Kéthani

by Eric Brown

  We sat and thought about this for a while, and then Sam asked if anyone had seen the latest computer-animated Bogart movie.

  I turned to Stuart and asked if he’d thought any more about leaving Earth. After his and Sam’s resurrection, they had seriously considered the option.

  He stared into his pint, then said, “It’s strange, but we had more or less decided that that’s what we were going to do. We still contemplate it, from time to time… Then,” he smiled sheepishly, “then we slip back into the old routine: work, the village, friends. I don’t know, maybe one day…”

  Later, I chatted to Andy Souter about his music. He was a professional cornet player with various brass bands in the area, and in demand as a session musician. He was a shy, hesitant man in his mid-thirties and had recently moved to the village to look after his ailing mother.

  He was implanted, but I received the impression that, even so, he held a deep distrust of the Kéthani.

  That night, I remember, we chatted about how the aliens’ presence on Earth—or rather how what they had done to transform the planet—had come little by little to be accepted.

  We noted how even religious opposition to the gift of the Kéthani mellowed over the years, as theocratic doctrine—as is the way—sought to accommodate itself to the exigencies of the modern world… or to compromise its principles.

  I was to recall this conversation when, a few months later, as the scorching summer gave way to a compensatory winter of gales and snowstorms, we gained another—albeit temporary—member of the Tuesday night group. He was Father Matthew Renbourn, a Catholic priest convinced that his God still occupied His throne on high, and that the Kéthani were but part of His overall grand plan…

  Andy Souter came to know Matthew very well, and is the best person to relate the priest’s remarkable—some might even say unbelievable—story.

  EIGHT

  MATTHEW’S PASSION

  I first met Matthew Renbourn in the public bar of the Fleece. He was sitting at the table beside the open fire with the rest of the Tuesday night crowd, a pint of Landlord in his hand. He was laughing at a joke that Elisabeth had just told. Okay, it wasn’t that funny a joke, but he had such a deep, appreciative laugh that everyone else was laughing too. I didn’t catch on to his true identity at first. This wasn’t surprising: he was, in his own words, undercover. Besides, he was implanted.

  It was my first Tuesday night at the Fleece for a while, and in my absence Matt had made himself a regular in the group. Now Khalid formally introduced us.

  “Andy Souter. Andy plays the cornet,” Khalid said. “Front row for Brighouse and Rastrick, among others. Been round the world as a session man, too. Maybe you should ask him if he’ll help you out with the orchestra.”

  I shrivelled inside at this introduction; but I shouldn’t have worried. Matthew was a likeable man. Maybe I should say an exceptional man.

  People have a funny way of acting when they meet someone who has made a success of one of their own particular interests. Matthew was a keen amateur musician; nonetheless, he didn’t turn to me in a show of bravado or excess bonhomie as many do when they approach me in my professional capacity. Nor did he make a pretence of false modesty and engage me in sycophantic conversation. He smiled his wide, genuine smile, leaned across the table and shook my hand. “Delighted to meet you,” he said.

  Khalid went on, “Matthew is the priest at St. Luke’s.”

  Matt laughed. “I’m here undercover,” and he slipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a strip of white plastic. It took me a moment to realise what I was looking at. A dog collar.

  I stared at the implant at his temple.

  He smiled. “No,” he said. “It’s real. Not one of those fakes you hear about.”

  He could see I was surprised; he was expecting it, almost looking forward to my reaction.

  I don’t believe in first impressions: I think the time to make your mind up about someone is never, and although Matt Renbourn thought the same, he knew other people would disagree. He realised that he was always on show, and so he lived up to it. He liked to make an impression.

  Later he told me about his “orchestra”.

  “Well,” he smiled. “We used to have a band to accompany the Sunday service. You know, couple of guitars, violinist, kids playing flutes and clarinets. But then we found ourselves an organist, and suddenly the band felt themselves a bit surplus to requirements. My fault, I suppose, but I think you need an organ for the Gloria and so on.”

