Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  So each week now in the prayer meeting, someone chimes up about the burden the Lord has laid on him or her for the souls of the lost on the new estate. Pastor has announced that he understands these deep concerns – indeed, he shares them – but until the Lord speaks to him specifically, he will not make a move. In last night’s meeting there were some sharp looks amongst the deacons. Osian’s father spoke for them all, he’d said, and the skin around Pastor’s tightly pursed lips had gone a light shade of grey. Tirzah felt sorry for him. And she couldn’t help noticing that Osian’s father was not using a lot of grace or forbearance in the way he addressed poor little Pastor. On he went, getting louder and louder, putting it to Pastor that we didn’t have to look thousands of miles away for sinners to make into disciples, when here they were under our very own noses, on our very own doorstep.

  Brother, Pastor said in the nasal voice he used for extra authority, recrossing his pinstriped legs, I am warmed by your zeal, but tone it down, please. There was a short, squeezed sort of silence as Osian’s father stooped for the Bible he had dropped when he jumped to his feet. As Tirzah looked at him she could hear again the dull thump of an outstretched palm making contact, and see his oily, disarranged hair and rucked-up shirt in the kitchen that night she and Osian had got into trouble. Honestly, she’d thought. How could people be so blind? He should examine himself and his own hard-hearted behaviour before he goes out preaching to the blimmin’ lost. And then Pastor had charged them to turn their minds afresh to inland China, and the vast oriental sea of humanity waiting to hear the voice of the Lord. Tirzah had read that these people ate only rice, morning, noon and night. Not that this fact meant anything. But it did make her sorry for them, somehow – never to eat a lovely dollop of mash or a crispy chip. To prayer! To prayer! Pastor had concluded, urging on the unhappy meeting.

  Tirzah walks home from school the next day and tries not to dwell on how anxious she is about this interest in the estate. It’s not that I’m ashamed, she thinks. But she can picture what they’ll look like marching down the road with their banner waving. She knows she will feel an absolute twit, walking into the estate with the fellowship for an outreach meeting. She wishes they weren’t all so mad-looking. Oh dear, I am ashamed, she admits. Is this wrong? Or is it perfectly natural? After all, she tells herself, some members of Horeb are odd. And then again she realises, her heart slipping down her chest a notch or two, that something perfectly natural usually ends up being wrong; nature is fallen, after all. Her heart does a little wobble. I might as well be ashamed of Jesus, like the hymn says, she realises miserably, and runs around to Biddy’s to have a word with her about it all.

  Biddy’s mam comes to the door, her body so tightly encased in an apron that it looks like a thick bolt of material. She has floury arms, and on her fingers clumps of pastry. Paper round, love, she tells Tirzah, and closes the door carefully with the tips of two white fingers. Thank you, Aunty Ceinwen, Tirzah shouts, already running down the road. From terraced street to terraced street she runs until she sees Biddy in the distance, walking lopsidedly, dragging her newspaper bag along the pavement. When she’s caught up, she digs into the bag and helps Biddy push rolled papers through letter boxes. Some doors have what sounds like wild dogs behind them, and at one the paper is snatched by snapping teeth when she pushes it through. Flipping flip, Tirzah says, you need danger money for this job. Biddy grunts as she shoves another paper through a narrow slot. You can say that again, she answers. I’m working for peanuts as it is. Tirzah would love to have a job and earn some pin money for herself; she wouldn’t mind if it was peanuts. But her parents don’t think it seemly for a young girl to go around to strangers’ doors of an evening. When she was younger, Tirzah liked to pretend that she had the wrong parents. Between papers she reminds Biddy. And I have no doubt we were placed in the wrong cradles at birth, she announces, thrusting a paper through a door. Mix-ups like that happen in hospitals all the time.

