Chapter 4: Miracle or Curse?

That night, I had a Seven-Star Altar (Big Dipper layout) built by the marsh, with forty-nine lanterns lit.

The altar glowed in the darkness, the lanterns casting strange shadows on the water. The scent of burning sage drifted through the air, mingling with the marsh fog. It felt both sacred and wild, a place where miracles might just happen.

Then I let my hair down, threw on a preacher’s robe, grabbed a wooden cross, and began the ritual.

I played the part to the hilt, voice rising in prayer, arms stretched to the sky. The robe swirled around my boots, the cross heavy in my grip. For a moment, I believed my own act.

Soon, a silver torrent came pouring down from the sky, completely flooding the marsh. The downpour lasted three hours before stopping.

Rain hammered the tin roofs and filled every hollow. Folks ran out, faces turned upward, mouths open in awe. The marsh became a mirror, reflecting the lanterns’ glow back at the stars. Felt like something out of a dream.

“Wyatt, your magic is something else,” Greg said in awe. “But how do we explain this miracle rain?”

He stared at me like I’d just parted the Red Sea. I shrugged, playing humble, but the pride in my chest was hard to hide.

“Brother,” I replied, faking exhaustion, “I prayed for our people to double, and the Lord took pity and sent this sign. Let’s just wait and see what comes.”

I made sure to wipe sweat from my brow, letting my voice tremble with just the right amount of reverence. The crowd nodded, faith rekindled.

“Thank you, Wyatt.”

Greg’s gratitude was genuine, his eyes shining with hope. He squeezed my shoulder, as if I’d truly delivered a miracle.

No one knew I’d actually drawn in water from the legendary Amazonian Moon Spring.

I kept that secret locked tight, the knowledge burning like a brand. Sometimes, a little mystery keeps folks in line.

The next day, everyone in the pack—thousands—was doubled over with stomach pain.

The scene was almost comical—tough men and women hunched over, groaning, clutching their middles like they’d eaten bad chili at the county fair. I almost felt bad—almost. The groans echoed through the Hollow, punctuated by curses and prayers.

“Strategist,” Greg came to me, clutching his belly, “is this miracle water poisoned?”

He looked ready to faint, sweat beading on his brow. I did my best to look equally concerned, though my own gut was just fine.

“Don’t panic, brother!” I comforted him, rubbing my own stomach. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. If He wanted us gone, it wouldn’t be poison.”

I flashed my best reassuring smile, the kind that says everything’s under control—even when it isn’t.

Of course, I’d stopped drinking the outside water since last night, secretly sipping from the bottled stash I’d hidden in my room.

I kept my own bottle tucked under the bed, taking careful sips when no one was looking. Sometimes survival means being just a little sneakier than the next guy.

“You’re right. Quick, call for Doc Andy Qualls.”

Greg barked the order, voice hoarse. Folks scrambled to fetch Doc Qualls, hope flickering in their eyes.

Soon, Doc Qualls was helped into the Hall of Brotherhood, face pale as a ghost, sweat pouring down, and even the folks supporting him looked no better.

He shuffled in, clutching his bag, his white coat stained and rumpled. The two men holding him up looked just as miserable, their faces drawn and eyes haunted.

A crowd was already waiting in the hall, the leaders all sitting in folding chairs, clutching their stomachs and groaning.

The room smelled of antiseptic and fear. Not a great combo. Folding chairs creaked under shifting weight, and the air buzzed with anxious whispers.

“Doc, hurry, check on the pack!”

Greg’s voice cracked, urgency edging every syllable. The room fell silent, all eyes on the doctor.

Without a word, Doc Qualls took pulses from a few folks, then said in a grave voice, “Greg, I know the cause. No one’s been poisoned. But… are you sure you want me to say it here?”

He glanced around, voice low, as if afraid the walls themselves might overhear. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Hearing it wasn’t poison, everyone relaxed a little.

A few folks even managed nervous chuckles, relief washing over their faces. Someone muttered a prayer of thanks, fingers crossed behind their back.

Clay Knox yelled, “If it’s not poison, why does my gut feel like hell?”

His voice boomed through the hall, breaking the spell. Folks nodded, echoing his complaint.

Greg glared at him, then said, “Leaders stay, everyone else, clear out.”

The order was swift, no-nonsense. Chairs scraped as the crowd shuffled out, leaving the core group behind.

After the rest left, Doc Qualls said, “I checked myself. Old midwife trick—the pulse rolls like beads: steady, full, and round. It’s a pregnancy pulse.”

He said it with the authority of a man who’d seen the impossible and learned not to question it. The words hung in the air, unreal but undeniable.

