How Like an Angel

by Margaret Millar

  “You are to make your report to me,” the Master said. “I will see that she gets it.”

  “Sorry, my instructions were specific. No Sister, no report.”

  “Very well. No report, no money. I demand an immediate return of what is left of the sum Sister Blessing gave you. That seems to me quite a fair and just idea.”

  “There’s only one thing the matter with it,” Quinn said. “The money’s gone.”

  The Master pushed the loom aside with a sweep of his hand. “You spent a hundred and twenty dollars in a day and a half? You’re lying.”

  “Living costs have gone up in my part of the Union.”

  “You gambled it away, is that it? Gambled and boozed and debauched—”

  “Yes, I had a pretty busy time what with one thing and another. Now I’d like to do what I was paid to do and get out of here. The climate in your country doesn’t agree with me, there’s too much hot air.”

  A rush of blood stained the Master’s face and neck but he said in a controlled voice, “I have long since been accustomed to the gibes of the ignorant and the unbelievers. I can only warn you that the Lord will smite you with the sword of His wrath.”

  “Consider me smote.” Quinn’s tone was considerably lighter than his feelings. The place was beginning to oppress him, the glorification of death hung over it as the smell of oil hung over Chicote. He thought, Once you get the idea that dying is great, it’s an easy step up to thinking you’re doing someone a favor by helping him die. The old boy’s been harmless so far but his next vision might have me in a featured role.

  “Let’s quit playing games,” Quinn said. “I came to see Sister Blessing. Aside from the fact that she paid me to do a job, I happen to like her, and I want to make sure she’s all right. Now it’s no secret that you’ve had some trouble with the law—the law of my part of the Union, of course—and you just might be asking for more.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “That’s exactly what it is, Master. I’m not leaving here until I assure myself that Sister Blessing is alive and in good health, as she was yesterday morning when I left here.”

  “Why shouldn’t she be alive? What kind of nonsense is this? You talk as if we were barbarians, savages, maniacs—”

  “You’re close.”

  The Master got clumsily to his feet, kicking aside the loom. It crashed against the wall. “Leave. Leave here immediately, or I will not be responsible for what happens to you. Get out of my sight.”

  Suddenly the door opened and Mother Pureza came in making little clucking noises with her tongue. “Oh, that’s not polite, Harry. It really isn’t polite after I sent him an engraved invitation through Capirote.”

  “Oh God,” the Master said and covered his face with his hands.

  “And you needn’t scold me for eavesdropping, either. I told you I was lonely, triste, desamparada—”

  “You have not been abandoned, Pureza.”

  “Then where is everybody? Where is Mama, and Dolores who brought my breakfast, and Pedro who polished my riding boots, and Capirote? Where is everybody? Where have they all gone, Harry? Why didn’t they take me with them? Oh Harry, why didn’t they wait for me?”

  “Hush now, Pureza. You must be patient.” He crossed the room and took her in his arms and patted her thinning hair, her emaciated shoulders. “You must not lose courage, Pureza. Soon you will see them all again.”

  “Will Dolores bring me breakfast in bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Pedro, may I hit him with my riding crop if he doesn’t listen to me?”

  “Yes.” The Master’s voice was an exhausted whisper. “Whatever you like.”

  “I might hit you too, Harry.”

  “All right.”

  “Not hard, though. Just a tap on the dome to sting a little and let you know I’m alive. . . . But I won’t be alive then, Harry. I won’t be alive. Oh, I’m so confused. How can I give you a little tap on the dome to let you know I’m alive when I won’t be alive?”

  “I don’t know. Please stop it. Please be quiet and go to your room.”

  “You never help me think any more,” she said, moving her head back and forth. “You used to help me think, you used to explain everything to me. Now you tell me to be quiet, to go to my room, to watch the sky and wait. Why did we come here, Harry? I know there was a reason.”

  “For eternal salvation.”

