Chosen

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Rod says you’ve never really got back to your old self since the birth. Since your depression?’

  Dodie stiffens.

  ‘He says it runs in the family.’

  Dodie turns slightly away and presses her own fingers hard into her scalp, scrubbing and scratching, rubbing out the soothing touch. ‘It was nothing really, just a bit of post-natal . . .’ But as she speaks the dark months are there: a taste like metal, the heaviness of the world closing in around her, the mean faces of the people in the streets and even the flowers and how, in the bath, the useless milk wound like sad smoke from her nipples and how could Rod tell anyone? Confide in Martha, this stranger, who he’s never even met?

  ‘Look at me,’ Martha says, and she tries the blink again, but Dodie won’t look into her eyes this time, or at her face.

  ‘You can’t make me. You can’t make me stay. I’ll go back to my hotel and wait for my flight there.’

  ‘All right.’

  Startled, Dodie looks up.

  ‘You’re right. We can’t make you stay. This is not a jail. Maybe it’s better if you do leave.’

  Dodie stares at her knees, a lump forming in her throat, tears wobbling her vision. She feels an immensely cold space opening up around her. Martha, the mother, is letting her go. They sit there for a long time. She can hear a click as Martha swallows. The foam from the ripped chair is the colour of new baby poo; she remembers the sweet-sour smell. Sour was her blood then and her milk and now sourness trickles down her sides. How deep the pain. How will she have the strength to get up now and go?

  ‘I can’t remember about my ticket,’ she says, weakly.

  ‘We’ll take care of that.’

  They sit longer, no window to show the light, nothing to show the time and it seems there is no limit to it as far as Martha is concerned as it unspools loosely around them. Martha pours more tea but it’s barely warm. Dodie drinks greedily. It does have an effect on her, restful and soothing.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ Martha says at last.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Dodie’s voice quavers. She clears her throat. ‘Weird.’ She does a shivery laugh. ‘Kind of – I don’t know – lost or like I’m losing my marbles.’

  ‘That’s good Dodie, it feels strange, I know, but it’s marvellous, it’s your old identity moving back, letting you see past it.’

  Dodie presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets hard enough to hurt, to make red patches swim and jump. ‘OK, I was depressed,’ she swallows, ‘but I got better. It was all . . . hunky-dory.’

  ‘Truly?’ Martha’s eyes search hers until she has to hang her head. ‘Rod’s concerned that you won’t go back to your teaching.’

  ‘I only wanted to stay at home with Jake. Be a full-time mum. What’s wrong with that?’

  Martha says nothing.

  ‘It was working,’ Dodie insists, ‘it was.’

  ‘Look,’ Martha says, ‘look, why don’t we make a deal? I’ll take you to meditation, just one more, then you can eat, then we’ll give Seth a last chance to see you and if you still want to leave after that I’ll call you a cab. How’s that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dodie says, ‘yes.’ She feels a rush of relief. She can let go again, just for now, relax back into it, and her heart blooms when Martha smiles at her with such approving warmth.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Martha says.

  Of course she wants to go home, but just a bit longer here; a little more of the calmness and the peace, and then Seth. The thought of seeing Seth is a little frightening now, a sharp edge in her mind. His eyes will tell her what he’s done. Ludicrous to think her little brother . . . But she does just need to see his eyes, his face, his dear face and then home, to Jake, to hold her baby in her arms.

  The Mask nods at her, and she goes to the back of the meditation room and kneels beside Rebecca, for one last time, and joins the humming. She can relax now; enjoy this last experience. She searches for the feeling of the warm bath, but it’s more of a choppy current now and it carries with it something insistent that bears down on her, something that refuses to be submerged or dodged, a rope, looping through the water, rearing out at her like an eel.

  How easy it had seemed, what a treat and a relief to think of ending it. The image in her own mind had always been the rope: but she got better, not like Stella, she got better and she was filled with love, not like Stella, and is filled with love. Don’t think of the blue rope and Stella doing it, the actual process of her doing it, of making the knot and climbing onto the banister and the moment of the drop, what went through her mind in the stretching seconds of that drop. And not to think about how close she once came to that herself. No one knows that, not even Rod, how very close she came.