  Oh, that old hairy chestnut, Biddy says, smiling. Here we go again. When she was smaller, Tirzah thought it would be the limit of happiness to have chickens in her garden, and a tree house. Uncle Maldwyn and Aunty Ceinwen could so easily have been her parents, given that Biddy and she were born within days of each other in the same hospital, and they are relatives anyway. It seemed as if God had made a slip-up. They are so much more normal and let Biddy get away with lots of things, although that has changed a bit recently. I am an obedient girl, Biddy, she says now, slapping a rolled newspaper into her palm. I would suit any number of nice, sane parents you’d care to throw at me. I realise that, Biddy says. But not on your blessed nelly would I want yours. They’re as mad as a pair of hatters. Tirzah knows this is true, so she nods and struggles with a letter box inconveniently placed at the bottom of a door. But it’s not just having a little job that they’re strict about, she thinks. It’s everything. And that wouldn’t suit Biddy at all.

  Will you tell me about the new estate? she asks as they turn back towards the paper shop. Yup, Biddy says, dragging her bag along the street behind her. It’s really nice in there. Lots of grass and new-planted trees. The playground is great. Tirzah immediately wants to investigate. But what do you think about this plan to do outreach? she asks. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to go. Join the club, Biddy says. I hate outreach full stop. And I don’t care about the blinking lost. Tirzah stops walking. But what about being commissioned to go out and make disciples of all men? she says. It’s not an option. Jesus commanded us. Biddy looks unimpressed. What if all men don’t want to be disciples? I think there are a lot of people who couldn’t give a tiddlywink. She takes in Tirzah’s nonplussed expression and smiles. Like me, for instance. Put that in your I’m-saving-the-lost pipe and smoke it, holy pants, she says, hoicking the sack on to her shoulder.

  Tirzah doesn’t have an answer. Then she remembers: Pastor would say it’s because all men are deceived, blinded by the Evil One to the danger they are in. She quickly explains this to Biddy. Or there could be other explanations, Biddy says as they arrive at the shop. That’s all I’m saying. Wait here, I won’t be a mo. Tirzah is feeling as if someone has poked inside her head with a stick and scrambled her brain. She watches Biddy in the shop while she gets her pay from the man who is always barricaded in behind the chocolates. He looks comfy, with the wall of cigarettes and miniature bottles of alcohol behind him, and the rows of sweets in front. Tirzah presses her face to the window. Her parents would say that the shopkeeper is a fallen soul, surrounded by the tokens of his own depraved nature. But he looks happy enough to Tirzah as he counts out coins into Biddy’s outspread palm. And so does Biddy. Outreach reminds Tirzah how weird they must be to non-chapel folk. She has always sensed how the people who peer out at them when they go door-to-dooring feel about the Gospel. The way they slam their doors shut is a clue. Who can blame them when her father’s favourite pamphlet has Why You Are Going to Hell printed in fiery red letters on the front?

  On the way home, they eat the Marathon bars Biddy has bought them. What do you mean then, Bid, Tirzah asks, about the point of witnessing to the lost and everything? All I’m saying, Biddy says, chewing thoughtfully, is that people might not want to be saved. Maybe they are quite content being, you know, unsaved. Take that bloke in the shop. We are supposed to believe all sinners are full of gloom and, on top of that, very nasty people. Well, Mr Singh, my boss, he’s ever so kind and cheerful. So how do you account for him? Tirzah doesn’t want to come out with the thing about how all the lost are hoodwinked by the Devil and kept in a state of happy ignorance regarding the fiery fate that awaits them. Somehow, it sounds a little fantastic, and she can just imagine Biddy rolling her eyes. I do love a Marathon, Biddy says. It’s the peanuts and the marshmallow and the toffee, all mixed together. Mmm, Tirzah agrees. Don’t forget the chocolate.

  She puts her arm through Biddy’s and they fall in step along the pavement. What will you do when we’re having the open-air meeting? Tirzah asks. How will you get out o
f it? I’ll think of something, Biddy tells her. I always do. Tirzah’s chewed peanuts start to become sandy and stick to her teeth, and her breathing speeds up as she thinks about Biddy’s soul teetering on the edge of eternal damnation. But on the other hand, she realises, maybe Biddy is right, and all this lost soul and hell stuff is a load of rubbish. She sends up a quick prayer just in case. And if it is all true, then here is someone even closer to home than the housing estate she should be bearing witness to. She has a suspicion that Biddy will be what Pastor would call a tough nut to crack.

