Tale #008 — The Cult Ritual Toe Counting Disaster
As told by Betsy LeAnne Broussard
There's a difference between a religious experience and a plumbing emergency.
I've lived in Katy Bill, Loosyaner, my whole life, and I can usually tell which one I'm looking at.
A religious experience generally involves prayer, somebody crying, and Miss Darlene bringing a casserole.
A plumbing emergency involves water where it ain't supposed to be, somebody crying, and Miss Darlene bringing a casserole anyway.
But on the Friday before Halloween, I witnessed something that involved thirteen black robes, one hundred and thirty toes, a busted drainage culvert, and Elbert Dale Hoss standing in the middle of it all with a carpenter's square.
And to this day, there are eleven people in Baton Rouge who believe that man can speak directly to the forces of the universe.
I ain't got the heart to tell them he once tried to plant powdered gravy.
The Katy Bill Community Center was having its annual Halloween party.
We'd been planning it since September.
There was a cakewalk, a costume contest, a haunted hayride, and a little pumpkin-decorating table for the children.
I was handling the food.
Betsy's Burger Barn supplied the sliders, and my Stop-N-Go provided the chips, drinks, and candy.
Miss Darlene had made a sheet cake decorated like a graveyard.
She'd used crushed chocolate cookies for dirt and little vanilla wafers for tombstones.
One tombstone said REST IN PEAS.
Another said HERE LIES MY DIET.
The third one said BERT GRANT'S PATIENCE.
Biggun had seen that last one and asked her to change it.
She told him she wasn't wasting perfectly good icing.
So he left it alone.
The party was supposed to be a nice, ordinary evening.
Which meant we were already tempting the Lord.
The trouble began Thursday afternoon at the Farm & Feed.
Frank was behind the counter when a young man in a black robe came in asking about ceremonial basins.
His name was Silas Crowe.
He was twenty-four, had long black hair, and spoke like every sentence needed thunder behind it.
He'd driven down from Baton Rouge with a group of friends who belonged to something called The Order of the Eleventh Step.
They'd rented an old hunting cabin outside Katy Bill for Halloween weekend.
Frank didn't know what a ceremonial basin was.
But he did have galvanized livestock tubs.
So he showed Silas the ones beside the mineral feeders.
Hoss happened to be there buying fence staples.
He heard the words ceremonial basin and came over.
"Whatcha washin'?"
Silas turned.
"We are preparing for a sacred ritual."
Hoss nodded.
"All right."
"A ritual of revelation."
"Yes, sir."
"At midnight, we shall summon the Eleventh Step."
Hoss looked at him.
Then at the galvanized tub.
Then back at Silas.
"Reckon I better bring my tape measure."
Silas went very still.
Frank looked up from the register.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
Then Silas whispered, "You understand?"
Hoss nodded.
"Got a good one at the house."
Silas reached out and took Hoss by both shoulders.
"Brother. What is your name?"
"Elbert Dale Hoss."
Silas closed his eyes.
"Elbert Dale Hoss."
"Yes, sir."
"Will you stand with us at the threshold?"
Hoss considered that.
"Reckon I can."
Silas looked like he might cry.
Frank went back to counting fence staples.
He'd already learned his lesson about asking questions.
Hoss came into my Stop-N-Go that evening and bought chalk, a flashlight, twelve bottles of water, and two packages of clean white socks.
I rang everything up.
"What's all this for?"
"Got a toe-countin' appointment."
I stopped scanning.
"A what?"
"Toe-countin'."
"With who?"
"Some fellers from Baton Rouge."
I looked at him.
"Elbert, why are people from Baton Rouge coming to Katy Bill to count your toes?"
"Dunno. They got a basin."
I set the socks down.
"Why do you need two packages?"
"Didn't know if they was countin' everybody's."
"Elbert."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Are these people doctors?"
"No, ma'am."
"Podiatrists?"
"Don't reckon."
"Do they have names?"
"One's Silas."
"What's Silas do?"
"Talks real serious."
