Gibbon's Decline and Fall (53 page)

“ ‘But though I still felt his heat, I could feel also the rock beneath my feet. This rock was the floor of an ancient sea that had burgeoned with life, and it was not he who made it. I looked out upon the peopled nations of the world, and it was not he who created them. Around me moved feather and fur, the snick of teeth and the dart of talon, and it was not he who taught them their skill. Life in all its diversity was from Her, and I stood upon life and he had not moved me from that place.

“ ‘All night I watched, and at dawn She returned, out of
the rose cloud, wrapped in mist. Veiled and hidden though She was, I knew Her voice. She stopped beside me, She took my face in Her hands and asked me if I had decided what help was needed. I had not. She said, “To know what help is needed against your enemy, don't you need to know what the enemy plans for womankind?” Then She went away again, Her feet leaving strange tracks in the sand, like a great bird.'

“And we asked where Sophy went then.

“And she said, ‘I sought the answer to Her question. I traveled far, hard roads into the lair of the enemy, to see what he planned for womankind, and I found his plans made manifest in that place. I went from there to meet my sisters beside the sea, and there She came to me for the third time out of a sunlit wave upon the sea and I told Her what help was needed. And now the beast has been summoned onto holy ground, the battle is joined, and I have come to send you forth.' ”

Bettiann said, “She was talking about San Francisco.”

The woman nodded, smiling. “Yes. She was content when she came from meeting with you. Strength had come upon her, and she gave of it. She laid her hands on us and we felt the light flowing into us. She named us the First Dispersal, and having named us, she sent us out, into the world.”

“How many of you?” asked Faye.

“Oh, hundreds by then. Maybe thousands. Some like Sarah Sourwood, to go among the old dames of the cities who would carry the war into the marketplace, for all wars must be fought there, sooner or later. And some of us to set up places of refuge, as Sophy herself had done for us. Do you remember Rebecca Rainford? She was one of the first to set up a place of refuge. Some of us went to the brides in India, and the girls being cut, and the mothers told to kill their baby daughters. Some went among women who were alone, teaching them to join together, for there is hope in two women, help in three women, strength in four, joy in five, power in six, and against seven, no gate may stand. Some even went among men to tell them of the battle that was coming, to explain that it is not male god against male devil, nor is it female against male; it has nothing to do with gender but with dominion.”

“And you all made it?” Faye asked. “You all survived?”

Nods, smiles. “Survived? Well, some lived, some died, but all kept a place to stand. Once you stop trying to go through the gates, it seems so much simpler. Find your sun-warmed stone, she used to say to us, find it high in the sun, dance
there, build your house there, then reach down to pull others up!”

“She was from Piedras Lagartonas,” Bettiann said. “Do you know where that is?”

“I know what it means,” said Laura. “Lizard stone, the stone of the clever mothers. She said it was named for her, too. ‘Piedras Lagartonas' is also ‘Petra Sophia.' The stone of wisdom, the home of the wise crones, the Baba Yagas.”

“But where is it?”

The woman shrugged, murmured with the others. “South,” they all agreed. “She said it was hot.” “She came north from there to Albuquerque.” “It wasn't in Mexico.…” “No. I remember! South of the Spring of Contention.”

“Is that a place? Or a condition?”

They didn't know. Faye went back to the car and took out a folded sheet of paper, bringing it back to Laura. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“What is it?” Bettiann asked.

“That thing you wrote about the lizard,” Faye replied.

Laura passed it around, and they nodded, smiling. They had heard Sophy talk about the dancing lizard. “It has to keep dancing, or it burns up,” one of them said. “It is one of the metaphors of divinity, that one must keep moving or the fire of creation will go out. Change is what it's about. The constant movement and ferment of change and evolution.”

When they'd said it all, they went away again, without fuss, with great affection for one another, arms reaching, hands patting, heads bent together, words whispered or spoken, the whole like a dance, circles within circles, the music unheard but the rhythm of it plain.

“Thank you,” Faye said to Laura when they were alone once more. “If there is anything I can ever do for you, any of you, please call upon me.” In her mind she was creating a statue of the Goddess, a womanly figure, very Laura-like, holding out her hand to pull others up.

Then back again, to the hotel suite in Middlebury, where Agnes shut herself in her room. Through the closed door they could hear her voice murmuring, praying.

“What's going to happen to her?” Bettiann asked. “What is she doing in there?”

“She was grieving over Sophy,” Faye said. “Now she's grieving over herself. She didn't say a word when the women
were talking, but I was watching her face. She didn't believe them, or she didn't believe what they were told.”