  The Wicked Is Snared by the Work of His Own Hands

  (Psalm 9:16)

  On Fridays, all the fellowship teenagers go to Christian Youth Circle. Tirzah doesn’t mind CYC; Osian is usually there, and Biddy, and lots of others, some nice, some not so, but she knows everybody and is comfortable with them. The leader of the group is a deacon, Mr Humphries. Come on, you ’orrible lot, he shouts most weeks, when the group are holed up in the cloakroom and CYC should have begun. Come on! Let’s get going! He is a big believer in keeping them all busy. You know what the Devil makes work for, don’t you, dear folks? he often asks them when they are reluctant to join in. There are plenty of things to make at CYC, and games, and table tennis. Everyone’s hands are engaged all the time. Tirzah is accustomed to the idea that the Devil is always lurking, ready to lure a person away on to the wrong path if they are not busy doing good deeds. When she was a child, she often gazed at her hands with a kind of loathing. They seemed so intent on doing nothing. And if I just do nothing, she used to think, I’ll soon end up doing the Devil’s work. Now she feels sad for her younger self, realising that things are even more complicated than she could ever have imagined back then.

  First comes Bible study, and for this everyone has to gather in the vestry. Tirzah decides to drift above the meeting, and take it easy tonight. Osian sits opposite her in the circle, and keeps trying to catch her eye. He has been chosen to read the Bible passage. As he reads, Tirzah thinks how strange it is that these fifteen young people are sitting around in a dusty old room, following the scriptures, when outside another sort of life is going on. Then she starts to think about Brân and wonder what he’s up to. Is he cold and hungry? Where is he sleeping? Maybe she should tell Mr Humphries about how Brân seems to be worshipping the Devil, and doing all sorts of dangerous things. But it sounds so far-fetched. The whole episode in the bluebell wood feels like something she dreamt. And the burning car could have been a pure accident. The gang may have been messing about and things got out of hand. She has a sneaking suspicion that Brân would laugh at CYC, or be so bored in chapel that he’d be forced to make something happen.

  Tirzah’s forehead burns as she thinks about Brân’s strong arms and the way he grabbed her. She tingles shamefully at his utter disregard. What is the matter with me? she wonders, trying to concentrate on Osian’s voice. Any boy only has to touch me, and I forget everything and want to kiss him to death. But still, the delicious warmth and irresistible sensation of both drowning and drifting is wonderful. And sinful, she supposes, picturing herself tripping gaily down the broad road to destruction. I should hate myself, she thinks, gazing at the way Osian’s hands hold his Bible as if offering up a sacrifice. Suddenly, she remembers a question she wants to ask. When Mr Humphries throws the meeting open for discussion, she puts up her hand. Yes, Tirzah, says Mr Humphries, smiling an encouragement. She tells him about the difficulty she has with original sin. Do you think that all the poor people in the world who have something wrong with them are being punished because of original sin? she asks. And are folk sick because of it?

  Mr Humphries invites the other young people to give their opinions, but Tirzah isn’t listening. She is imagining people in strange, yet-to-be-discovered places: tiny islands in the middle of immense, clear, glinting seas where it is normal, say, to have six toes on each foot like Pastor, or an ear where you’d expect a nose to be. There could even be a place at the topmost pinnacle of the highest secret mountain in the world where people have the heads of wolves. Maybe these people communicate by howling and barking. She begins to think about what the babies look like. Surely they would be little puppy-faced, sharp-toothed creatures who were cared for by their wolf-headed parents. These are some of the things she has to work out for herself. And fancying boys won’t help her find the truth. Dimly, she gets that she is working, by the smallest of steps, towards an understanding. But of what exactly? All she knows is that it’s important. For instance, why must what’s right or wrong be decided by small groups of nutty people who meet in chapels? She can’t help smiling. So does that help, Tirzah? Mr Humphries asks. Yes, thank you, she answers. I understand now.