“What? Pregnancy?” Greg’s face went so dark it looked like a storm cloud.

His jaw dropped, eyes wide. For a moment, he looked ready to faint.

“We’re all pregnant?” Big Luke blurted out.

His voice cracked, disbelief and panic mixing in equal measure. The others stared at him, then at each other, searching for answers.

The hall erupted into chaos.

Shouts and curses bounced off the walls, chairs overturned, and someone even started to cry. It was a mess—screaming, crying, and, somehow, a whole lot of joy. It was a scene straight out of a soap opera—if soap operas had this much testosterone.

As strange as it was, in the wild world of Silver Hollow, it wasn’t impossible.

Here, the line between legend and reality blurred. Folks had seen weirder things—maybe not this weird, but close.

“So this is how the numbers double,” Greg muttered.

His voice was flat, resigned. The truth of it settled over the room like a heavy quilt.

“Might as well be dead!” Clay groaned.

He slumped in his chair, head in his hands, muttering curses under his breath.

When he touched his belly, he could feel something moving inside. He wanted to punch it, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His hands trembled, and for the first time, I saw fear flicker in his eyes.

Crash! Several coffee mugs hit the floor as leaders dropped them in shock.

The sharp sound jolted everyone, the mugs shattering like the last bit of their composure.

Charlie Randall’s knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, Big Luke nearly ripped up the pillar he was leaning on, Hannah Sloane’s toes were trembling, Pete Yates rolled on the floor, Hunter Rowe went pale as a ghost.

Each reaction was its own brand of panic—some went silent, some lashed out, some just tried to disappear.

Only Gus Dawson and Sarah Early looked happy, faces flushed and smiling.

They sat side by side, eyes shining, hands resting gently on their bellies. Hope glimmered where others saw only trouble.

“What are you grinning at?” Zach Green snapped.

He spat the words, jealousy and confusion twisting his face.

“I’ve been running the butcher shop for years, too much blood on my hands. My body’s all out of whack—I couldn’t get pregnant. Now the Lord’s finally given me a child. No matter what, I’m keeping it,” Sarah replied.

Her voice was steady, proud. The others stared at her, caught between admiration and disbelief.

Gus nodded, probably thinking the same thing.

He squeezed her hand, a silent promise passing between them.

“You’re a woman, giving birth is like passing a kidney stone. But how’s a guy supposed to do it?” Zach yelled.

His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. The absurdity of it all was too much to bear.

“Doc!” Greg’s face twisted in pain. “Just give us something to get rid of these babies!”

He looked at Doc Qualls like a drowning man begging for a rope.

“You think I don’t want to?” Doc Qualls said bitterly. “I already tried it on one of the hands, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, and he died in agony.”

His words sent a chill through the room. The stakes were suddenly, painfully real.

Greg gritted his teeth. “But we’re all men—how are we supposed to give birth?”

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest, sweat beading on his forehead.

“As the old folks say, when the fruit’s ripe, it’ll drop. When the time comes, I guess a hole will split open under you and the kid’ll come out,” Doc Qualls mused.

He shrugged, as if that explained everything. The others stared at him, horror dawning in their eyes.

No wonder he’s called the miracle doc—just like out of a legend.

The man had an answer for everything, even if it made no sense at all.

Medicine wouldn’t help; only water from the Moon Spring could end these pregnancies.

I kept that knowledge to myself, weighing my options. Timing was everything now.

“Brother,” Sam Wolfe said quietly, “we need to plan ahead.”

His voice was calm, steadying the room. The others looked to him, hope flickering in their eyes.

“Strategist, this started with you—only you can fix it.” Greg looked at me hopefully.

His gaze was pleading, trust and fear tangled together. I felt the burden settle on my shoulders.

“Brother,” I replied, choking up, “this is the Lord’s will. We prayed for more people, and this is the price. If we try to fight it again, it could bring worse trouble.”

I let my voice tremble, playing up the drama. Sometimes, faith was the only answer folks would accept.

Greg glanced uncertainly at Riley Long, the fourth in command, who closed his eyes and nodded, agreeing with me.

Riley’s silent support was enough to sway the room. Folks settled, resigned to their fate.

“Then we’ll give birth,” Greg said, resigned.

His words were heavy, but final. The others nodded, some muttering prayers, others just staring at the floor.

“Zach, Pete, go buy brown sugar, eggs, sesame, and motherwort from the nearest towns. Bring every midwife within a hundred miles up to the Hollow!” I said, barely holding back my laughter—or my own pain.

I rattled off the list like a drill sergeant, masking my nerves with authority. The room sprang into action, grateful for something—anything—to do.