A Gathering of Twine

by Martin Adil-Smith

  “Well that’s that,” Randall muttered, getting up, and went back to work.

  It was July before we saw Tim again. The man looked a shadow, positively haunted. Randall told me he thought the man’s marriage was over, and there would be a custody dispute over his son. But it seemed that things had settled down for the Temple in San Francisco. Moscone had been elected as mayor, and the rumour was that Dad had played a major part in his victory. As a result, the Temple was being treated more fairly, and everyone felt they had some breathing space.

  It was September seventy-five when Tim came around again, and he and Randall renewed their conversations about a Temple satellite office. I took the boys into the other room to play, leaving the menfolk to their business. Later, Randall told me that Tim had offered us a weekend away in Jonestown. I was hesitant. Paulo was only six months old and had just begun weaning. But Tim had thought of that, and had offered the services of two ladies, who acted as wet-nurses for some of the other mothers at Jonestown, and who would come and babysit for the weekend.

  I knew how much Randall wanted to see Jonestown again… to see if the progress was really as Tim had described. We had spent very little time as husband and wife since Paulo had arrived, and when I heard that Dad would likely be there the same weekend... well I couldn’t really say no, and so arrangements were made.

  *

  It was the first weekend in October, and the ride in the little airplane was just as bumpy as I remembered it to be, if not more so. I held my belly all the way, not through feeling sick this time, even though I did, but because I was already missing my boys. It was like a hole had opened up inside me. But I could see from the look on my husband’s face, who was deep in conversation with Tim and two other Temple members, that this was what he wanted.

  It was nearly dusk when we landed at Kaituma, and Dad was there to greet us personally. He looked nothing like I imagined. Slightly thick-set with well-combed black hair, he was nothing if not charismatic. We talked on the drive to Jonestown, and he thanked both of us for supporting Tim during his difficulties. At that time I did not refer to him as “Dad”, but had noticed various Temple members using the name. When I asked him about it, he laughed.

  "What you need to believe in is what you can see,” he said. “If you see me as your friend, I'll be your friend. If you see me as your father, I'll be your father. For those of you that don't have a father ... you can call me whatever you like.”

  My own father had died at Iwo Jima, and hearing Dad speak like this suddenly reminded of how much I missed him. I hadn’t thought of him since Paulo was born, and suddenly I had an ache welling up, tearing through me like a plough across a field. Without even realising it, I was crying, and both Randall and Dad hugged me.

  “I’m sorry,” I spluttered between sobs and tears.

  “It’s ok,” Dad said. “You... you got nothing to be sorry for.”

  What little remained of our journey was conducted in silence as I rested between Randall and Dad. I felt exhausted.

  The light was fading fast when we reached Jonestown. It was hard to believe that it was little more than a year since we had last visited, and my… what a transformation!

  Nearly fifty huts had been completed, and at least seventy acres of jungle cleared. There was a pavilion where people gathered for prayer, and the makeshift canteen was gone, replaced by a much grander cabin. The field where Randall had worked that day had not done quite so well, and wheat still had to be imported. But more fields had been sown, and the Temple hoped for a better harvest the following year.

  As we approached, I saw that the main drive was lined with people, some of whom I recognised from the last time that we were there. All were smiling and waving and, as we got out of the battered old jeep, Dad was mobbed.

  I guessed that there were around six- or seven-hundred people now, and Tim said that there would be a thousand by the end of the year, once the new huts were finished. Our dinner that night was rice and vegetables, and even though it was not much, I knew the community were sharing what they had.

  Later, Dad was persuaded to lead Mass at the pavilion, and under a clear sky and a hunter’s moon we all gathered. It surprised me that Dad did not begin with a Bible reading, and I asked Tim about this. He smiled at me like I was a child.

  “We don’t need no paper idol,” he whispered. “God’s kingdom is coming here. That’s why we got to make this Heaven. Right here.”

  These words both inspired and terrified me. All my life I had grown up with the Bible. I knew I had questions. Not everything made sense. But I had always been told to put them away - just accept it the way it is and be a good Christian. And now... now I could go beyond the word of God? To what? The Spirit?

  I wanted so much to hang on to the Bible. It was my rock. It had always been there. But like a rock, it was dragging me down. All that rigidity... but it was the way I had been taught, like my mother had been, and her mother before her. All I had to do was let it go... all that dogmatism... and I could float free, back to the surface. Back to God.

  When the Eucharist came I drank deeply and watched the others file past me. Then Dad began to talk, but I did not understand what he said.

  “Oh my,” Tim whispered. “He’s taking us there. He’s showing us God’s Kingdom. You need to take my hand. Close your eyes, and just concentrate on Dad’s words. Really listen to his voice.”

  I took Tim’s hand in my right, and Randall’s in my left. I closed my eyes and let the strange words wash over me. I could hear a distant buzzing in my ear, and then, despite the jungle humidity, I felt a cold wave against me, and then a second. My eyes snapped open, feeling a third wave, and the hairs on my arm stood up. I was goosey all over.

  “Don’t fight it,” Tim said. A smile played on his face, and it looked to me that his entire being was bathed in a soft light.