  I said nothing. Call me a snob, but I’ve often thought that if there is a hell for musicians, their punishment will be to spend eternity sitting in a band such as the one Matthew just described playing, “Shine, Jesus Shine”.

  “Anyway,” he said, sipping from his pint, “the band didn’t want to just drift along doing nothing, so we continued to meet and practice. Once you removed the ‘church’ association, others wanted to join in. Things have grown from there.”

  “Novel,” I said. “Oxenworth has never had an orchestra before.”

  “It’s not really an orchestra,” he said, but you could hear the pride in his voice. “More a show tunes sort of band. I’m trying to arrange a series of concerts to help with the restoration fund. I’m going to schedule one for next month. Give the band something to work towards.”

  “Still no luck with the pianist?” Khalid asked him. He can be such a stirrer.

  “Good pianists are thin on the ground,” Matt said, equably.

  I was tempted to volunteer. Earlier, I’d heard Khalid whisper to Matt that I was pretty handy on the piano as well as the cornet, but he didn’t presume upon me. That was one of the many nice things about Matt, I came to discover. The truly religious are hardly ever pushy.

  The evening wore on. I had a couple more than my usual two pints, and the more I talked to Matt, the more I warmed to him. He came over as humane and genuine, and more than willing to listen to the other person’s argument.

  Towards the end of the evening I asked him, “This orchestra. When are the rehearsals?”

  “Every Wednesday evening.” He looked at me.

  “And what nights are you planning the concerts for?”

  “Sundays,” Matt said, face still impassive.

  I nodded. “Well, I have nothing much on those days. Okay if I come along and help out?”

  He gave a wide grin. “More than okay, Andrew! Welcome aboard.”

  If the truth be told, the orchestra was not very good, but what they lacked in talent, they made up for in Matthew Renbourn. It turned out that he was actually a fairly competent pianist himself, but that wasn’t his real strength.

  There are some bandleaders who can take a group of musicians and make them play better than they have ever done before. They have a feeling for the music and a way of communicating their enthusiasm that lifts the band to a higher level.

  I know, I’ve worked with people like that; and I say without any modesty, I’ve worked with the best. And although these people may have been significantly better musicians, none of them came close to Matthew in his ability as a leader of men and women.

  The more I played with him, the better friends we became. And the more I began to have an inkling of what his congregation must feel each Sunday as he preached from the pulpit. When Matthew lifted the band in music, he was lifting us closer to his God.

  It was this insight that threw his emerging mysterious side into harsh relief.

  I remember one particularly cold Tuesday night in February. The usual crowd had made it to the Fleece through the snowstorm, and there was an atmosphere around the table of bonhomie that often unites people against the elements.

  Matt, oddly, was quiet that night. He was not at all unfriendly, heaven forbid. (Heaven forbid? Listen to me! That’s Matt’s influence.) He didn’t have an unfriendly bone in his body, but he was distant, as if preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was certainly not his usual gregarious self.

  When it was his
round, he took people’s orders and moved to the bar. I gave it a couple of minutes and went to help him with the drinks. While we were alone at the bar, I said, “Is everything okay, Matt? You’re quiet.”

  He smiled. “It’s that obvious?”

  “You’re usually the life of the party.”

  He looked at me, biting his lip. “Well, to tell the truth, I think I’m being followed,” he said, and then returned to the table bearing three pints.

  I stared after him, then resumed my seat.

  Later that night, more to draw Matt into the conversation, I asked him, “How’s the congregation looking these days?”

  Most of Matthew’s flock were implanted, which I found bizarre. They seemed to see no contradiction in worshipping at St. Luke’s and throwing in their lot with the Kéthani: hedging one’s bets, I think it’s called.

  Matthew waggled a palm above the table.

  “We stay the same. We stay the same. But, the important thing is, we’re no longer falling in numbers.” He looked around the table. “I tell you, the turn around is beginning. The Kéthani offer compassion, but it’s a cold and mechanistic thing. Nobody who has not been reborn really understands it. We view the returnees from the home planet with suspicion.”