I stared at him.
He smiled.
I knew that smile.
It was the smile he wore when he thought everything was going beautifully and everybody else was about to need medical attention.
"Where's this happening?"
"Out by the old drainage field behind the community center."
I closed my eyes.
That field had been giving the parish trouble for years.
There was an abandoned culvert running beneath it, and the old boards covering part of the drainage trench were rotten.
The parish had put up two warning signs.
One had fallen over.
The other had been used as a target by somebody with a pellet gun.
"Elbert, don't go walking around that field after dark."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And don't let Clyde steal anything."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And don't bring any of those people into my store after midnight."
"Yes, ma'am."
He picked up the socks.
Then paused.
"Betsy?"
"What?"
"You reckon folks can have eleven toes?"
I looked at him.
"Some people can."
He nodded.
"All right."
And walked out.
I stood behind my counter for a full minute.
Then I called Biggun.
Biggun answered on the fourth ring.
"Sheriff's office."
"Bert, you busy?"
"Depends."
"Hoss has joined something."
Silence.
"What?"
"Some kind of group from Baton Rouge."
"What kind of group?"
"They wear robes and count toes."
More silence.
Then I heard him put something down.
"Betsy."
"Yes?"
"Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I was."
He sighed.
"What's the name of the group?"
"The Order of the Eleventh Step."
He repeated it slowly.
Then said, "Sounds like a stair-building club."
"Maybe. But Elbert bought socks."
Biggun was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "I'll keep an eye on it."
I thanked him.
Before hanging up, I heard him mutter:
"Why can't that boy ever join a bowling league?"
Friday night, the Halloween party started at six.
By seven, the community center was full.
Children ran around dressed as witches, ghosts, superheroes, and things I didn't recognize.
The mayor came dressed as a pirate.
Miss Darlene dressed as a nun, which wasn't much of a costume because she already looked disappointed in everybody.
Biggun wore his sheriff's uniform.
Somebody asked what he was supposed to be.
He said, "Employed."
Hoss arrived around eight.
He was wearing overalls, clean boots, and a dark jacket.
He had a tape measure clipped to his belt, a carpenter's square under one arm, and a bag of chalk in his hand.
Clyde drove him in Daddy's old Turnip Wagon Truck.
The raccoon wore his fedora and carried his Tommy gun.
Paul was asleep in a cardboard box on the passenger seat.
I met Hoss at the door.
"Elbert, why've you got a carpenter's square?"
"Need it."
"For what?"
"Tonight."
I waited.
That was all I got.
He looked past me at the Halloween decorations.
"Y'all got a lotta ghosts in here."
"They're plastic."
He nodded.
"Good."
Then he wandered toward the cakewalk.
I watched him go.
I had a bad feeling.
Not a new feeling, mind you.
Just a familiar one wearing different shoes.
At ten-thirty, Silas Crowe and his people arrived.
There were eleven of them.
All wearing black robes.
Some had silver cords tied around their waists.
One woman carried a wooden staff with a carved spiral at the top.
Another carried a leather-bound book.
Silas carried the galvanized livestock tub.
They walked into the community center in a straight line.
The music stopped.
A little boy dressed as a dinosaur pointed at them and yelled, "LOOK, MOMMA! EVIL GRADUATION!"
Silas raised one hand.
"We seek Elbert Dale Hoss."
Biggun, who'd been standing beside the coffee urn, slowly turned around.
Hoss waved from the cakewalk table.
"Hey, Silas!"
Silas bowed.
Actually bowed.
Right there in front of everybody.
"Brother Elbert."
Hoss nodded.
"Hey."
Biggun looked at me.
I looked at Biggun.
Neither of us liked what we were seeing.
Silas stepped closer to Hoss.
"The hour approaches."
Hoss checked his watch.
"Yes, sir."
"Are you prepared?"
"Got my tape."
Silas nodded solemnly.
"Then the threshold awaits."
Hoss smiled.
"All right."
Biggun stepped forward.
"Hold on."
