Household Gods and other narrative offences

by Tade Thompson

  ‘Righteous,’ she said.

  Kole switched off the burners-too bad she could not have used coal or firewood-and took the dish to the shrine in the living room. The food steamed and she could feel the heat on her cheeks. She placed it in front of the graven image. It was an eight inch carving with exaggerated femininity. Small, horizontal nipples, hips twice the width of the shoulders, vertical lines scored into the wood depicting pubic hair. Next Kole dashed into the fridge and got a bottle of seawater that she scooped earlier that day from the sea front. It was turbid and foul looking. She poured it into a clay mug she made for the occasion. Yemaja was a river goddess and fresh water would have been good but she had crossed an ocean to get to Portsmouth so Kole wasn’t worried. Tap water wouldn’t have done it. She placed the mug next to the meal and knelt in front of it. She waited. She tried to empty her mind. She had left the front door open and prayed that nobody noticed the chill. After an hour and seventeen minutes the goddess came in.

  She looked different from what Kole expected. When Yemaja appeared to her in a dream Kole had been walking in a crowded street. One of the bobbing heads in front of her turned. The goddess had been dressed in a suit, but her face and hair were wet and a sprig of seaweed dangled from the left corner of her mouth.

  ‘I am hungry,’ she had said.

  Kole woke up, heart speeding. She knew exactly what to do, and why. It was the interview. She had been given an opportunity. She spent the week preparing. Everyone thought she was working towards her job interview but Kole was interested only in pleasing the goddess, though she told no one. She prepared the clay, moulded the mug and dish, fired up an artist friend’s kiln and baked them. She did not glaze. She gathered ingredients under her sister’s nose. Her father, Idowu, would have freaked out if he knew, but he was bed bound. Tonight, she cooked and opened the door.

  There stood the goddess. Yemaja did not come in a suit. In fact, she came dressed only in sea water. Yemaja was always wet, a mermaid goddess who never appeared with a fish tail. She was naked with high, pointing breasts and a pubic bush that was darker than the night outside. Kole was scandalised-modesty was her security, her safe place. She tried not to show her shock. The goddess trailed water but Kole could clean that up tomorrow. Yemaja went straight to her shrine, sat down on the floor with her legs apart, her sex exposed, and began to eat. Kole looked away, and listened to the munching sounds, the chewing, the swallowing and the short burps. Yemaja was not a cultured eater. Kole was a stickler for table manners and all matters of decorum. Yemaja’s vulgar sexuality disturbed her, but she endured.

  ‘More,’ said the goddess.

  Kole scrambled, had to go near the goddess to get the bowl. Yemaja smelled of the mustiness underneath piers at low tide, that rotting wood smell mixed with seagull guano. She drank the seawater, exposing hairy armpits. Kole hurried and came back with the rest of the food.

  ‘Tell me what is on your mind, daughter,’ said Yemaja.

  Kole swallowed. ‘I’m…I…that is, I’ve applied for a job. I need it because I can’t stand to live in this house anymore. I want to be independent of my father and sister. I’ve not been able to find a job, and this is the first interview I’ve been invited to in months. Please help me.’

  The goddess did not answer, neither did Kole expect her to. Yemaja burped and released a wet fart before getting up and walking out. Her tangled hair shot in all directions and her small buttocks rippled with muscle.

  ‘Farewell,’ said Kole.

  It was two days to the interview.

  *

  Unbridled magic entered the world in 1988 and two years later, Kole’s father, Idowu, a witch doctor from Yorubaland, brought magic to England when he made the first graven image. This is what they said of him, but Idowu had always denied it.

  ‘I did not bring magic to England. It was already here. It had spread from the gap, the spill from across the sea. People just did not notice it. Check the newspapers. Certain phenomena had increased. Ghost sightings, odd accidents, “hallucinations”. The first edge of the wave, the front, arrived I think in 1990.’

  It was before her birth, but Kole had read the story. Five fortune tellers along the pier had been blinded in a single afternoon, their eyeballs literally exploding within the sockets in a gooey mess. At the time it was thought odd, but quickly forgotten, as if the English deliberately looked away from the supernatural.