  I exchanged a smile with Khalid.

  “Nobody who has not been reborn?” I said. “You’re mangling the English language, Matthew. Besides, aren’t you paraphrasing a line from the Bible?”

  He nodded. “Well done. Still, the Kéthani gift has fallen too easily to us. Anything that is worth having has to be worked for.”

  “Many would disagree, Matthew,” Khalid said. I nodded, feeling mellow, halfway through my second pint in the warm bar. Through the leaded window, the sight of the snow sifting down only added to my sense of wellbeing.

  “Many would, indeed,” Matt said. “But I wonder if they still feel that truth in their hearts? People used to toil in the fields to stay alive. Now their daily bread is handed to them on a plate,” he smiled, “quite literally! And so they grow fat. Some exercise to burn that off, but others look for the quick fix: liposuction to suck the fat from their bodies and low calorie meals so they can commit their acts of gluttony and not feel the consequences.”

  He nodded his head slowly. “Now, as we seek to expand our sugar-free life, where we taste the pleasures and forgo the pain, we are told that we can be resurrected without any sacrifice on our own part.”

  I laughed. I knew Matthew that well by then, I knew when I could speak without causing offence. “There’s a strong puritan streak runs through you, Father Renbourn. Are you saying that man must sacrifice his pleasure in this life to achieve happiness in the next?”

  He laughed loudly at that and shifted in his chair in an exaggerated fashion.

  “This horsehair underwear prickles the backside,” he said, and laughed again. He took another drink and then settled back with a reflective smile.

  “Ah, you have a point, Andy. You have a point.”

  Khalid bought a round.

  “But don’t underestimate the human need for balance,” Matt went on, smiling his thanks at Khalid. “The conscious mind goes for the quick fix, but the subconscious knows that everything has a price.”

  He held up his pint. “I was talking about diet. We now face the prospect of eternal life, but still the need for healthy eating exists in our society. The doctors say a little alcohol is good for the body, but how many heed the call and drink a glass of good red wine each day? The Hollywood stars that act as our new messiahs preach self-denial: they prefer the truth of lettuce and low sodium diets to the gospel of Timothy Taylor.”

  He folded his hands as in prayer and looked to the ceiling and I started to laugh. Despite the relatively small quantities consumed, I think we were both farther along the road to drunkenness than we suspected.

  “Maybe you have something there,” I said. “I feel guilty if I don’t devote at least an hour a day to practice.” I patted my battered cornet case, tucked safely on the seat next to me. “It’s not just that my embouchure suffers.”

  “Puritanism is hardwired into the brain,” said Matthew. “Resurrection is not enough. Don’t underestimate the Church’s ability to adapt and absorb, Andy. We took the winter festivals and made them Christmas, we brought the marriage vows from the doorstep to the altar, we took the rite of the funeral pyre and made it into cremation.”

  Khalid looked up from his pint and winked at me. “So how are you going to make the Kéthani your own, Matt?” he asked.

  “The Kéthani are but tools to achieve God’s purpose,” Matthew said. “As are we all.”

  I was stunned.

  “Surely that’s not the papal line?” I said.

  Matthew smiled. “Not yet,” he said.

  Last orders were called, and conversation turned to a different topic.

  The following evening I tramped through the snow to the draughty village hall. My way was lighted, once, by the shaft of light from the Onward Station as it beamed the remains of that day’s dead to the orbiting starship.

  I had intended to have a word with Matt about what he’d told me at the bar the night before, that he thought he was being followed. That had to wait: as I arrived he was mediating a dispute between the band and Katherine Emmett. Davey, her mentally handicapped son, wanted to play the triangle in the orchestra, but the rest of the band was not happy about this. Naturally, all sorts of reasons were being given, except for the real one: we don’t want the dummy in the band.

  “He keeps putting me off,” said Kelly Wrigley, resting her flute on her knees.