Silas turned.
"Yes?"
"I'm Sheriff Grant."
Silas bowed again.
"We honor the guardian of this land."
Biggun stared at him.
"That's nice. What are y'all doing?"
"A sacred rite of revelation."
"Where?"
"The field beyond the old drainage road."
Biggun pointed toward the back door.
"That field's posted."
Silas frowned.
"Posted?"
"Unsafe ground."
Silas looked toward the darkness.
Then whispered, "The earth resists."
Biggun rubbed his forehead.
"No. The earth's got a busted culvert."
Silas nodded.
"The passage is guarded."
Biggun looked at me.
"Betsy."
"Yes, Bert?"
"I hate Halloween."
At eleven-fifteen, the cult gathered in the field.
Now, I didn't intend to go.
I had a community center full of people to feed.
But Biggun said he was going to make sure nobody got hurt, and I wasn't about to let him face eleven robed strangers and Elbert Dale Hoss without somebody there who knew where the first-aid kit was.
So I went.
Miss Darlene came too.
She said she wanted to see what kind of foolishness was happening before she decided whether to pray about it.
Clyde parked the Turnip Wagon Truck beside the old fence.
Paul stayed asleep in his box.
The cult had arranged eleven candles around a circle of white chalk.
Silas stood in the middle.
The others formed a ring around him.
Hoss walked up carrying his tape measure.
He looked at the circle.
Walked around it.
Stopped.
Looked again.
Then got down on one knee.
Silas watched him.
"Brother Elbert?"
Hoss stretched his tape across the chalk.
"Y'all got this laid out funny."
Silas blinked.
"The circle represents eternity."
Hoss nodded.
"Well, eternity's crooked."
I covered my mouth.
Biggun closed his eyes.
Silas whispered, "He sees the imperfection."
Hoss pulled a string line from his pocket.
"Hold this."
Silas took the end.
Hoss walked backward.
"Little more."
Silas moved.
"Little more."
Silas moved again.
"Stop."
Hoss checked the line.
Then drove a small stake into the ground.
For the next fifteen minutes, he corrected the chalk circle.
He measured.
Squared.
Checked the distance between candles.
Moved two stakes.
And told a young woman named Mara that her candle was six inches out of line.
She moved it.
Silas watched the whole thing with tears in his eyes.
Finally, Hoss stepped back.
"That'll do."
Silas raised both hands.
"THE GEOMETRY IS RESTORED!"
The cult bowed.
Hoss nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Biggun leaned toward me.
"He's measuring a circle."
"I know."
"They think he's doing something holy."
"I know."
"Should I stop this?"
I looked at Hoss, who was putting his tape measure away.
"Not yet."
Biggun sighed.
"That's what I was afraid you'd say."
At eleven-forty-five, Silas brought out the basin.
He filled it with water.
Placed it in the center of the circle.
Then opened his leather-bound book.
"The feet carry the burden of the soul," he announced.
Hoss nodded.
"Sure do."
"Each toe is a witness."
"All right."
"Each step a passage."
"Yes, sir."
"At midnight, we shall count what is visible and seek what is hidden."
Hoss looked down at his boots.
Silas raised his hands.
"Brother Elbert, remove your shoes."
Hoss sat on an overturned bucket.
Pulled off one boot.
Then the other.
And revealed two different socks.
One red.
One yellow.
Silas gasped.
Mara gasped.
The whole damn cult gasped.
Hoss looked up.
"What?"
Silas pointed.
"The Dual Colors of the Threshold."
Hoss looked down.
"Couldn't find the other yellow one."
Silas dropped to his knees.
"THE SIGNS WERE TRUE!"
Biggun whispered, "Jesus Christ."
Miss Darlene elbowed him.
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."
Biggun looked at her.
"Darlene, I'm watching eleven people worship a laundry problem."
She told him to hush.
Silas instructed Hoss to remove his socks.
Hoss did.
His feet were clean enough, considering he'd spent the afternoon working on a tractor.
