those strikes were so close.  I remember being scared for him.”

“Well I didn’t really make it, to use your words.  I died for a little while.”

“You died?”

“Yeah man, but when I came back I wasn’t the same.”

“All this happened why were you out there…in the storm?”

“It all went down on that crazy night.  I was tired of living.  My dad always drunk.  Everyday beating my ass.  My mom left with my sis and I thought I would leave this world with a bang.  Turns out it wasn’t my time to go.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

About that time our food came and neither of us said boo for the remainder of our meal.

We were back on the road to Meridian about thirty minutes later.

“What did you mean when you said you weren’t the same when you came back?”

“I can see things in people.”

“I’m not sure…”

“I can see what people are, good or bad or somewhere in between.”

“You mean you can read folks’ minds?”

“No it’s not like that.  I can see what people are like by the color they take on.”

“The color they take on?  Skin color?”

“No, what I see has nothing to do with the color of a person’s skin.  I guess it’s more like I can see the color of their souls.”

I turned for a moment thinking he was totally bullshitting me, but there was a sincerity I couldn’t explain.

“Red, green, blue kind of thing?”

“Sort of, but not like you put crayon to coloring book, the color moves and changes hues most times. Sometimes it’s all bright and golden, usually the kids, sometimes it’s the opposite all dark I mean not a spec of light.”

“I take it dark isn’t good?”

“No, dark ain’t good.”

“So you can see my soul…I mean the color of it?”

“Yes, I can.”

I waited for him to reveal my color.  When he didn’t answer I began thinking the worst.

“So am I all black or something?” I asked nervously.

He cracked a small smile, “No man, you’re like most people some dark, but more light than dark.  No wild swings, I figure you try to do the right thing the majority of the time.  One thing is you can’t fake soul color, it always tells the truth.  Even the most charismatic sales guy can’t spin soul color.”

“So what’s waiting for you in Meridian?”

He didn’t answer immediately, then sighed and told a story.

“There’s a man who has an extraordinary ability to deceive.  He knows I know what he is.  When first we met he was in law enforcement.  He used his position to hide his brutality.  He employed extortion to garner wealth and power and what’s worst to play with his victims out of need to satisfy his sickness.  I was able to set a trap.  Ego and a mistaken belief in his invulnerability made him easy to snare.  He disappeared to avoid prosecution.  It has taken time to locate him given my meager position, but I believe him to be in Meridian.  He’ll have immersed himself in a profession that will allow him influence.”

“I take it he’s a dark soul guy?”

“If there’s one fouler I’ve not seen it.”

I pressed no further.  My instinct begged that I run as soon as Cassius was gone.

I dropped him off at an ancient ramshackle place on the outskirts and drove away.  He had my number, but I didn’t figure I’d hear from him again.

Sleep was fretful full of strange figures shadowy and fearsome.  I waked soaked like from a great fever.  My dreams were so intense I considered giving up for the night, but in my last dream as dark silhouettes threatened to overtake me a bright golden image appeared that instantly drove all away.  I slept well for the balance of the evening knowing I was safe from further menace.

I thought of Cassius the day long as I went about my work.  I wondered if the path he traveled would end badly or if he would triumph over the evil he saw in the man he now pursued.  Several times I endeavored to rid myself of what Cassius had conveyed, but was unable.

Late evening, three days after our parting, I received a call, I was wrong in thinking Cassius wouldn’t reach out.  He proceeded to tell me he had located he whom we had spoken of.  True to his prediction, Cassius had tracked him to a large church, where he had assumed the position as pastor.

“He’ll use title and the scripture to twist what was meant to help and teach into a tool for evil.  I feel I could use your support, would you would attend service with me?”

I agreed and Sunday I picked him up.

Like his congregation we were engrossed by the words he uttered, as would any congregation the world over.  Such was his magnetism.  Though it seemed a small point, several times his message drew back to the subject of moving the church to a new land.  He claimed he had received a message directing him to do so.

“Are you certain he is what you say?  His message was quite good—inspiring,” I whispered.

Cassius looked at me and answered yes.

I was beginning to wonder if I had put too much trust in Cassius.  Maybe he was the one with the problem.

