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“You hear me quiet, now,” he said to us, deep and low.
“That’s how I was then.” The Lord told him to read the Book of Joshua; He would do the rest. You don’t got the voice.” “Well,” Buddy replied, slowly, “Get thee behind me, anyhow.” “Okay,” the devil said.
En los picos de la sierralos carabineros duermenguardando las blancas torresdonde viven los ingleses. Sátiro de estrellas bajascon sus lenguas relucientes.
Y los gitanos del agualevantan por distraerse,glorietas de caracolas yramas de pino verde. Al verla se ha levantadoel viento que nunca duerme. Cantan las flautas de umbríay el liso gong de la nieve.¡Preciosa, corre, Preciosa,que te coge el viento verde! Preciosa, llena de miedo,entra en la casa que tiene,más arriba de los pinos,el cónsul de los ingleses.
Buddy did so and slipped into the back of a church to see what would happen. “I will — if you can tell me just two words you’re a-gonna preach.” “Well,” Buddy said, and that used up the only one he had.
So he marched up to pulpit, put the devil in front of him, and opened his mouth.
He’d been fighting it since he got the call to preach in 1959.
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Y mientras cuenta, llorando,su aventura a aquella gente,en las tejas de pizarra elviento, furioso, muerde.
Preciosa comes playingher moon of parchmenton an amphibious pathof crystals and laurels.
How he knew we were coming we can’t guess; he must have had some kind of tripwire strung to the hand-painted sign out on the highway that read, “Mi RAcle this Exit,” because he was standing there as we rolled into the lot and when we opened the car doors he said, “You here to see it? His hand was a curled claw of melted fingers and scabby stumps.
We followed his direction and saw a little white shack with words scrawled all over it in the same unsteady hand that had lured us off the highway: “Its here its here Its here.” He told us that once on this spot a hitchhiker had looked up into the sky and saw four clouds in the shape of letters: E-S-U-S. “ESUS isn’t even a word.” Then sure enough the wind picked up and a fifth cloud blew across the sky, making it a proper miracle, spelling the name. When he insisted we buy something else to make the stop worthwhile, we asked for the local paper. Buddy Faucette had been a preacher for forty years when the devil came into his church, said a prayer, drew a .38, and pulled the trigger.