  ‘How did the magic start, daddy?’ asked Maddy once.

  Their father just smiled a tight-lipped smile and shook his head. Did he not know, or was he just not telling? He would not commit either way. All they knew was that before ’88, life had been strictly Laws of Physics and the supernatural was restricted to imagination, either literary or socio-religious. Afterwards, the imagination was activated, weaponised even. Religious icons started to make appearances, and not just to their acolytes. The Nailed Man appeared one day on Portsdown Hill, in the woods near Southwick Fort. Angel, demons, prophets, Enlightened Ones, djinn, all became probable, plentiful and problematic. Entire constitutions had to change to accommodate new rules of society. Magic use wasn’t illegal, but it was tightly regulated. It was a crime, for example, to curse another person if accompanied by a gesture or ritual.

  Trying to use or control the magic was discouraged, and the Church of England acquired new prominence and instituted the Salt Sisters as volunteers to keep an eye on things, cataloguing, containing, whispering suggestions to Westminster, maintaining a massive presence at Whitehall. Curiously, it did not re-ignite the age-old animosity between the Church and Wiccans. Perhaps because they were equally appalled. There were some rumours that this was not new magic, that it was a failure of bounds put in place centuries ago. Idowu said this might be true, but would not elaborate.

  That was back when he used to talk. Now he lay in bed all day and stared. Maddy worked at a coffee shop on Commercial Road, barista by day, carer by night. She was okay as older sisters went, but Kole thought she lacked ambition. She drank too much and spent too much time in night clubs. Kole didn’t think Maddy had a boyfriend, but she had definitely had sex. One time she brought a boy back to the house, copulating drunkenly, noisily. Kole had been disgusted.

  It was hard to imagine a world without magic. The Salt Sisters had kept a ring around Portsmouth Cemetery to ensconce the errant spirits for as long as Kole could remember. The nights could be noisy with the wails of the restless dead complaining about embalming fluid. Fate or destiny was no longer that random thing that atheists and agnostics prodded and poked. There were gods now, and they did interfere in the affairs of humankind.

  Kole fell asleep while cleaning the pots. She woke briefly when Maddy nudged her and gently led her to bed.

  *

  ‘He’s here again,’ said Robert.

  Maddy stopped what she was doing and twisted around to see. Robert was right. 1960 stood outside, framed by the window, his crowd of followers only two meters away. He waved weakly at her. Maddy sighed.

  ‘Look, it’s okay for you to have a visit from a boyfriend—‘

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘His followers stop people from buying coffee. Make him go away.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Maddy. She took off her apron, ignored the stares of the patrons and went outside. 1960 smiled.

  ‘This isn’t funny,’ said Maddy. ‘If you’re not buying coffee you have to leave.’

  1960 smiled wider. ‘Then I shall buy and drink coffee.’

  He entered the coffee shop, along with part his spirit flare.

  1960 was so-called because a thousand nine hundred and sixty spirits followed him around. They arranged themselves in an inverted cone flaring up from a foot above his head. They maintained formation, often bouncing off each other or going about their business, which was myriad. They were all ages, all body shapes, all sizes.

  1960 was a celebrity in the age of magic, a refugee from West Africa. Everybody had seen the magazine photos of
a 747 in flight from Nigeria with several hundreds of spirits keeping time, while 1960 himself slept in an aisle seat. Whatever caused the problem had caused this child to be afflicted in some way. Some researchers said there were only approximately 1960 spirits in the flare. Figures had varied from 1540 to 2399, though nobody could state the reason, or how the spirits increased or decreased.

  He would not say his name, would not say a word for a few years. He grew up under the public gaze.

  And now he was in Maddy’s workplace.

  There was a pregnant lady poised right at the apex of the cone, just above 1960’s head. The spirits did not all fit in the coffee shop and many thumped against the door. A form of reverse-gravity kept a dozen or so stuck to the ceiling. Like everybody else, Maddy could not stop looking.

