I dress quickly, after sluicing myself down with cold water, and pause in my parents’ doorway, fixing their faces in my mind’s eye. My memory will live on, intact, from incarnation to incarnation – knowledge of what I am and what my task is.
Ready for the next time.
They were good people, my parents. They tried hard to do what was right for us, their children. Their future.
I am careful not to wake them as I leave. Even as I go out the door, I am painfully aware that their grieving will be mercifully short-lived. My fate is to be written off as a runaway, one of those myriad hopefuls who flee their lives, mundane or horrific, each year, seduced by bright lights or a safer future, however mythical such futures might be. For most of them, the brightest light they will encounter will be the one above the autopsy table. My parents will write me off as ungrateful, uncaring of their efforts on my behalf, and consign my memory to some deep corner of their minds, hidden away like some shameful secret. I suppose that’s exactly what I will be.
If only I could tell them.
I strike out into the bush, raising a little cloud of dust as I go… the earth is so dry. The clouds are already gathering, aware of my imminent arrival. They are hundreds of miles away at the moment, racing to meet me at the appointed time. On I walk, mile after mile. The sun is high now, almost at its zenith. The first breeze, cool as silk, caresses my sweat-streaked face, lifting my skirt almost coyly, eager to feel. Refreshed, I push on. Almost there now. Not far to go.
The wind blows stronger now. Clouds rush towards me and darken, imminent rainfall promised in their every gust.
Help me.
Noon. The sun has reached its peak, and the winds whip round me in frenzied circles, eager for release.
It’s time.
Once again, I am the eye of the storm. I shed my clothes and stand naked – ready to meet my fate. Behold, I am life! Feed on me, and renew.
I raise my arms in a gesture of greeting, acknowledging the elements and the power they hold. I am ready.
The wind stills suddenly, all is quiet. The animals are skulking in their holes, even the birds have found shelter. I can hear nothing. The air itself is holding its breath, the calm before the storm.
Wind, rushing at me, lifting me high in its embrace. I see the ground, rushing away from me at a dizzying speed.
I am life – beware.
Now the transformation begins – an incredible, intoxicating sensation. Cells spinning apart, transmuting – fireflies on the wings of the wind – motes of me dancing with the rain; falling to the parched earth, eager and waiting for my seed.
My life.
To the far reaches of the earth the winds carry me, supporting what’s left of my flagging body, far less substantial now than it was before. I feel cells dancing off to join the festival of life. Everywhere I pass, the rains come, sudden and intense. Flooding, refreshing, replenishing the earth.
Farmers drop to their knees beneath me, and give thanks to their Gods.
They should be thanking me!
Children run out and play, eager to stamp in the life-giving puddles while their mothers smile indulgently, pleased for the respite, however momentary it might prove to be. I raise my hands in supplication to my Mother and she hears me, pleased with my sacrifice. A rainbow appears in the sky, my reward, my welcome – and the children laugh and clap, happy with my benediction.
The earth breathes a sigh of relief as I pass over, cracked gullies and arid plains unclench themselves and relax as they are covered with the tears of my joy.
Life goes on.
All across the world satellites crackle and reports are given of freak weather conditions – a deluge, worldwide.
Not quite.
Gentler am I than any deluge, falling most where need is greatest. Where there is no real need, no more than a gentle shower. I waste none of my flesh on places already bountiful. There isn’t enough to spare for that.
I go where I am needed, where I will make the difference between life – however hard – and a slow, undignified death. Children, with bellies swollen by starvation bearing a single malignant child. Death.
As I pass over these stricken places I add my tears to the falling rain – a spark of life, hope, in each one. I pray they fall on fertile ground.
I can feel the earth give thanks, even as it flexes and sighs with relief. Seeds germinate; the crops will not fail this year.
“It’s a miracle,” they say, and I smile, hearing my name on their lips at last.
I am Miracle, writ large. I die again and again to bring life, refreshing the earth and its myriad life forms once more.
For ever and ever, time and again, that the world might not end.
Amen.
The Unquiet Bones
Alex watched her breath plume out in ragged bursts from between her clenched teeth as she stamped her feet to keep warm. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” she hissed.
Mark at least had the good grace to look embarrassed as he muttered, “Well, I didn’t know the bloody car was going to break down, did I?”
He continued ferreting around under the bonnet and clunking noises ensued, but Alex had the distinct impression he was just banging a wrench against the side or something. He’d never boasted of his mechanical prowess before, and God knew men – in her experience – did like to bang on about such things if they were good at them.
She shivered again as the wind forced its way into the gaps in her clothes, bathing her in icy air. She crossed her legs as the chill made her desperate to pee, and stared up at the building looming over them. Alex moaned, and yelled at Mark again. “I know, but did it have to be here?”
‘Here’ was officially the Middle of Nowhere, she’d decided; capital of Arse End of the Universe. She tilted her head back and held a hand over her eyes to keep out the rain; it was hard to gauge how high this thing was in the half-light. She was standing in front of a huge, crumbling stone… what? Monastery, hospital?... about five miles outside the nearest small town. And it had taken them about a minute and a half to drive through that – she couldn’t even remember its name. Silently, she once more cursed the whim that had made them up sticks and head out on this abortion of a road trip. What in God’s name had they been thinking?