  When everyone is having a drink of squash, Mr Humphries tells them about a weekend away that he’s organising for the end of the summer holidays. They will be going to a bed and breakfast at the seaside. He pins a piece of paper to the noticeboard for them to sign up if they are interested, and passes letters around. Give these to your parents, he says. Tell them if they have any questions they can come to me on Sunday. Tirzah is so excited she wants to run around the schoolroom, but she doesn’t. A whole weekend far from home. It is difficult to imagine. She looks at Biddy, who’s nodding happily at her, and then across to Osian. He’s gazing fixedly in her direction in a way that makes her uneasy. Still, she thinks, looking back to Biddy, how wonderful to go to a new place without too many grown-ups to check up on them. But then she realises this is exactly the sort of thing her parents will be anxious about. The idea of CYC going away without her makes her want to scream. She wonders if there is even any point signing up for it. Now then, young Tirzah, Mr Humphries calls, come over by here, please. He hands her a cup of weak squash. Why so tragic? he asks, his crinkly blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses studying her face. Tirzah relaxes a little; with Mr Humphries things always seem clear. Or, for an instant, as simple as they ought to be. I will speak to your parents, he tells her, biting a chunk from his Butter Osborne biscuit. I take it you would like to come?

  Tonight, they are going to have a chip supper. Mr Humphries delegates three boys to go to the chip shop. We’re timing you, mind, he tells them. And no running off with the dosh. The boys laugh, very pleased with themselves. Tirzah goes into the cloakroom to get a hankie from her bag. When she turns to leave, Osian is in the doorway. The gloomy cloakroom is not a place Tirzah likes. She backs into a forgotten coat that hangs like the deflated remains of a long-gone member of the congregation. Osian gently pushes Tirzah against it and puts his arms around her. The coat smells of mints and damp wool. Just imagine, Osian whispers, if we could go away on the weekend. He reaches down and plants his lips on hers. Sounds of running feet on floorboards and the clop of table tennis balls echo from the schoolroom. Osian presses himself against Tirzah. Blanking out, she interlaces her hands through the black hair at the nape of his neck. Is this the sort of work the Devil makes? she wonders, pushing the length of her body against him. Even their kneecaps are touching. His lips feel as if they are melded to hers. Everything begins to fall away: the cloakroom, the musty coat, the other members of CYC, Brân on the mountain. All that remains are the bodies of Tirzah and Osian, trying to get inside each other.

  Then, like freezing water from a hose, light splashes down on them and they spring apart. There in the doorway is Mr Humphries, his hand still on the light switch. Come on, you two, he says cheerily, your chips are getting soggy. Giving them a final cool look, he leaves. Tirzah is shivering, bereft and ashamed, but above all thankful for Mr Humphries’ interruption. She’s like a version of her old doll Nanci, who, under her long skirt, had another head where her legs should be. You could turn her up the other way and have a different doll to play with whenever you felt like it. But she’d hated both of Nanci’s faces: you didn’t know where you were with either of them. And here I am, knowing I only want to be Osian’s friend, and then kissing him like a mad person. I might as well have two heads with two separate brains. Osian ta
kes her hand. We’d better go, he says, leading her out to where everyone is unwrapping their newspaper parcels. I don’t think old Humphries will tell on us. Tirzah feels as if she doesn’t deserve chips, or any treats. And now I’ve gone and made things worse for Osian and me, she thinks, following him into the hall. If God can see into her heart, will He understand she’s two opposite, uncontrollable girls? If He doesn’t, then maybe she’s not the only stupid one.

  Soon the air is laden with the sharp scent of vinegar-soaked newspaper as everyone digs into their chips in the Sunday schoolroom. Part of Tirzah is still in the cloakroom, eagerly holding Osian, breathing him in. She tries to stop thinking about it, but the dying, unfamiliar sensation between her legs won’t let her. On the far wall is a painted banner she has hardly taken notice of for years, but now it leaps out and almost punches her in the face. She reads the curling letters that make up the words Thou God Seest Me, and blushes so deeply she’s sure everyone will be drawn to the glow of her face. But no, all the young people are busy pushing chips into their shining mouths. As the blush fades she begins to shiver. Underneath the chill she detects something else. At the utmost reaches of her hearing she listens to a cry from far away, on the summit of the mountain maybe. At first she does not understand what it means. It’s as if the roof of the chapel has lifted off and revealed the sky; clouds race across its darkening surface, and up there, where God has always been, peering down, she sees the stars bursting and the serene mauve moon rising, and, for the first time, nothing else. Then the picture fades, and she’s back, a little comforted, in the warm schoolroom, amongst the laughing, greasy-faced crowd under the banner.