  The day was winter dark and never light and Jake cried and cried and his face was monstrous, his cries swallowing her down the red ridges of his throat and she knew she could shut him up for ever and she lifted the pillow – but then she stopped, she stopped and walked away. And then, then, shocked by what she’d thought of doing and to escape the cries that rasped through her mind and brain, she searched the house, and if a rope had been there ready she could have, would have done it, just to stop herself, to stop it, everything. But Rod came home and next thing was the hospital.

  Emotions boil up around her, getting inside her, or maybe finding their way out of her, the rawness, the taste of depression, the smell of it, the terror of her own flesh and blood, her own child and his greedy mouth and hands, how could she feel that? Be that? She’s a turmoil, a whirlpool, crazying the calm; where is that calm? The smooth water, the warm, where has it gone?

  The way her heart is flailing she fears that she will drown, her breath won’t come, she opens her eyes, her mouth to scream – but then it’s over. It’s calm.

  The humming holds her up and she sees, feels an opening. There’s light shining clearly between who she is and her experience, a clean space made of light. She gasps and almost laughs out loud at this sudden knowledge, glimpse of wisdom, is it? Yes it is. She presses her hands to her chest, waits for her heart at last to slow. So tired suddenly, but lovely tiredness. And of course it’s easier after all, easier to acquiesce, like a child, to stop the frantic doggy-paddle against the flow, stop straining and float in it, allow the light of wisdom in, to let the edges go.

  The bell to end meditation has tingled through the air. The Mask says, ‘Now, I have good news.’ They all look up, open and innocent as a roomful of babies. ‘This evening,’ he says, ‘is the Festival of the Lamb. A very special occasion at Soul-Life, at which you will come face to face with Our Father.’ He holds his thumb to his chest in the familiar gesture, and they all do the same. Dodie finds her own thumb clutched in her own hand, and even a smile, a flutter of excitement. She will have to stay for this.

  13

  One Mask offers little cakes off a tray; another offers paper cups of wine. Dodie takes one of each as she files through the door with a crush of others. The cake, in a fluted paper case, is iced and cherry-topped. The treats make people fluttery and childish. Dodie’s mouth waters at the fresh spongy smell.

  By the time she’s inside and has found John, Rebecca and Daniel and squeezed among them at the back, the long, lowceilinged hall is crammed. Candlelight glows from sconces on the walls – no, not real candles but electric simulacrums. There must be a couple of hundred people. A sea of white and lilac. She doesn’t want to eat her cake yet, doesn’t want it to be gone.

  On a raised platform at the front, twelve Masks are lined up to face the audience. In the centre of the platform waits a kind of throne: empty, garlanded with white and lilac flowers. The atmosphere is giggly, restless with suppressed excitement. Dodie dips her lips into the warm white wine and strains her eyes for Seth. He must be here, surely. From the back it’s hard to see; her eyes rest on dark heads, young men of his height, but it’s too dim and packed. She studies the twelve figures on the stage. Seth could not be among them, of course not, could not in such a sho
rt time have become a Mask: but still she stares at one that stands beside the throne; it could be him, no it couldn’t. The blank eyes stare out over the crowd. Even if it was Seth and he was looking, he wouldn’t be able to see her, lost in a blur at the back. And on the other side of the throne is a Mask that looks like Hannah. Something about the stance – could it be Hannah? Hannah a Mask? But she has a name; she has an identity. She’s Hannah.

  ‘Is that Hannah?’ Dodie whispers, but Rebecca lifts a finger to her lips. Dodie realizes she’s eaten her cake without even noticing. And that is a bad habit, unmindful and fattening. She screws the paper into a ball, tempted to chew it for the last bit of sweetness. John hasn’t touched his cake. Rebecca has eaten exactly half. Stop thinking about cake. She swallows the nippy wine and concentrates. The twelve blank Masks stare straight out. Different heights make an asymmetrical pattern, the row of eyeholes and mouth slits sipping and rising again, like some kind of dot-dash code.

  Music begins, quiet at first and rising pompously. The fidgeting and whispering cease. A door at the rear of the platform opens and two Masks come through – Our Father and an attendant, the shape and size of Martha. Could she be a Mask?

