Free Kinfolks by Lisa Alther

his head.
    Once the atmosphere in the small room is as combustible as gunpowder, a half dozen men take the snakes from their cages — copperheads, rattlers, and cottonmouths. Others swig from a Coke bottle alleged to contain strychnine. (In 1973, Liston’s brother and another preacher died from drinking strychnine during a service.)
    The men mill around up front, stroking their pet serpents and shouting incoherent praises to the Lord. Some snakes stiffen and sway like dancing cobras. Eyes glazed over, the men wander around displaying their erect snakes to the enthralled or terrified congregation, some of whom pray out loud or speak in tongues or “shout” (a high-pitched scream accompanied by a lashing, jerking movement of the upper body).
    Several men lend their snakes to another man, who ends up with an entire writhing handful that resembles the severed head of Medusa. The newly snakeless jump up and down on stiff legs, arms to their sides. Or they raise both hands to the ceiling with delighted smiles, as though soliciting blessings.
    By subduing these snakes, which represent the serpent in Eden, these believers are proving that God will protect those who master evil. (Some seventy-seven of the estimated two to five thousand members of this faith have died from snakebites. Though most of the bitten refuse treatment, my father has tended a few in the emergency room and reports that it’s an awful death. Like suicide bombers or kamikaze pilots, this cult may prove self-limiting.)
    With a start I realize that if Listón calls me forward, I may go. I’m appalled to realize that my sense of politesse is so exaggerated that I’d even juggle a rattlesnake so as not to appear rude to these overwrought Christians, most of whom look like hardworking farmers, truck drivers, factory workers, and housewives. This is probably the most stimulation they’ve experienced all week. The famous mountain feuds over who left the gate open so the hogs got out may have entertained their forebears similarly.
    Even more stimulating, snake handling is illegal in Tennessee. The state, while upholding religious freedoms, affirmed in court its right “to guard against the unnecessary creation of widows and orphans.”
    Afterward I bid Listón farewell and climb into my car. One of tonight’s snake handlers will soon be sentenced to six years in prison for assault after flinging a rattlesnake at someone during a service. In Alabama, another preacher will be sent to prison for life for banging his cage with a stick to upset the snakes and then forcing his wife’s hand inside it. Although bitten twice, she survived and reported him to the sheriff.
    As I drive back toward Kingsport, I contrast this mayhem to a typical service at St. Paul’s Episcopal. There, men in pinstriped suits and women in mink coats intone the General Confession from the prayer book: “We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickednesses, which we from time to time most grievously have committed by thought, word, and deed against Thy divine majesty, provoking most justly Thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us. The burden of them is intolerable.”
    I admire the sedate cadences of the elegant language. But I recall a Vermont friend’s referring to Episcopalians as God’s Frozen People. When the choice is between meltdown or glaciation, is it any wonder that I’ve left town?
    I head out to the cabin on our farm so I can wake up early and plan my Melungeon trip. I get out of the car to open the gate. After driving through it, I get out again to close the gate.
    As I return to the car, a huge white shape emerges from the dark, like Moby Dick appearing to Captain Ahab. This apparition races me to the car, but I get there first and slam the door in its face, which upon close inspection turns out to