The Cloven

by Brian Catling

  In the morning he was taken out and washed in the sea. The box put within sight of his ablutions. Once cleansed, a leash with a collar of shark’s teeth was put about his neck and given to Tyc. She thought such a thing necessary because Men Without Substance could not be trusted and she did not want an unpredictable animal close enough to Oneofthewilliams to be able to cause harm or injury. She demonstrated the choke-chain effect of the collar while he was still standing in the sea and some of the droplets of blood splashed into the warm eddies that giggled about his ankles. Yuuptarno explained that he was now allowed an audience with Oneofthewilliams and that he must behave quietly and with veneration, and that any signs of disrespect would not be tolerated by Tyc, who held the other end of his leash. And that any signs of threat or violence by word or deed towards the sacred one would be dealt with by a muscular yank of the lead, which would stop him and eventually remove his head. When it was clear that he understood, he was allowed to pick up the box and walk slowly behind Tyc and her troupe towards the brightly painted hut. Inside, his eyes strained and watered against the dark and stench, eventually tuning themselves to the atmosphere. Tyc prompted him forwards and slid a small patch of twigs and woven seaweed aside to reveal a slit of a window. The light fell directly on the open hands of the sacred one. Father Timothy let out a sigh of relief at seeing their normality. A sigh that was quickly sucked back and ingested when the slit revealed the entire personage of Oneofthewilliams. The hands, arms, and shoulder were human, but they were balanced in a shallow bowl. The legs were gone, as was indeed the head. Only a lopsided sack extended from the neck and hung boneless and swinging like an animal’s nose bag. Several large veins or nerves or arteries clung to its exterior like ancient vines. The hands made one more gesture towards him before this world strobed into black and white and vomited him into unconsciousness.

  When he came to, Tyc was furious: This act of disrespect had nearly cost him his life. Indeed, she had the leash double knotted around her hands within seconds of his swoon. It was only the raising of the sacred one’s hands that prevented his exhaustion. When Timothy finally recovered, he was eventually allowed to gift the box. Its contents were a colony of sleeping ants that instantly came alive. The sacred one felt inside it and they crawled and niggled, stitched and inflicted their long and complex messages. It was as if Modesta were whispering in the ear that he no longer possessed. Tyc watched closely and became aware of the change that was taking place. The inner locked part of Oneofthewilliams had become undone. The ants had brought it out. There was a new fluency in his motion, a concealed dance in the legless, faceless body.

  Timothy was taken away. The collar carefully removed. He was now cherished and fed, even against the piety of his will.

  After the meeting, Tyc prepared Timothy for departure. He was given his robe back with a pack of dried fish and a new staff freshly cut from the forest. He was escorted along the coast by the three men who had guarded and caressed him. He left without ever seeing Oneofthewilliams again. A mile after he left the Sea People, the charm that Tyc had implanted in him took effect. And a great longing and remembrance of home flooded back. And at its core stood the beautiful vision of Modesta, waiting.

  On Father Timothy’s way back home, the journey seemed enhanced, more vivid than any other. The high cliffs and jagged spurs were the signature of a different geology, a more ancient and alien shard of the mountain peeking out of the waves. Father Timothy’s long journey had been forced up over these sheer faces, following the goat tracks from the gentle sea edge, where he had walked in the surf to cool his aching feet, onto the high precipitous stone. The advantage there was its view. He could look out over God’s good earth as he had never done before, cast his imagination across the billions of waves and fathomless splendour of the sea. The wind tugged at him in the dazzling light as he rested from his panting climb. Gulls and kittiwakes sang against the ozone, and he marvelled at the strength of the beauty before him. He had completed his task, delivered the box to the savages on the beach. He had met the abomination called Oneofthewilliams and understood nothing of the meaning. He was pleased to leave that place and its confusion and return to his parish. He had earned his promised respite from the intrusions that had so shaken his little life and now wanted only a simple day-to-day existence.

  He hoped to return to his meagre duties and solitary life without the intrusion of commanding visions, insistent old women, and unnatural children to spoil his peace and sanity of mind. He undid the strap of his hat and removed it, holding it hard against the sun-filled tugs of the wind. He wiped his sweating brow and let its saltiness dry, his eyes closed tight against the glare. He turned and look back towards the estuary, which had become lost in the curve of the distance he had travelled. That place and the Sea People were beyond sight and he hoped never to see them again. He estimated he must be halfway on his journey and turned to look into the future and his return, dreading the abnormalities that might still be hovering around Carmella and Modesta. There was a slim hope that they might have left. They had said that a messenger would be sent to escort them out of the village forever—a seraphim would conduct them to paradise, where they might shelter beneath the tree of knowledge forever. He looked along the winding goat track and imagined them tottering on its unstable distance. He prayed for their departure, for their continual absence from his life. He also wondered in a nagging afterthought if he might really meet them on this, the only track. He strained his eyes and his anticipation, unconsciously looking for a trace of movement, and then smirked and frowned at his foolishness. He shook off all thoughts of them, pulled his hat back on, finding its wetness reassuring. Its leather strap was now cold with chilled condensation. He picked up his staff and continued his journey home, wanting to spend as much time in the optimistic shining air as possible.