  ‘I would like coffee please,’ said 1960.

  ‘What kind?’ asked Maddy.

  ‘Hot,’ said 1960. ‘And in a cup. With cow juice.’

  ‘Yes, but…never mind.’ She got him a latte and paid for it herself. It was disconcerting that all the spirits in the shop stared at her. The other customers tried to be British and mind their own beverages and quiet desperations. The older ones, at least. The young took photos and videos on their phones, whispering to each other and down the mobile network.

  ‘Come sit with me,’ said 1960.

  ‘I’m working. Why are you here?’

  ‘I want to get to know you. I don’t even know your surname.’

  ‘I know her surname,’ said one of the spirits, a middle-aged, dark man with a bulbous belly.

  ‘I know you know. Just keep that to yourself,’ said 1960, a brief flash of irritation on his face.

  ‘You’ll get me fired. I want you to go.’

  ‘Don’t you like me? You seemed to like me the other night.’

  She had liked him two nights ago, but that was before she became aware of his baggage. He hung around outside the pub on Albert Road, not in shadow, but near one, spirit flare hidden in the dark. It was sneaky of him. Maddy had come out for a smoke, slightly tipsy from Mojitos, and there he’d been. 1960 was good-looking enough and well-dressed enough to be interesting. The music inside wasn’t that funky so they got talking. After an hour or so of flirting they kissed. Or something. Maddy wasn’t sure. She had laughed and sprinted back to join her friends. The rest of the night was kind of a blur, but she remembered seeing him again, once, with something swirling above his head, although she thought she had been drunk.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ said Maddy. ‘I can’t like or dislike—‘

  ‘Get to know me, then. Sit down.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Don’t you have breaks?’

  ‘I—‘

  ‘Get it over with,’ said Robert. ‘The sooner this circus is out of my shop the better.

  ‘He seems like a cruel boss,’ said 1960.

  ‘No, he’s just gruff. He’s lovely.’ Maddy sat down. All the spirits seemed to be evaluating her.

  ‘She’s white,’ said an old woman.

  ‘No, she’s not. She’s a mulatto,’ said another.

  ‘Shh!’ said 1960, giving a sharp look upwards. He turned back to Maddy and shrugged apologetically.

  During the conversation spirits would ascend and descend, flying to his ear, whispering something, then floating up.

  ‘What do they tell you?’ asked Maddy. ‘Can I ask?’

  ‘Titbits. Ambient temperature, the heart rates of people around me, moisture in the air. Stories. Poems. Truths and lies. The positions of planets relative to Earth. Titbits.’

  Some customers fingered totems, mostly crucifixes and prayer beads. They did this because they probably thought 1960 was a demon, but Maddy knew he was not. She was invisible to demons thanks to rituals her father had performed years back. He might be a god, although the news reports all said he was not. He sipped the coffee and jerked back—too hot. All the spirits winced.

  'They feel the pain you feel?' She asked.

  'Sometimes. When I'm surprised.' He licked his lips.

  'What's your real name?' Maddy asked.

  'I don't know, but sometimes I answer to Peter.'

  'No, you don't,' said an academic-looking gentleman lying on the ceiling, reading an open book.

  'You made that up,' said the pregnant woman.

  Maddy looked quizzically at him.

  'I did make it up,' said 1960,' but I need you to see me as a regular guy.'

  'You aren't, though,' said Maddy. 'That's why you hid your flare that night.'

  'Can you pretend it's not there?'

  'No.'

  'Can we be friends of any kind?'

  'You can’t find other gods? People like you?'

  'I'm not a god. I'm a man, but there aren't people like me.'

  'You're magic affected, right? Like the gods.'

  'We aren't all affected the same. And you did not answer my question. Can we be friends?'

  Maddy looked at one of the spirits spin on her own axis slowly, the wrap she had on exposing her burnt skin with each turn.

  'All right,' she said. 'But you have to leave now.'

  'When will I see you?'

  'After work. Now go.'