He placed them in the galvanized basin.
Silas knelt beside him.
The other members gathered close.
One held a candle.
Another opened the book.
Mara began chanting.
"One shall be known."
The others repeated it.
"One shall be known."
Silas touched Hoss's big toe.
"One."
The cult answered, "One."
He touched the next.
"Two."
"Two."
Then three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Silas stopped.
The field went quiet.
He looked at Hoss.
Then at the water.
Then at the book.
"The Eleventh Step remains hidden."
Hoss frowned.
"Reckon you counted wrong."
Silas stared.
Hoss pulled one foot out of the basin.
"Here."
He started counting.
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five."
He switched feet.
"Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."
Then he looked at Silas.
"Ten."
Silas whispered, "The truth is spoken."
The cult bowed.
Hoss looked around.
"Y'all all right?"
Mara started crying.
Silas raised both hands toward the sky.
"HE HAS REVEALED THE TEN VISIBLE WITNESSES!"
Biggun leaned toward me.
"Betsy."
"What?"
"I'm gonna go home."
"No, you're not."
"I want to."
"I know."
Now, here's where the evening might've ended with nothing worse than muddy feet and some embarrassed college students.
But Silas had one more part of the ceremony.
He stood in the center of the circle.
Raised his staff.
And declared:
"When the Eleventh Step is revealed, the earth itself shall answer!"
Hoss looked around.
The wind moved through the grass.
A candle flickered.
Silas waited.
Nothing happened.
He raised his staff higher.
"EARTH! WE CALL UPON THEE!"
Nothing.
Hoss walked over to the edge of the circle.
He looked down at the ground.
Then bent and picked up a small stone.
He tapped the dirt.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The third tap made a hollow sound.
Hoss stopped.
Tapped again.
Thunk.
He moved two feet to the left.
Tapped.
Thud.
Moved back.
Thunk.
He frowned.
"Well, hell."
Silas hurried over.
"What do you hear?"
Hoss tapped again.
"Somethin' under there."
Silas went pale.
"The passage."
Hoss stood up.
"Y'all need to get back."
Silas turned to his followers.
"HE COMMANDS US TO WITHDRAW FROM THE THRESHOLD!"
The cult stepped backward.
Hoss looked at the ground.
Then at Biggun.
"Bert, reckon this is that old drain?"
Biggun came over.
"Probably. That's why I told y'all not to come out here."
Hoss nodded.
"Ground's soft."
Biggun looked at the chalk circle.
Then at the old boards half-hidden beneath the grass.
His face changed.
"Everybody move away from that spot."
Silas raised his staff.
"THE GUARDIAN SPEAKS!"
Biggun pointed at him.
"YOU SHUT UP AND MOVE."
The cult backed away.
For a moment, it looked like everybody might listen.
Then Mara stepped onto one of the rotten boards.
It cracked.
She screamed.
Silas rushed toward her.
Two others followed.
The boards gave way.
And the whole edge of the old drainage trench collapsed.
It wasn't a deep hole.
Maybe four feet at the worst point.
But it was full of cold mud, old leaves, and enough stagnant water to make a grown man reconsider his life choices.
Mara slid down first.
Silas went after her.
Then three more cult members lost their footing and tumbled in.
Candles tipped.
Water splashed.
Somebody dropped the ceremonial book.
The galvanized basin rolled into the ditch with a tremendous CLANG.
Silas landed sitting upright in the mud.
His staff stuck out beside him.
Mara was covered from the waist down.
Another cult member had lost a shoe.
Nobody was badly hurt.
But everybody was screaming.
And Silas, instead of admitting they'd fallen into a drainage ditch, threw his arms toward the sky and shouted:
"THE ELEVENTH STEP HAS OPENED!"
Hoss stood at the edge.
Looked down.
Then said:
"Well, hell. That's a culvert."
Biggun was already moving.
He grabbed his flashlight.
Checked the edge.
Told everybody to stay back.
Then looked at Hoss.
"Elbert, you got rope?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get it."