  “Is that all? . . . Oh, oh, oh, there’s a strange young man standing over there, Harry. Tell Capirote to show him out, and in the future not to admit anyone without a proper calling card. And hurry up about it. My orders are to be obeyed immediately, I am Dona Isabella Consrancia Querida Felicia de la Guerra.”

  “No, no, you are Mother Pureza,” the Master said softly. “And you are going to your room to take a rest.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you are tired.”

  “I am not tired. I am lonely. You’re the one who’s tired, aren’t you, Harry?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So tired. Poor Harry, muy amado mio,”

  “I’ll help you, Pureza. Hang onto my arm.”

  Over the old woman’s head he beckoned to Quinn to fol­low, and the three of them started off down the stairs. At the fourth level the Master opened the door and Mother Pureza went inside with just one small moan of protest. The Master leaned against the door and closed his eyes. A minute went by, two minutes. Quinn was beginning to think the man was in a trance or had gone to sleep standing up.

  Suddenly his eyes opened. He touched his forehead. “I feel your pity, Mr. Quinn. I do not accept it, you are wasting your time and energy on pity as I wasted mine on anger. You observe I am no longer angry? Kicking a loom, how trivial it was, how small it will look in eternity. I am purified, I am cleansed.”

  “Good for you,” Quinn said. “Now I’d like to see Sister Blessing.”

  “Very well, you’ll see her. You’ll regret your evil thoughts and dark suspicions. She is in spiritual isolation. Did I put her there? No, she went of her own accord. She is renewing her vows of renunciation. At my insistence? No, no, Mr. Quinn. At her own. Your simple mind cannot grasp the situation.”

  “It can try.”

  “In spiritual isolation, the senses do not exist. The eyes do not see, the ears do not hear, the flesh cannot feel. Perhaps, if the isolation is complete, she will not even know you are there.”

  “Then again perhaps she will. Especially if I can see her alone.”

  “Of course. I have total faith in the Sister’s devotion to the spirit.”

  She was in a small square room on the ground floor. It con­tained no furniture but the wooden bench she sat on, facing the window, in a shaft of sunlight. Sweat, or tears, had streaked her forehead and cheeks, and there were moist patches on her robe. When Quinn spoke her name she didn’t answer but her hunched shoulders twitched and her eyelids blinked.

  “Sister Blessing, you asked me to come back and I did.”

  She turned and looked at him, mute and suffering. The fright in her eyes was so intense that Quinn felt like shouting at her: Snap out of it, get away from this bughouse before you’re as nutty as the old woman, recognize the Master for what he is, a schizo and a fear peddler. His racket’s as old as the hills. It doesn’t take the curse off it because he believes in it himself, it only makes it doubly dangerous.

  He said, in a conversational tone, “Remember those pink fuzzy slippers you told me you saw in a Sears catalogue? There was a pair just like that in a store window in Chicote.”

  For a moment something besides fear showed in her eyes, interest, curiosity. Then it was gone, and she was speaking in a listless monotone: “I have renounced the world and its evils. I have renounced the flesh and its weakness. I seek the solace of the spirit, the
salvation of the soul.”

  “It’s lucky you don’t lisp,” Quinn said, trying to coax a smile out of her. “I didn’t find O’Gorman, by the way. He disappeared five and a half years ago. His wife thinks she’s a widow, so do a lot of other people. What do you think?”

  “Having done without comfort, I will be comforted by the Lord. Having hungered, I will feast.”

  “Did you know O’Gorman? Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Having trod the rough earth, my feet uncovered, I will walk the smooth and golden streets of heaven.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet O’Gorman,” Quinn said. “He seems to have been a good man, no enemies, nice wife and kids. In fact, a very nice wife, it’s too bad she’s wasting her life in uncer­tainty. I think if she knew definitely that O’Gorman wasn’t coming back, she could start living again. You’re listening, Sister. You’re hearing me. Answer just one question, will O’Gorman be coming back?”