  The only blemish on his journey was the bundle being sucked by the tide, in a crevice below the highest part of track. His mind had been singing in the bright clear air when the loose pebbles began to slide under his feet, sending a gritty cloud plummeting over the edge of the track that was near precipitous on its outer side. He grabbed on to the wild thyme growing on the cliff walls on the inner side, tearing into the spiky tightness to steady himself while he made his slippery foothold more secure. It took his breath away and his heart beat in his mouth as his staff clattered down into the boulders below. He waited until he was calm and the ground stopped trembling, then edged past the loose scree and onto firmer ground. Once secure, he sat back on the solid rocks to gain his full composure. That’s when he saw the black mass moving back and forth in the wadi below. He could not tell if it was an animal or a bundle of rags. It certainly wasn’t driftwood or seaweed. It was more compact and rolled bent over in the shallows. A nub of white flopped in and out of focus, and at one point he thought it might be a face. But on its third roll it looked more like featureless foam, merely stuck onto the bundle’s matted surface. He convinced himself that it was just his imagination turning a perfectly normal incident into a sinister event. He grew tired of his surmise and started the slow descent off of the sheer rock face, back onto firmer ground and flatter lands that banished the unpleasantness from his thoughts.

  He pushed on, wanting to be home by night, and as he got closer to his homeland, to the depopulated lands, he started to recognise features in the landscape. Thoughts of Carmella and Modesta returned—by now they were separating. All of the odious and unnatural things flocked magnetically to the old woman, while thoughts of Modesta became cleansed and even pleasant. With each strenuous step, the memory of the girl warmed and matured until he felt a great anxiety about not seeing her again. He wanted to see Modesta, wanted to breathe the same air and watch her limbs move in it. On his way back the memory of her beautiful sarcastic face had been replaced by the conjured glimpses of her growing body, of her nakedness and the fertility that pulsed inside it. He knew he was becoming obsessed and that it was wrong. He knew he
wanted to see and touch her and also knew he never would, because deep in his heart of hearts he expected her to be gone. Departed without a thought of him. But hope clung like the dusty soil to his boots as he rushed and stumbled through the terraced fields and made for Carmella’s house. The sand and stones ground to a crunching halt as he stopped, black-clad and defeated, a bent shadow in the blazing sun.

  He sobbed one clay-grey fist of a sob when he saw the chain on the door of the closed house. He stood trembling without being able to make the decision to touch the weight of the padlock that ignored him, as it ignited a merciless flame in him, that began the inverted alchemy of transforming passionate longing into torturous despair.

  Eventually he gathered himself enough to walk up to the house and peer through its shutters into the dark interior, half expecting to find a note that she might have left for him. Nothing was visible. He was wondering who the miserable old woman had trusted with the key to tend her animals in the inner courtyard when he saw a brightness in the air unfold. Close to one of the windows a warm light dappled the bricks and a halo of white flames (or were they feathers?) spun. He rubbed his eyes, then stared again. It was still there trying to attract the attention of those within. There was something about its gentle unworldliness that propagated a great peace in him. He wanted to touch it and bask in its glow. As he hastily approached it faded until only tiny sparkles, like willow ash, dotted the lazy air.

  He looked about for the apparition; everything was still until he spoke.

  “Hello,” he said foolishly.

  Then the breath of his word caught fire, as if each particle of water vapour or sound had become separately ignited for a fraction of a second. It was wonderful and without a glimpse of terror. When he realised that the illuminations were fed by him, he blurted out a muddled sentence.

  “I am Father Timothy, friend and protector to those who live here, and I have returned to find them.”

  The air lit up and swirled next to him, and he was instantly reminded of the sea phosphorescence that he had witnessed when first he came to this exotic land. It too had been in twilight on a beach nearby. He had been attracted by the sounds of children playing in water, laughing and shouting with glee. Then he drew closer and he understood why. Every movement of their feet, hands, and body in the water was glowing, a quick pulsing light silhouetting each of their actions, the very water alive with light. He too plunged his hands in the low waves and millions of normally invisible bioluminescent creatures throbbed around them. This moment was like that, but in the air. He laughed out loud and the brightness unfolded again, showing that it also had its own form. Then it spoke in a voice that was wrong in the face of its wonder. It spoke in a slow drab whisper, like a wet biscuit.

  “You are not they who must be taken,” it accused. “Where are they who must be taken?”

  Timothy’s ears were forsaken by its miserable tone, while his eyes stared in wonder at its light.

  “They must have gone.”

  “They must be taken, not have gone themselves.”

  “Are you the seraph that was foretold?” stuttered the priest.

  “I am of those that bear message and direction and have come for those who must be taken.”

  “Yes, but they have already gone, even though they were waiting for you.”

  Something like feathers were fluttering in the darkening air, their majestic beauty tilting into something else, more like the fluffing up of the lank plumage of irritated poultry.

  “They who should be taken must await my coming.”

  “Yes! I know, you said that before.”

  “I was not in the before when they went.”

  “Something else must have taken them.”

  “What else, there is nothing else to do the taking.”

  “A mistake, some kind of mistake?”