  *

  Maddy and 1960 walked along the Clarence Pier. The crowd followed, but not too closely because several of the spirits flew around creating a safe space. Maddy had a mint ice cream on a cone. 1960 seemed entranced by the hovercraft foaming its way to the Isle of Wight, which was just visible in the dying afternoon sun. Joggers passed them in both directions, staring but not stopping.

  'This will take getting used to,' said Maddy.

  'Does that mean you'll meet me again?'

  'Don't push your luck.' Maddy looked up into the flare. 'How do you sleep? Where...I mean the ceiling...'

  'High ceiling. I have a warehouse to myself. There's space.'

  One of the spirits with a handlebar moustache caught Maddy’s eye and winked, before turning his attention back to keeping the barrier.

  ‘Who are these people?’ asked Maddy. ‘How did you get like this?’

  ‘I swallowed them,’ said 1960.

  ‘Don’t even think you’re going to get away with being cryptic. Just tell me the story and don’t make me drag every detail out of you. It’s not cool.’

  1960 raised his right hand, pointing his index finger at heaven. A spirit flashed past it and Maddy saw blood drip down. She saw 1960's lips move, then he brought the finger close to her.

  'Hey!' she said.

  ‘If you wish to hear the story, I must make sure that you cannot speak of this.'

  'What if I give you my solemn promise as an Englishwoman?'

  'That promise will last up until your next drunken binge.'

  Maddy punched him.

  'This is the only way.'

  'Okay, all right.'

  He smeared the blood in the middle of her forehead like a Bindi. Maddy didn't feel any different. He stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking, and started to walk again. Maddy fell in beside him.

  'Hundreds of years ago, the kings of the Earth came together in Ethiopia to discuss the problem of magic.

  ‘When the world was created, magic flowed wild and free, harnessed by those who could, endured by those who could not. It got so more and more people were killed by magic than were saved by it. At first the Kings of the Earth propounded laws to regulate its use. Every kingdom had it’s version of what you now call Salt Sisters, but this did not work. In Ethiopia they agreed to put fetters on what was essentially the portal through which intermediary spirits travelled. The most powerful magicians and wise women in the world concocted a spell, devised the necessary sacrifice and sealed it for what they thought would be all time. There was some leakage, of course, but insignificant.

  ‘Centuries later, a village lay on the site of the portal. The village sage had in his employ a troublesome incubus who tried to orchestrate the opening of the portal. The attempt failed, but the spell was not t
erminated, just rendered dormant. It needed blood, human blood, for completion.

  ‘In 1988 a plane crashed on that site, shedding the blood of hundreds, completing the spell, opening the portal to intermediary spirits again.’

  1960 stopped talking.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘That explains magic, the Spill. What about you and your…entourage?’

  ‘Oh, the original village was to be sacrificed. The sage, in his bid to stop the portal, made me swallow all the souls in the village.’ He gestured to the spirit flare around them.

  ‘What happened to the incubus?’

  Before 1960 could answer they both noticed a boy.

  ‘Hello,’ said Maddy, but the boy ignored her and focused on 1960.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said 1960.

  The boy nodded vigorously. ‘I want you to help my father get a job.’

  1960 spun with a flourish, and Maddy thought there was a bit of the ham to him. A bit of a showman, despite his reluctant hero posturing.

  ‘Have no fear,’ said 1960. ‘I will do everything within my power. Tell me about your father.’

  With this he crouched and listened to the boy for a minute, then sent him on his way.

  ‘I thought you said you were not a god,’ said Maddy.

  ‘I am not. Doesn’t stop people praying to me, though.’

  ‘Can you grant prayers?’

  ‘Sometimes. It depends on the request.’ He licked a line of ice-cream that had tracked on his thumb. ‘A few of my spirits can influence people’s volition. I will send a little nudge to the interview panel.’

  They ended up in a bar at Gunwharf Quays, talking of nothing and everything. Outside, the spirit flare was a cloud over the waters of Portsmouth Harbour. A group of people took photos of the spirit antics on their phones. Maddy did not drink any alcohol. It would not do to lose her guard around someone like 1960, no matter how cute he seemed.