  “Having here forsaken the pride of ornament, I will be of infinite beauty. Having humbled myself in the fields, I will walk tall and straight in the hereafter, which does belong to the True Believers. Amen.”

  “I’m going back to Chicote, Sister. Have you any message for Martha O’Gorman? She deserves a break. Give it to her if you can, Sister. You’re a generous woman.”

  “I have renounced the world and its evils. I have renounced the flesh and its weakness. Having done without comfort—”

  “Sister, listen to me.”

  “—I will be comforted by the Lord. Having hungered, I will feast. Having trod the rough earth, my feet uncovered, I will walk the smooth and golden streets of heaven. Having here forsaken the pride of ornament, I will be of infinite beauty.”

  Quinn went out and closed the door quietly. Sister Blessing was as far beyond reach as O’Gorman.

  NINE

  The inner court contained rows of crude wooden benches placed around a stone shrine that reminded Quinn of a bar­becue pit. The Master was standing in front of the shrine, head bowed, arms folded across his chest.

  He said, without turning, “Well, Mr. Quinn? You found Sister Blessing alive and in good health?”

  “I found her alive.”

  “And you are still not satisfied?”

  “No,” Quinn said. “I’d like to know a lot more about this place and the people in it, their names, occupations, where they came from.”

  “And what, pray, would you do with such information?”

  “Try to solve the O’Gorman case.”

  “You’re a stranger to me, Mr. Quinn. I have no obligations to you, but purely out of generosity I’ll tell you one thing. The name O’Gorman is unknown here.”

  “Sister Blessing just picked it out of a hat?”

  “Out of a dream,” the Master said quietly. “Or you would call it a dream. I do not. I think the spirit of Patrick O’Gorman is wandering in hell, seeking salvation. He spoke to Sister, he asked her help because that is her name, Sister Blessing of the Salvation. Otherwise he would have chosen me to help him since I am the Master.”

  Quinn stared at him. The man obviously believed what he was saying. It would be useless to argue with him, possibly dangerous. “Why is O’Gorman in hell, Master? All indi­cations are that he led an exemplary life, according to his lights.”

  “He was not a True Believer. Now, of course, he repents, he pleads for a second chance. He calls out to the Sister while she is asleep and her mind is receptive to his vibrations. The good Sister was both curious and afraid. The combination dulled her wits and made her do a very foolish thing.”

  “Hiring me.”

  “Yes.” There was a trace of pity in the Master’s faint smile. “You see, Mr. Quinn, you were asked to find someone who is wandering through the eternal abysses of hell. A formidable task, even for a brash young man like you, don’t you agree?”

  “If I accepted your premise, I’d have to agree.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No.”

  “You have a better premise, Mr. Quinn?”

  “I think Sister Blessing may have known O’Gorman years ago, before she came here.”

  “You are quite wrong,” the Master said calmly. “The good Sister never even heard the name until O’Gorman communi­cated with her from the depths of hell, seeking salvation. My heart bleeds for that poor miserable wretch, but what can I do? His repentance came too late, he will suffer throughout eternity for his ignorance and self-indulgence. Beware, Mr. Quinn, beware. It will happen to you unless you change your ways and renounce the world and its evils, the flesh and its weakness.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Master.”

  “It is not advice. It is a warning. Renounce and be saved. Repent and rejoice. , . . You see Mother Pureza as an old woman, frail of body and sick of mind. I see her as a creature of God, one of the Chosen.”

  “Also one of the taken,” Quinn said. “Just how much of her money was spent on this place?”

  “You cannot make me angry again, Mr. Quinn. I regret that you are trying to. Have I not treated you with consideration? Answered your questions? Allowed you to see Sister Blessing? And still you are not satisfied? You are a greedy man.”

  “I want to find out what happened to O’Gorman so I can tell his wife the truth.”

  “Tell her Patrick O’Gorman is wandering in hell, suffering the torments of the forever damned. That is the truth.”