  The feathers bristled and the light made a faint sizzling sound, and ozone could be smelt.

  “Mistake is not known, we are without mistake.”

  “No, not your mistake. A mistake by them, those who were awaiting you.”

  “Those who must be taken?” the seraphim asked again.

  “Yes! Modesta and Carmella.”

  “Do not speak given names without them.”

  Timothy was becoming annoyed with the apparition and said nothing. A slight breeze ruffled the late light, and sounds of the animals in the courtyard could be heard. A goat bleated above all else.

  “It be they! They who must be taken.”

  Timothy said nothing.

  “Hark, it is they. Come hither, my children, it is time to be taken.”

  “It’s a goat,” Timothy said bluntly.

  “Do not speak their given names without them,” said the seraphim.

  “It’s just an animal, wanting feeding, it’s not them.”

  “Who?”

  “Carm—! They who must be taken.”

  “Yes, those who must be taken, bring them forth.”

  It was now dark and the tired priest was beginning to understand that not all of God’s “higher beings” have the same intelligence as humans. Suddenly his modest room and the warmth of his village seemed an urgent need.

  “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “I have been foretold.”

  “Good, I am sure if they were here you would be most welcome.”

  “But those who must be taken.”

  “Yes, those. I must go now.”

  “I shall come hither with thee.”

  Timothy’s heart sank at the prospect. “No, that is not possible, I live alone.”

  “The taking is foretold, it must become, I will live with thee until then.”

  The exhausted little priest was just about to shout at the divine light when the goat did it for him. He quickly took advantage.

  “There it is! They who must be taken.” The plumage awoke with new brilliance. “Praise be!” it exclaimed.

  “They are on the other side of this wall in the courtyard, you must go there.”

  “They must come to me.”

  “They are caught there by the mistake, do you see, you must go to them.”

  “Those who must be taken.”

  “Yes, those on the other side of this wall.”

  “I must go over?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a moment of thinking or the growing of moss in the air and then a great noise inside the inner courtyard. A crashing and slithering that made all the animals speak at once, a tremendous cry in the stables of celebrations or panic or fury. Timothy did not wait to hear or see more but sped up to the track that led to his village, grabbing his rucksack that he had left by the gate. He looked back twice as he stumbled onto the well-worn homeward track. He was moving faster and faster. He paused for a breath only when he reached the serrated crest of the village boundary. Nothing was following him and he regained his composure enough to let another doubt creep into his fatigue. What or who had lead Carmella and Modesta away? The thing below composed of a single purpose and shadows was obviously the seraph. And he knew that the resolve of the two women was implacable. They would have let nothing prevent their journey with this angelic form. But something had. Its purpose and action must have been malign, and he feared for the souls and bodies of his departed wards.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Modesta had watched as the old woman fell over the cliff, hit the path, and then sprang into the crashing dark water below. Why had she done that? It was impressive and fast and very effective, but she thought that she would keep her life, at least until they had reached their destination. To hop, skip, and jump it away now seemed silly. The impatient herald clacked and scuffled, wanting to go on.

  “All right, I am coming,” she said and left the steep rock face, going down on all fours, down towards the sea and the
softer path along the shore. She looked over the edge and saw the bundle of food that Carmella was carrying bob up and down next to her in the lively waves. One of the loaves of bread had already escaped and was moving out to sea, being propelled by nipping bites from a shoal of small fish swirling under it. Modesta pulled herself up and called out to the seraphim. Two minutes later she had forgotten the village and all that had happened there. She never thought of the old woman again. But occasionally, very occasionally, her tongue remembered the fish soup that steamed in brown bowls in that old house, somewhere back in her forgetting.

  Seraphim are curious things, she thought, but the eminence of this one seemed curiously tarnished and broken. She knew its random ways and scruffy flight must have meaning and that those shards of wisdom were always obscure or impossible and were constantly shielded from the eyes of men. The true magnificence would blind them, for hadn’t the seraphim sat under God’s throne and bathed in his light while they sang his eternal praise? That is why they were called the fiery ones. This manifestation seemed a long way from that. Its dismal spastic tumblings looked more like a village drunk than an angel of God. She grew tired thinking of it and shouted ahead that she intended to sleep, finding some soft ferns among the thorns and wiry thyme of the escarpment.

  * * *

  —

  That night she had her first dream, and when she awoke, she did not know what to do with it; pictures and scents and a heart-bruising ache that might be memory spilled into the overly bright day. And as it was fading, a great hollow of loss was nudging into every vivid crevice of where the dream had been. Its still-fresh and setting mould was filling with astonishment that yearned to be actual and sentient. A wriggling nascent awareness that was tangible only in pressure. For a precious, delirious, and terrifying few moments it filled her mind and was as real as everything else. For the first time in her short life she was knocked off guard, and it shifted all her outlines in the world that she thought she understood and so domineeringly owned. As the last wisps of the dream vanished, she realised that she had no means to hold it or call it back. Its great gift was stolen by the sun as it flooded into the hinge of her sight. The reality of the dream was gone, leaving no teeth of the image to focus on. But its unseen gums gnawed all day, slowly pulping and dissolving the contours of her implacable lucidity.