  I turned to Randall and he too seemed to gently glow, as he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels, and I felt my ears pop. Through the loose thatch of the pavilion roof, I could just make out the full moon. It seemed to spin and shimmer lazily like it was just a reflection in the water. And then parts began to spin independently until I saw that it was three concentric circles. The silver arcs seemed to slip in and out of one another as if they were children playing. And then I realised that I was no longer in the pavilion.

  I half turned. Randall and Tim were still both with me, their eyes now open. The rest of the congregation were there too. We were at the bottom of a gentle hill. It was dusk, but what little light there was played softly in the short grass around our feet, illuminating the hill in soft yellows and lilacs. Behind me I could hear the sound of the sea, lapping gently on a shore. But I did not turn around. I did not need to.

  There, at the top of the hill, stood a tree. A great tree that touched Heaven itself. On each of its ten branches, I saw the radiance of a Holy Choir, and each one sung out the praises of our Lord more beautifully than the last.

  And there, at the top, I saw, cloaked in the finest light I have ever seen... like a thousand suns, the Eye of God. His Mighty Providence gazed down, and He saw me, and I knew that I was less than a grain of sand in the universe, but my Lord saw me all the same. He knew my name. He knew me.

  My being was filled. I was saved. I was forgiven.

  I felt love wash over me, like a warming tide, carrying away all my sin and fear and shame. I was loved. God loved me. The universe loved me. Tears ran down my face as though a dam had broken. I could hear others joyfully weeping too.

  Letting go of Randall and Tim, I raised my hands high above my head towards the Lord’s Eye and felt that wave of love come again. I was sobbing uncontrollably and felt my legs begin to buckle. I was beginning to fall, and Randall caught me.

  And then I was back in the pavilion. We all were. I was lying on Randall’s lap as he stroked my hair. Tim stood above me, his gaunt face showing concern. Dad knelt next to me.

  “Hey... hey there little lady. Are you alright?�
��

  I nodded.

  “It’s ok,” Dad continued. “Sometimes... it... you know... can be a bit much first time.”

  I nodded again. It was not that I could not speak, I just could not think of anything to say. What do you say after God has personally told you how much He loves you?

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Dad smiled and looked to Randall. “She... she’ll be just fine.”

  Sleep did not come to either of us that night, but we did not talk. We just lay in the hut we were sharing, looking out at the night sky.

  We both got up as dawn was breaking, and fetched breakfast. More rice and vegetables. We sat across from each other, still not saying anything but grinning all the same. It was like the morning after we got married all over again. We felt like naughty school children, but proud and happy and alive. Randall would describe it best later, but it was like we had both been wired up to God’s own electrical grid. We were buzzing and sparking and fizzing and we just loved it.

  Randall spent the rest of the morning helping out in the fields, and I worked with some of the ladies on what was to be the new medical building. It was around ten o’clock when I went to the sanitation block to use the facilities, and there I found Dad, on his hands and knees cleaning the porcelain.

  He laughed that gentle loving laugh when I asked him what he was doing.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you’re cleaning the toilet.”

  “Then that’s... that’s what I’m doing.”

  “But...” after the events of the previous night, my mind was reeling. This man should be out preaching or healing or something... anything but this. “But...” I said again, “why?”

  Dad smiled at me. “It’s a job that needs doing.” And with that, he went back to scrubbing.

  *

  It was lunchtime when I saw Randall again. He was in the canteen, seeking respite from the midday sun, and talking with some of other men. Seeing me, he broke off his conversation and crossed the floor to where I was, and gave me a hug and a kiss.

  “Hey,” he said smiling and still holding me close.

  “Hey you.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. You?” I replied.

  “Bit tired.”

  “Me too. You’re never going to guess what I saw,” I said as we got my food – more rice – and returned to the table where he had been talking to his new friends, and recounted what I had seen Dad doing.

  The three men he was with laughed when I finished with Dad’s response, and even Randall smiled.

  “We all pitch in here,” one of them said. “We do what needs doing. Everyone.”

  *

  Later that evening, as the jungle was coming alive with crickets and the like, Randall and I were looking out across Jonestown when we noticed an airplane high above.

  Randall frowned. “That’s a big bird,” he said, squinting.

  I shrugged. “Probably just a jet or something.”

  “No. We’re not on any flight paths here. Tim told me a while ago, and I checked it out. We shouldn’t be seeing anyone flying over.”

  “Maybe someone changed the flight path,” I replied, disinterested. Anything to do with airplanes instantly took Randall away from me.

  He looked at me hard. “You don’t just change a flight path. It’s not done like that.”

  I said nothing, watching as Tim approached us from the main square.

  “What do you make of that?” Randall said to him, pointing at the now prominent contrail.

  “Uh-huh. That’ll be the Spooks. Actually, that is what I came to tell you. There’s been some trouble in ‘Frisco. Dad is leaving to sort it out.”

  “What? Now?” I had hoped he would hold Mass again.

  “Uh-huh. Something about the Temple being illegally wire-tapped. There’s quite a storm. We’re going to see him off if you want to come.”

  We did.