  A sigh goes up from the crowd and from somewhere a sob. One by one, clutching their thumbs, people drop to their knees. John lets himself down and Rebecca follows. Dodie leaves it a moment too long and so is the last one standing. The dark eyeholes of all the masks rest on her until she kneels.

  ‘Our Father,’ say the Masks.

  ‘Our Father,’ echoes the crowd.

  Our Father stands at the front of the platform and raises his arms in a gesture of benediction.

  ‘Our Father here on Earth,’ chant the Masks and the crowd follows. ‘Blessed be thy name.’

  ‘Please be comfortable,’ Our Father says. Dodie’s startled by his accent – English, surely, with flat Northern vowels overlaid with an American twang and rather quavery, as if he is very old or ill. Everyone kneels. Dodie looks at Rebecca’s fervent face and then at John’s. He hasn’t touched his cake.

  ‘Do you want that?’ Dodie whispers. He hands it over and she puts it in her mouth, mindful this time of the eggy vanilla taste and the sweet squelch of the neon cherry.

  ‘It is too long since I last addressed you all,’ Our Father begins. ‘Since that time twelve new devotees have been chosen. Let us honour the newcomers. All of you who’ve arrived since our last ceremony, please stand.’

  Dodie, Rebecca, Daniel, Mary and the other novices get to their feet. The kneeling crowd swivel to see them. Surely Seth should be among them? But he certainly is not.

  ‘Welcome to the newly Chosen,’ Our Father says. ‘We honour you, we cherish you, we love you.’

  Beside Dodie, John topples from his knees, head cracking on the floor, wine spilling.

  ‘Our Brother is overcome by the power of the Lord’s love,’ Our Father says. ‘Praise Him!’

  ‘Praise Him!’ echoes the crowd.

  Dodie tries to help John up, but Our Father says, ‘Leave him be, and now, all of you, please kneel down.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Dodie whispers, and John shifts a little, does the barest nod. Dodie pats his arm, looks at Rebecca, but she is absorbed in watching Our Father.

  ‘Tonight is the Ceremony of the Lamb,’ he says. ‘But first we witness the sacrifices. Sister?’ He indicates the attendant Mask – who surely is, must be, Martha – and she helps him – he must be very old and weak – to lower himself on the throne.

  The Mask who might be Hannah steps forward. ‘Peter,’ she says, and yes it is Hannah’s voice.

  A tall guy stands and steps up on to the platform.

  ‘What is your sacrifice?’ Our Father asks.

  ‘All my worldly goods,’ he says. ‘My company and my house. With no hesitation.’

  ‘Your worldly goods will do you little good on judgement day,’ Our Father says.

  ‘Amen,’ says everyone.

  ‘But they will help us in our crusade to locate and educate the Chosen. Come close.’ Peter kneels at Our Father’s feet and receives a blessing. And then he rises, stumbles a little, as if overcome, and with both fists pressed to his heart, leaves the platform.

  ‘Ladies,’ Hannah says, and five young women stand and move up onto the stage.

  ‘What is your sacrifice?’ Our Father says.

  ‘Ourselves,’ Dodie thinks they say, and she looks to Rebecca but she is straining forward, a bright sheen in her eyes.

  ‘We have no worldly goods to offer but we willingly give our bodies for Our Father.’

  ‘Bless you,’ Our Father says.

  ‘Like prostitution?’ Dodie whispers.

  ‘Shh.’

  Our Father blesses each of the women and, as they leave the stage, so much joy shines from their faces that it seems to brighten the dimness of the hall.

  ‘We must honour the Chosen for their sacrifice. And each of you must search your heart and soul for what you will give. That which is dearest to you, will be best for your soul, and that which benefits Soul-Life is what is asked of you, and truly you will find it is no sacrifice for these are scales you must shed in your journey towards the Universal Soul.’

  Our Father’s voice is weakening. Dodie has to strain to hear.

  ‘Amen’ makes a quiet ripple round the room in throaty, fervent whispers and it’s almost quiet, only a cough here, a fidget there, as each contemplates what he or she will give. And Dodie looks down at the ground, littered now with paper cups and cake cases and crumbs, and knowing she has nothing more she will give, not her body, not her house, not her son, she feels a shiver of separation, a sliver peeling away between herself and the rest.