  “He hits it too hard, especially in the pianissimo sections.”

  “He doesn’t always keep time,” said Graham Leicester.

  A lesser man would have pointed out that Graham didn’t always keep time either. But not Matthew. He gazed mildly at Graham and the noise of the complaints just drained away. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he spoke quietly.

  “Graham, why are you in this band?”

  Graham looked confused.

  “To help raise money for the restoration fund.”

  “Why else?”

  A pause.

  “I enjoy playing,” he said eventually. He was blushing.

  Matthew stared at the band, the uncomfortable silence lengthening.

  “Why are you here, then, Matthew?” asked Graham, gaining courage.

  “For the same reasons as you, Graham, but I also play to the glory of God.” This reminded me of something Matt had once told me after a few pints: “You know Andy, Benjamin Britten said of J.S. Bach that to truly understand his music one must realise that it was all written to the glory of God.”

  Now Graham gave a clever smile. “Shouldn’t the music sound good then, if it’s to the glory of God?”

  Some of the other band members nodded their heads. Graham had scored a point.

  “Of course,” said Matthew, and something in his tone meant that the nodding suddenly ceased. He spoke in his softest voice. “But even without Davey, will the music we make be perfect?”

  Graham dropped his eyes and shook his head.

  “Then let him play.”

  The music resumed. Davey, thirty years old and like his mother not implanted, sat on a plastic chair at the back of the hall, enthusiastically, if ineptly, bashing away at big steel triangle.

  Oh, and just in case I am giving the impression that Matthew is some sort of saint, let me point out that I saw him wince, just as painfully as the rest of us, every time Davey tapped off the beat.

  By nine o’clock, the time we usually packed up, Matt was on a roll.

  “That was good. That was very good…” He looked around us all. “But it could be better! Guitars, we need more energy. Stab out the chords. Keep them short! Dit! Dit Dit! Not der-der-der.”

  It was a piece without piano accompaniment, and I sat out, leafing through the local paper and looking forward to a pint at the Fleece after the rehearsal.

>   The orchestra started up, and seconds later the music stuttered into silence as first one instrument and then another gave up the ghost.

  I looked up. Matt seemed frozen, the pencil he was using as a baton poised in the air. He was staring over the heads of the orchestra towards the door to the kitchen and toilets. He looked shocked, shaken, and I turned in my seat to see what he was staring at.

  “Andy,” he said, “would you mind terribly if I handed you the reins for a minute?” And so saying he dropped the pencil in my lap and hurried over to the door. He peered within, circumspectly, then stepped through.

  I took my place before the bemused villagers. “Okay,” I said. “Bar forty-six, I’ll count three in…”

  They played, and seconds later Matt reappeared. He entered the hall and looked around, then strode past us and moved to the front door. He was gone for about five minutes. I wondered if he’d seen an intruder and was about to call a halt and see if he needed assistance when he hurried back into the hall, thanked me and took up the baton. His hand, as I passed it to him, was shaking.

  Ten minutes later he brought the rehearsal to a close.

  I packed up, then caught Matt’s eye while he was in conversation with Mrs. Emmett. He seemed distracted, not himself, and he kept darting glances towards the kitchen door. I mimed downing a pint, and received his affirmative nod. While the others were packing up, I left the hall and hurried through the village, more than a little perplexed at Matthew’s odd behaviour.

  The Fleece was a haven of warmth and inviting firelight.

  Of the usual Tuesday night crowd, only Khalid and Doug Standish were present. Doug was a big, almost stereotypically burly, gruff police type, whose initial morose manner had mellowed, as we’d come to know him, to reveal a sensitive character with a dry sense of humour.

  I secured a pint of Landlord and joined them by the fire.

  A minute later the door blew open admitting a cascade of confetti-like snow and the red-faced figure of Father Matthew Renbourn.

  Khalid waved him over. “Ah, ‘tis the Father, bejesus, and you’ll be having yourself a pint of the usual, I’ll be bound?” This hardly raised a smile from Matt.