  The throng was intense, but I like to think that Dad saw me waving and looked me straight in the eye and smiled before getting into the transporter that would take him back to Kaituma. From there he would fly the short hop to Georgetown before getting a scheduled flight back to the US.

  *

  The next morning, Tim joined us for breakfast.

  “You really think the CIA is after Dad?” I asked him.

  “Uh-huh,” he said between mouthfuls of rice. “Dad’s been getting it forever. The Man just doesn’t like it being stuck to him.”

  “But if he’s setting up Jonestown, then why won’t they just let him leave and get on?”

  Tim put his spoon down and looked me right in the eye. “What if we succeed? Tell me that. What if we actually pull this off?”

  I looked at Randall, and then back to Tim. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it, Izzy. What if we having a thriving community here? And there are no Cadillacs? There are no labels or brands or any of that fascist crap? And people are happy? I mean actually happy. Aren't people murdering each other for a few dollars? There’re no hookers because all the love is free. And all the kids grow up educated and real polite. And what if the good old US of A says ‘well hang on – those folks seem to be doing just fine. Do we need all our shit?’ ‘Scuse my language. Do you think the Man will let anyone think that way? No chance. No way José!”

  Tim was leaning forward now, jabbing his finger into the table. “The Man wants us to fail. The Man wants to see us all to go back to ‘Frisco with our tail between our legs and say ‘we couldn’t make it work’. And I tell you why it’s so the Man can say to everyone else ‘Look! Look at these saps! They tried to make it without... without a television. They tried to make it without... a toaster. Or a swimming pool. Or any other of that fascist crap that is poisoning our minds.

  “But it isn’t working. No. We’ve got more new members signing up every day. People have woken up to the Zionist lies. And I tell you what Izzy, that scares the crap out of them. It really does. Because who is going to buy their Cadillacs? No-one. So what do they do? What does the Man do? I’ll tell you – the Man says ‘well if it’s not going to fail on its own, well I’ll just give it a little nudge.’

  “And nudge becomes push. But we don’t fall over. So the push becomes a punch and a kick. But we still don’t go down. And then the knives come out. But they see we aren’t scared of knives. We aren’t scared, are we?”

  Silence had fallen across the canteen as Tim’s diatribe had steadily increased in volume.

  “HELL NO!” the throng responded. Some began thumping the tables.

  “No! No, we are not scared Izzy, so do you know what the Man does? He pulls out his guns. All of his guns. And the Man has got a lot of guns. Are we scared of guns?”

  “HELL NO!”

  “Hell no! And the Man says ‘well, what are they scared of? What about the kids?’ And there they have us. We are scared not of what they’ll do to us - most of us saw what they are capable of in ‘Nam. But what could they do to our children? Will we sit around and let them butcher our kids like they did in Binh Gia?”

  “HELL NO!”

  “That’s right. Because this is our utopia. This is the heaven that Dad promised us. And they can come in here, and they can shoot us all up and they can torture our children. But then the whole world will see. They will see how scared the Man is of all the little consumers no longer buying His BS, and the scales will fall from the eyes of the world

  “But the Man knows this. So what does he do? He sits. He watches. And he waits. And he tells us that is what he is doing, so the whole time we’re having to look over our shoulders.”

  I sat in silence. One part of me was terrified. Tim had made wild leaps, but I could see his reasoning, and it made sense after a fashion. If it was all going too well and then suddenly everyone got themselves dead, well it could be put down to any number of the border skirmishes we often heard about. But the rational part of me said “come on – we’re on
ly a thousand people in the middle of nowhere just doing our thing. Who cares?”

  But I knew. I knew that the good ol’ US never leaves well enough alone. It never could.

  “Tim?” I said eventually.

  “Yeah?”

  “If the Man is coming, how do we stay? How do we keep Jonestown?”

  Tim smiled. “That’s easy. We got a secret weapon.”

  I looked at him expectantly.

  “We got God on our side! Can I get a ‘hell yeah’!”

  “HELL YEAH!” More banging on the tables.

  “Can I get an ‘amen’!”

  “AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

  This time, I joined in with them. Tim was no Jesse Jackson, but he could inspire us all the same.

  I knew what I had seen. Randall had seen it too. God was on our side.

  *

  We barely discussed it on the airplane back. It was a foregone conclusion. We had met God at Jonestown, and all the love He had sent us... well it could only mean that he wanted us there.

  Our Mission was not surprised. Disappointed but not surprised. We had done all the work we could do, and the Mission was in good shape to be handed over to the local lay-preachers. Randall finalised a lease for the Jonestown satellite office to begin in the December of seventy-five. Tim was grateful, but I could not help but be worried about his continued loss of weight. He was looking awful.

  We began crating up what few possessions we had to be shipped to Jonestown. To be honest, most of it was the boys’. The winter once again brought no respite from the heat, and Randall and I had retreated into a cafe when we heard a commotion outside. Looking up we could see two Temple members being pushed around by a gang. It was getting ugly. I didn’t even have time to say anything before Randall was on his feet and charging in to the melee. I kept the boys close to me and watched with the cafe owner through the window.