Mark finally admitted defeat and slammed the bonnet down, swearing under his breath as he locked the car and walked across the road to join her, wrapping his arms across his chest in his own feeble attempt to keep warm. “Sorry, love. We’re stuck here for now.” He squinted up at the forbidding walls ahead of them. “Think they have a phone we could use?”
“You know what, at the moment I’ll be happy if they just have a loo I could use.” She groaned again, now hopping from foot to foot in her discomfort.
Mark grinned. “If you’re desperate we could always find a bush. I could stand guard.”
Alex snorted. “If you think I’m baring my behind to the elements you’ve got another think coming, mate.”
“Had a feeling you’d say that.” He grinned, then took her hand and pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in an effort to impart some heat. “Come on, we won’t know if we don’t knock.” He grabbed the round iron knocker hanging from the dark wooden beams that made up the door and swung, hitting the door hard. CLANG. Again. CLANG. They waited for a few moments, but heard nothing, so he swung the knocker again. CLANG!
This time someone heard them – or chose to admit it, realising they weren’t going away any time soon. A light flickered in an upstairs window, and they heard the distant sounds of doors slamming, someone walking down a flight of obviously uncarpeted stairs.
Alex chanced a sideways peep at Mark, who steadfastly refused to meet her eye – he kept his gaze firmly on the doorway, jaw set. He was every bit as nervous as her, she realised. Alex moved closer to him, and was relieved to feel his answering squeeze. “If a guy wearing a creepy butler’s costume, or suspenders and a basque answers the door, I’m gone.�
�� She heard Mark’s muffled snort, and smiled. At least she’d managed to ease his nerves a little, even if it didn’t last.
There came the sound of bolts being drawn back, hinges starting to creak – then the door swung slowly back. All was dark within. Alex and Mark stood motionless for a moment, unsure of their reception.
Mark cleared his throat. “Hello?”
A hand appeared on the door, ready to pull it further open, and Alex gasped. She saw the strain on the hand as its owner heaved the dead weight of all that wood further back, and understood then how old – how solid – this place really was.
The hand’s owner appeared then, and Alex saw that this was indeed a monastery. The man who stood before them looked to be middle-aged (she’d guess around fifty), with thick, powerful arms and upper body – that much was visible even through his woollen monk’s robes. A scar bisected his face, tracing a jagged line from his left brow down to his right jaw-line. One eye stared blindly outward; the other was currently shining with amusement at his visitors. Alex realised she was standing with her mouth open and shut it with a snap, not wanting to appear rude. She felt Mark stir, clear his throat, and knew he must have had a similar reaction.
The stranger spoke, his voice deep and lyrical. “Can I help you?”
Alex nodded. “Please.” She gestured back at the car. “Our car broke down. Do you have a phone we could use, to call a garage? We’d really appreciate it.”
He stared at them for what felt like forever before nodding. “Of course.” Holding the door even wider, he added, “Come in.”
They hesitated, just for a moment – until a gust of wind almost took Alex’s feet away from under her. Alex grabbed Mark’s hand, and together they walked forward into a narrow, deserted yard. Looking back at the door they’d just passed through, Alex could see now that the building was so close to the wall, and the wall itself was so high, that in the dark they hadn’t realised there was a yard at all. A light blinked fitfully across the way, just inside what must be the front door. Shadows obscured the glow for a moment, then it returned, guttering in the wind – it was a candle. Had there been a power cut?
They followed the monk across the yard, and rain battered them as if trying to force them back. The sky was gunmetal black, thunder growling in the near distance. Jesus, thought Alex. All we need is lightning and we’re in a horror movie!
They passed through the door on the far side, and found themselves standing in a large, stone-flagged hall. Footsteps echoed somewhere above their heads, and candles flickered in sconces on the panelled walls – dancing in the wind that had found its way inside, even here. Alex shivered. Where were the radiators, the electric lights?
On cue, the monk apologised for the chill. “I’m afraid we’re a bit out of touch with things out here. When there’s a storm, the power is the first thing that goes. The phone is in here, though,” he gestured to an alcove off to their right. “It should still be working. It takes something extraordinary to put that out of action as well.”
Mark went over to the alcove and picked up the black, Bakelite phone he found there.
They really weren’t kidding about being out of touch, Alex saw.
Mark listened for a moment, then smiled at Alex and nodded. There was a ring tone after all.
She closed her eyes and muttered “Thank God.” When she opened them again she saw the monk staring at her, his expression quizzical.
“Did you doubt it would be working, Miss?” he asked, his tone amused.
“It crossed my mind,” she admitted. “You know, the weather…”
“Of course.” He smiled, but there was something off-kilter about it. The monk was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
She smiled, embarrassed, and looked at Mark, willing him to turn and see her; rescue her. At that moment he put the phone down and turned, smiling, then gave her the thumbs up.
She grinned. “They’re coming?”
“They are,” he said. “Should be here by morning at the latest.”
Alex’s heart sank. “By morning? Why so long?”