  Outside, Quinn put his shoes back on and straightened his tie while the Master watched from the arched doorway. The sun was beginning to set and smoke was rising from the chim­ney of the dining hall straight into the windless air. The only members of the cult in sight were Sister Contrition’s two smaller children sliding on flattened cardboard boxes down an incline slippery with pine needles, and Brother Tongue of Prophets approaching the entrance of the Tower carrying his little bird in a cage. Behind him, puffing and red-faced, trotted Brother of the Steady Heart, who had shaved Quinn the previous morning.

  The Brothers greeted the Master by touching their fore­heads and bowing. Then they nodded politely in Quinn’s di­rection.

  “Peace be with you, Brothers,” the Master said.

  “Peace be with you,” Brother Heart echoed.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Brother Tongue thinks his parakeet is sick. He wants Sister Blessing to look at it.”

  “Sister Blessing is in isolation.”

  “The parakeet is acting very funny,” Brother Heart said apologetically. “Show the Master, Brother Tongue.”

  Brother Tongue put his head on his shoulder and pressed his hand against his mouth.

  “The bird no longer speaks,” Brother Heart translated, “and sits with his head hidden.”

  Brother Tongue pointed to his chest and moved his hand rapidly back and forth.

  “The bird’s pulse is very fast,” Brother Heart said. “It has palpitations. Brother Tongue is very worried, he wants the Sister to—”

  “Sister Blessing is in isolation,” the Master repeated sharply. “The bird looks perfectly all right to me. Perhaps it’s as tired of talking as I am of listening. Place a cover over its cage and let it rest. All birds have accelerated heartbeats, it’s quite normal, nothing to worry about.”

  Brother Tongue’s mouth quivered and Brother Heart emitted a long deep sigh, but neither of them put up an argument. They disappeared around the corner of the build­ing, their bare feet leaving little puffs of dust.

  The brief encounter puzzled Quinn. The bird had looked to him, as well as to the Master, in good health, and he wondered if it had been used as an excuse to obtain per­mission to see Sister Blessing. Or perhaps, he thought, to take another look at me. No, I’m getting too suspicious. Another couple of hours in this place and I’ll be receiving O’Gorman’s vibrations from hell. I�
��d better flake off.

  The Master had the same idea at the same time. “I can waste no more of my strength on you, Mr. Quinn. You must leave now.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell Mrs. O’Gorman my prayers are being offered to ease her husband’s agony.”

  “I don’t think that will be much of a consolation.”

  “It is not my fault he went to hell. If he had come to me I would have saved him. . . . Peace be with you, Mr. Quinn. I shall not expect you back, unless you come humbly and peni­tently as a convert.”

  “I’d prefer an engraved invitation from Capirote,” Quinn said, but the Master had already closed the door.

  Quinn walked back to the dirt lane. About a dozen Brothers and Sisters were standing in front of the dining hall when he passed but none of them greeted him. Only one glanced curiously in his direction, and Quinn recognized the leather-skinned face of Brother Light of the Infinite, the man who’d come to the storage shed to rid the mattress of fleas. It was as if the whole colony had been warned to ignore Quinn’s pres­ence because he was a threat to them. But as soon as he walked past he could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on the back of his neck.

  The feeling persisted even after he’d reached his car and there was no one in sight. Each tree looked as if it had a Brother or Sister stationed behind it to watch him.

  He released the brake and the car started coasting down the dirt lane. His mind went back to his first departure from the Tower, with Brother Crown driving the dilapidated truck before the sun came up. There had been, he recalled, a reason for the timing: to get the truck away from the place before Sister Contrition’s oldest daughter, Karma, tried to hitch a ride to the city.

  Quinn broke out in a sweat. The eyes on the back of his neck felt like crawling insects. His hand reached up to rub them off and found nothing but his own cold damp skin.

  He said aloud, “Karma?”

  There was no answer.

  He had reached the main road by this time. He stopped the car, turned off the ignition and got out. Then he opened the back door. “This is the end of the line, friend.”