There came a moment in the proceedings when collection was started.  The relative quiet was broken when Cassius stood, “God has instructed you to move the church?”

Every eye in the place turned our way.  I looked around to see if there was a way out.

The preacher squinted and held hand to brow struggling to see who had disrupted the goings on.  He then walked forward to evade the lights blocking his view.  When he saw Cassius he stopped and motioned for security.  “I ask again, God has instructed you to move this church?”

“Sorry for the disturbance friends some don’t understand our covenant.  Please pray for him.”

For my part I felt like Peter as I turned away when they took Cassius by arm and escorted him to unknown destination.

There were few “praise the lord’s and amens,” most were confused and uncertain how to respond.

When the service ended it took time to find Cassius.  He was two miles down the drag leaning against a tree.  I pulled to a stop.  He tried to rise but the grimace on his face said no.  He’d been roughed up and it was hard to assist without causing him further pain.  That evening I put him up.  I offered him Lortab left from my recent back surgery though he declined.

“So the pastor wants to move the church.  What’s the problem?”

“You remember that psycho Jones that convinced his flock to follow him to the jungle?”

“Yeah, those kids, the Kool-Aid, that was some kind of terrible.”

“If he gets his way we’ll see a repeat or worst.”

“How do you know?  Cassius, I’ve heard all you’ve said and some, scratch that, most would say I’m crazy to trust you.  I mean seeing soul color; you have to admit it’s difficult to swallow.”

“Yes, I grant you that, none the less true.”

“So if I go out on this limb with you a little further, what do we do?”

“It’s not we, it’s me.  I’ve got to handle this.”

“I’ll help if I can.  What’s your plan?”

“I need to think.  Let me get some shut eye.  We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

When I looked for Cassius in the morning he was gone.  He left a note thanking me for the sanctuary and for food he pilfered from the kitchen.

As it would happen, the pastor had a large fund raiser planned for the following Saturday night.  Its theme: Move God’s Might.  All proceeds were to fund the church’s move to an undisclosed location in the great Northwest.  I didn’t know if Cassius would be there, but I decided to attend, paying the hundred dollar entrance fee in advance.

It was a show to be sure; P.T. Barnum would have appreciated the effort.  It was a charged atmosphere that opened with songs of praise played at rock concert volume, dazzling lights, stirring testimonies, and emotional requests for needed funds.  After an hour or so, the man all had come to see was announced.  The hall went black save a single spotlight shown high above the stage.  Mist rose like clouds that surround the great summits.  The pastor appeared and began a slow decent from on high.  Triumphant alleluias rang out, sung by a choir whose voices could give the angels a run.  The gown he wore appeared to be spun of iridescent thread as it glowed in the intense light.  When still some fifty feet above stage the jubilance suddenly stopped when speakers reverberated with the preacher’s voice, but what was playing was not from the good book, rather it was a recording describing how his lambs would be slaughtered in sacrifice once all moved to the new desolate land.  A mix of gasps and silence filled the room and the man supported from cables motioned franticly making him swing like the chain hung from a basement fixture.  The recoding ended as suddenly as it began and a spokesman attempted to move the proceedings forward.  As spokesman soon found, it was much too late, the crowd had turned and was demanding answers a great volume.  The cables holding the now fallen angel were quickly retracted and the overhead lights illuminated.  The faces about the room bore expressions of incredulity, anger, and fear.  Many were crying and I felt bad for the entire lot.  They had put their trust in him and this was a violation of the worst kind.

In the coming days the papers described details of the defunct minister’s arrest and what was found in the basement of a building leased by the church—detailed plans that described a compound where the inhabitants would be his slaves.  In his twisted hubris he kept a log listing the where and how of those he murdered in his travels and he recorded a series of tapes further elaborating his plans, one tape was missing.  A series of cold cases now had new leads.  The man’s day in court was nigh, and the prosecution was confident.

I never saw Cassius, aka lightning boy again, but the papers reported that the discovery of the basement’s contents had come from and anonymous tip.  I can’t say for certain that Cassius arranged what happened at the fund raiser or that the tip was his, but I like to think both were his work.

To know a person’s soul…I suppose it could come in handy at times, but I don’t envy Cassius.  I imagine it more a burden than benefit.