Hoss ran to the truck.
Clyde watched him approach.
Hoss opened the toolbox.
Pulled out a coil of rope.
Then grabbed a wooden fence post.
He came back.
Biggun looked at the post.
"What's that for?"
"Anchor."
Biggun nodded.
"Good."
Hoss drove the post into firm ground well away from the broken boards.
Wrapped the rope around it.
Checked the knot.
Then tossed the free end into the ditch.
"Grab ahold!"
Silas seized it.
Hoss braced himself.
Biggun helped.
Together, they hauled Silas up the muddy bank.
Then Mara.
Then the others.
One by one, the cult members climbed out.
Hoss worked steadily.
No speeches.
No mysterious wisdom.
Just a farmer who knew how to use a rope.
When the last person was safe, Biggun checked everybody for injuries.
One twisted ankle.
A scraped elbow.
A missing shoe.
Nothing serious.
He called the parish road crew to report the collapse.
Then he turned to Silas.
"I TOLD YOU THAT FIELD WAS UNSAFE."
Silas, dripping mud, looked at Hoss.
"He knew."
Biggun stared.
"What?"
"He heard the earth before it opened."
Hoss was coiling the rope.
"Board was rotten."
Silas nodded reverently.
"He speaks in simple truths."
Biggun looked at me.
I shrugged.
There wasn't much else to do.
Then Clyde decided to contribute.
Now, I want to be clear about something.
Clyde had not helped rescue anybody.
He'd watched from the truck.
He'd eaten a bag of ceremonial crackers somebody left on the seat.
And he'd spent most of the evening trying to pry a brass fitting off the cult's spare lantern.
But apparently the successful rescue put him in a festive mood.
He reached beneath the truck seat.
Pulled out a stolen bag of red, white, and blue confetti.
And threw it into the air.
CON FETTY.
The paper fluttered down over the muddy cultists.
Some stuck to their robes.
Some landed in the ditch.
One piece caught in Silas's hair.
Silas looked up.
His eyes widened.
"The sacred colors!"
Mara dropped to her knees.
"The signs!"
Another cult member began crying.
Clyde stood beside the truck.
Fedora tilted.
Looking pleased with himself.
Biggun turned.
Saw the confetti.
Saw Clyde.
And made a noise I can only describe as a man discovering his last nerve had been stolen.
"YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"
Clyde jumped into the driver's seat.
Started the Turnip Wagon Truck.
And rolled backward just far enough to put the sheriff out of grabbing range.
Biggun took three steps toward him.
Then stopped.
Because he still had five muddy people standing beside a collapsed ditch.
He pointed at Clyde.
"I AIN'T FORGOTTEN YOU!"
Clyde honked the horn.
Once.
Then twice.
Paul slept through it.
Silas gathered his followers.
They stood in a muddy semicircle.
Some had lost their candles.
One was barefoot.
Mara had a piece of confetti stuck to her cheek.
But they looked happier than any group of people ought to look after falling into a drainage ditch.
Silas approached Hoss.
"Brother Elbert."
Hoss looked up from his rope.
"Yes, sir?"
"You have guided us through the threshold."
"All right."
"You have revealed the ten visible witnesses."
"Yes, sir."
"You have restored the sacred geometry."
"Reckon so."
"And you have brought us safely from the earth."
Hoss nodded.
"Y'all oughta stay off that rotten part."
Silas took his hands.
"Will you speak the final blessing?"
Hoss blinked.
"The what?"
"The words that seal the ritual."
Hoss looked around.
At the mud.
At the basin.
At the candles.
At the people in black robes.
Then he smiled.
And hollered loud enough for everybody at the community center to hear:
"I LOVE CULT RITUAL TOE COUNTINS'!"
Silas dropped to his knees.
Mara followed.
Then the rest of them.
Eleven muddy people knelt in the grass before Elbert Dale Hoss.
Hoss looked down at them.
Then at me.
"Betsy?"
"Yes, Elbert?"