  ‘Tonight is the Ceremony of the Lamb,’ Our Father continues. ‘The Lamb is a symbol of all that is meek and good.’ He hesitates and the Mask that is Martha comes close to him, supports him, whispers in his ear before he continues: ‘It is a symbol of the son of our Lord who sacrificed his own child for the good of mankind; the Lamb is a symbol of sacrifice itself.’

  ‘Amen,’ everyone intones, louder now. One of the Masks leaves the platform by the door and returns with a tiny newborn lamb in his arms. Another withdraws a long blade.

  ‘The Blood of the Lamb is a benediction from our Lord in Heaven,’ Our Father says, and he takes the creature tenderly in his arms. Against a steady background hum from the Masks, the lamb bleats and before Dodie can believe what is about to happen, it has happened and blood flows from the neck of the lamb into a bucket, audible above the hum, pumping out in a heavy splatter as the creature squirms, slackens, hangs empty across Our Father’s crimsoned lap.

  Dodie’s hand flies to her mouth and she gags, eyes watering. She looks at Rebecca’s expression, fixed and resolute. John still lies on the floor, eyes closed. But Daniel’s eyes are bright, and his smile is joyful. The hum in the room rises, most people joining now in a multi-stranded crescendo, which, as Our Father lifts and holds out the little body as an offering, stops.

  ‘To be washed in the Blood of the Lamb,’ Our Father says, ‘I invite you one and all.’

  ‘Stand.’ Hannah lifts her arms. And the pompous piped music rises again as the crowd stands, but not John. Dodie hunkers down beside him.

  ‘John,’ she says. She shakes him. ‘John.’ But there is no response. ‘Help me,’ she says, and she and Rebecca pull John to his feet. Hannah has instructed everyone to file out past the platform. As they pass Our Father he dips a finger in the blood and daubs a cross on each forehead. There is a kind of glee about the whole occasion now, as if this is a most outrageous treat; the giggliness returned. ‘Bless you,’ Our Father says to each.

  ‘We need to get him out of here,’ Dodie says.

  ‘But he must be blessed,’ Daniel says.

  ‘But he’s unconscious. He needs a doctor. We’ll ask Martha.’

  ‘Put him down while we wait,’ Rebecca says. ‘I don’t think you’re meant to stand unconscious people up.’ They struggle
John into the queue and allow him to slump down, head lowered between his knees. Dodie looks down at the shaved top of his head. Knotted white scars amid the sandy stubble.

  ‘Know what’s up with him?’ she whispers.

  Rebecca shakes her head.

  ‘It’s the Lord’s will,’ Daniel says and Dodie feels more of herself peeling away from the fanatical shine in his eyes, the blandness of his face which might as well already be a mask.

  Eventually, supporting John, they approach the platform. ‘He’s blacked out,’ Dodie says. ‘He really needs a doctor.’

  ‘Bring him to Our Father,’ Martha says.

  Our Father’s mask tilts towards the grey-faced man. The bucket is almost empty. He has to smear his finger round the sides to pick up enough blood to mark first John, then Daniel, then Rebecca, and finally Dodie with a cross. The blood is tacky and Our Father seems to linger with his finger, the eyeholes focused on her for too long. The iron tang of blood makes her want to gag again, that and the sick heaviness of John and the gullible shine of Daniel.

  ‘Where shall we take him?’ Rebecca asks.

  Hannah steps down from the platform. She bends towards Our Father, holding her thumbs, and Dodie sees the shiny pink depression where the thumb joint was. A peculiar quailing sensation travels through her when she sees his thumbless hand, narrow, flipper-like, bloody from the lamb, and she finds herself clutching her own thumb close to her heart in the familiar gesture.

  14

  Bring him this way.’ Hannah walks away from them along the corridor. The elastic thread from the mask is tight round the back of her fairish-grey head. Manipulating John is like steering a drunk. There’s some movement in his legs now, some life returning, and he staggers soggily between Dodie and Rebecca. Daniel has left them now and Dodie is glad, something like hate was growing in her for him, or for his ability to believe and follow. He glowed with a sort of holy smugness.