“Something about a bridge crumbling,” Mark said. “Traffic’s a bitch, apparently. Nothing’s getting through.” He remembered the monk’s presence and coughed, guilty. “Sorry, Father; I er… I forgot you were there.”
The monk’s gaze was flinty, his disapproval palpable. “Obviously. And it’s Brother, I’m no priest.” He almost spat the word, and Alex wondered again what this place was. “Brother Saul.”
“Well I’m sorry, Brother Saul,” Mark went on. “I should have been more careful.”
The monk nodded. “You should indeed, but no matter.” He pushed a door at the far end of the hall open, and invited them inside. “It looks as if you’ll have to wait for quite some time. You’ll be more comfortable in here.”
They walked through, and found themselves in what looked like a library – shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, and big old, wing-backed chairs situated facing each other in front of a roaring log fire. Further back were more chairs dotted here and there, small tables set beside them. Similar tables stood beside each of the chairs by the fire. Alex relaxed as the warmth started to sink into her, feeling coming back to her numbed fingers and toes. But the need to pee reasserted itself with a vengeance, and Alex moaned. “I’m sorry, F… Brother. Is there a bathroom I could use, please?”
He nodded, gesturing back into the hall. “Go out and turn left; it’s the door at the far end of the corridor.”
Alex put her head out into the hall and looked to her left and right; no one else seemed to be around. Brother Saul’s voice boomed from just behind her, and she jumped, emitting a shrill yelp before she could stop herself.
“Would you like me to show you the way?”
She could see Mark smirking in the background, and her embarrassment quickly became stubbornness. “No thank you, Brother, I’ll be fine.” She peered out into the darkness again. “It’s not far.” Alex walked into the hall, and started towards the bathroom.
She almost stopped and went back when the light began to fail as she made her way further from the library. In the darkness, this hall seemed to go on forever, and it was so cold. She shivered and moved closer to the wall, ran her fingers gently over the brickwork – it was okay, she reasoned. If all else failed, she could feel her way along the wall until she reached the end.
The bricks were irregular in size, and dust kissed her fingertips as she brushed them across their surface. At intervals, she felt inexplicable bumps in the brickwork, and tried to trace the shape – these things didn’t feel as if they were made of brick at all; they were smoother, rounded at the edges but of varying shapes. She hissed as the pointed end of one such piece scratched her finger, drawing her hand back to suck at the wound. Salty liquid filled her mouth, and she felt slightly sick. She rushed down the hall to the loo and told herself she hadn’t really felt whatever it was move, twisting as it tried to get loose, eager for more.
Mark tried to think of something to say. Ever since Alex had left to go to the loo (What was keeping her, he wondered? She’d been ages.), Brother Saul had said nothing, just stood staring at the door, waiting for her return – leaving Mark to wait awkwardly in front of the fire.
He stared round the room, searching blindly for inspiration. Turning to face the fire, he saw a painting above the mantel and groaned. Best way to ruin a painting, he thought, putting it there. He leaned closer and examined the picture in more detail – the building in the background looked remarkably like this one, and the foreground was the yard they’d walked through. Only this must have been long ago, as someone had lit a bonfire in its confines, and a post rose from the flames. The picture was dark, damaged by years of soot and smoke, and it took Mark a moment to realise that a figure was tied to that post, above the conflagration. A woman. What the…?
“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ It says that in the bible.”
Brother Saul again. The man was lik
e smoke himself; he made next to no noise as he walked. Mark found himself idly wondering whether the monks wore shoes, then realised it was irrelevant. He should still have heard the slap of the man’s feet against the wooden floor. Mark cleared his throat. “It must be very old, then, this picture?”
“Why do you say that?” Saul asked.
“Well, the witch trials were what, two – three hundred years ago?”
The monk nodded. “True, they were.” He moved back to the door, watching for Alex. “But witches still exist, even today. We must always guard against evil.”
Mark stared. The man couldn’t be serious. And even if he was deluded enough to believe that, it was hardly legal anymore to burn suspects! “B-But still…” he stammered.
The monk turned to face Mark once more, his face alight with zeal. “The picture is old, my son; forgive me. You must permit me a small joke.”
Mark sagged with relief. “Of course. I have to admit, you had me going for a minute there.”
The monk nodded. “I know. But I did not lie. The picture may be old, but evil is older still. And it’s here.”
“What?” All warmth had been sucked out of the room, Mark was sure. He felt as if he’d been doused in ice water. Unnerved, he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the painting, convinced that the woman – for it was a woman, he was sure of that – had moved, and was looking at him.
The monk roared with laughter. “I mean it’s still in the world, today.” He sobered in an instant, and his face became melancholy as he considered the world’s fate. “I want no part of it, and neither do my brethren.” He pointed to the walls. “It’s why we lock ourselves away, and stay apart from all things outside – so that we can better keep ourselves pure, and pray for humanity’s salvation.”
Alex chose that moment to walk back in, still sucking a finger – her face a sickly white. She headed straight for Mark, and he saw her sway slightly as he moved to meet her, to hold her. He enfolded her in his arms, mindless of the monk’s presence; felt her shaking against him.
In Times Of Want Page 8