"Reckon they dropped somethin'?"
I closed my eyes.
"Probably their dignity."
He nodded.
"Well, we'll help 'em look."
By the time we got back to the community center, it was nearly one in the morning.
The party had mostly ended.
Miss Darlene was packing up the cake.
The mayor had gone home.
The children were asleep in the back seats of their parents' cars.
And Biggun was filling out paperwork at a folding table.
Silas came inside with his followers.
They were muddy, exhausted, and completely convinced they'd witnessed a supernatural event.
He approached Miss Darlene.
"Madam, we have crossed the Eleventh Step."
She looked him up and down.
"Well, you can cross right back outside until you get them boots cleaned."
Silas bowed.
"Your wisdom is received."
Miss Darlene stared at him.
Then handed him a mop.
"Good. Start with the floor."
And that's how the Order of the Eleventh Step spent the last hour of Halloween weekend cleaning the Katy Bill Community Center.
I considered it the first sensible thing they'd done all night.
Biggun finished his report around two.
He read it aloud to me.
"Unauthorized gathering. Minor property damage. One drainage collapse. No serious injuries. Eleven persons warned about trespassing."
He paused.
Then added:
"Forty-seven minutes lost to discussion of toes."
I nodded.
"Sounds right."
He set the pen down.
"Betsy."
"Yeah?"
"Do you know what Silas told me?"
"What?"
"He said Hoss is the Keeper of the Ten Visible Toes."
I stared at him.
Biggun stared back.
Then we both started laughing.
Not polite laughing.
Not church laughing.
The kind of laughing where you have to sit down because your knees quit working.
Biggun wiped his eyes.
"I swear to God, Betsy, if that boy starts a religion, I'm moving to Arkansas."
I patted his shoulder.
"Don't worry, Bert."
He looked at me.
"Why?"
"Because Elbert can't remember where he put his own boots half the time."
Biggun considered that.
Then nodded.
"Fair point."
The next morning, Silas and his followers packed up their cabin and drove back to Baton Rouge.
Before leaving, they stopped at Hoss's farm.
They presented him with a small wooden plaque.
It had a carved spiral.
Underneath were the words:
ELBERT DALE HOSS
KEEPER OF THE TEN VISIBLE TOES
Hoss studied it.
"Well, ain't that nice."
Silas bowed.
"We shall carry your teachings with us."
Hoss nodded.
"All right."
Mara stepped forward.
"Will you remember us?"
Hoss smiled.
"Sure will."
Silas took his hand.
"Until the Eleventh Step calls again."
Hoss looked at him.
Then at the plaque.
Then said:
"Y'all drive careful."
The cult left.
Hoss watched their cars disappear down the road.
Then he went into Daddy's shed.
Paul was asleep in a feed sack.
Clyde was sitting on a crate, examining a brass lantern fitting he'd somehow acquired.
Hoss opened Daddy's old farm ledger.
He wrote carefully.
TOE COUNT — TEN.
CIRCLE — FIXED.
CULVERT — NEEDS REPAIR.
CULT FELLERS — FRIENDLY BUT BAD AT MEASURIN'.
ELEVENTH STEP — NOT FOUND.
He studied the page.
Then looked down at Paul.
"Paul?"
Paul didn't move.
"Reckon we oughta check yours."
He picked up the possum.
Paul opened one eye.
Hoss gently turned him over.
Looked at his little feet.
Started counting.
"One. Two. Three. Four..."
Paul wriggled.
Hoss lost his place.
"Well, hell."
He started again.
"One. Two. Three..."
Paul tucked his feet beneath himself.
Hoss frowned.
"Quit hidin' the evidence."
Paul closed his eye.
And somewhere in Baton Rouge, eleven people were writing down every word Elbert Dale Hoss had spoken, convinced they'd received the wisdom of an ancient prophet.
Meanwhile, Hoss was sitting in a shed trying to count the toes on a stoned possum.
Which, if you ask me, is about as close to a religious experience as Katy Bill ought to get.
THE END