“Did we get anything we can use?” Bettiann rubbed her forehead where lately the lines had refused to be smoothed away.

Faye responded musingly, slowly, thinking it over. “The Goddess. And the old man who brought her food. The striding man who offered her the world if he could make love to her, whom these women identify, I think, as a … the devil, and whom Agnes identifies as … something else. She, Sophy, went into his lair. What does that mean?”

“I don't know,” said Bettiann fretfully. “Another thing was, she laid hands on these women. That's what … religious leaders do, isn't it?”

“You're asking the wrong person, Bets.”

“She never … laid her hands on us.”

Faye sighed. “These women were her students, her followers. Her disciples, if you will. We were her friends. Maybe; she felt it would be presumptuous with us, that we wouldn't appreciate it. Or maybe she knew us too well. Or maybe …” She did not finish the thought. Maybe Sophy had wanted them to find the way for themselves. Or knew that some of them wouldn't.

Bettiann was still fretting. “We can't go looking for a goddess or a devil. The old man was human, though. What did she say his name was?”

“She said Qowat. Qowat, Josephus, something. Chendi Qowat is the name on the application Sophy made to the foundation. He could be still alive. Why not? We think Sophy is. Come on. Let's call Santa Fe and tell the others what we've found out so far.”

They had just finished the call when Aggie came from her room, wiping her eyes. “I'm ready to go back to Carolyn's. Everything they said today made it clear we had no idea who Sophy was. Or what she was. We're not going to learn anything more here.”

Bettiann shook her head. “We'll go, Aggie, but not until morning. We're tired out, and for a few hours we're going to rest. We're going to walk down to Frog Hollow and buy something funny for Carolyn and Ophy and Jessamine. We're going to have dinner out and quietly drink some wine. Then if you can't sleep, I'll give you one of my sleeping pills, and tomorrow we'll go west again.”

It was not the Bettiann whom Aggie was accustomed to, but she did not argue.

In a different place an old yellow school bus drove down the rainy streets of a middle-size city where evening lamplight shone at windows and streetlights made misty spheres of radiance above rain-licked pavement. The bus passed a small boy dressed in a yellow raincoat and hat, sailing boats in the gutter. The boy waved, and the old man who was driving the bus waved back. The bus passed a dignified dog trotting purposefully about its business and taking no notice of bus or driver. It passed a man and woman walking close together, head and shoulders concealed by an umbrella. The driver turned a corner and pulled to the curb in front of an ordinary house: white clapboard, green shutters, trimmed evergreens in the front yard, a covered porch at the front and side. The porch light was on, as though someone was expected.

He turned and nudged his only passenger, who was drowsing.

“Where are we?” Helen asked.

“Where you'll be safe,” said the old man, getting to his feet. “This is Rebecca's house. You'll be all right here.”

“For how long?” she cried. “Until he finds me?”

“Perhaps he won't find you.”

“My children,” she said, something between a whimper and a prayer.

“Everything is changing,” he said, putting his hand on her head. “Everything is in flux, moving like a stream over rocks, full of eddies and wavelets. Whatever happens will happen soon. It will not be long until you can be together.” He pressed his cheek against hers. “Or it will not be long before being together won't seem important. Go in. This is a refuge. They have been told you are coming. They are expecting you.”

The bus door wheezed open. She stepped down onto the sidewalk, hearing the door shush closed behind her. She was halfway to the house when the house door opened, spilling indoor light onto the rain-wet walk to make a golden river. Behind her the bus hummed itself away. She did not turn to see it go, for her eyes were fixed on the woman who came to meet her and take her by the hand. She looked to be about sixty. Her face was tranquil.

Children were playing inside. Their laughter came clearly
into the night, along with the voices of women. There was the smell of cooking.

“I'm Rebecca Rainford,” said the woman. “Welcome.”

Carolyn took Ophy and Jessamine to the jail to examine Lolly, returning well before noon on Sunday.

“How'd it go?” Hal asked when they returned.

Carolyn shrugged. “Lolly was very much herself. Ophy did a thorough physical; Jessamine took her through a couple of nonverbal tests.”

“Enough to get an idea of the level she functions at,” murmured Jessy. “Carolyn hadn't misled us. She's just as described. Lily the chimp probably has better sense, but then, Lily's mother raised her carefully.”

It was the only notable happening in a day otherwise spent in edgy sloth, nothing accomplished, though everything was worried over. The evening was marked only by Bettiann's call telling them what the eastern contingent had come up with and saying they would return sometime on Monday. After a quiet supper everyone retired but Carolyn. She sat up late, obsessively going over everything that might go wrong, noting down everything that Jagger could use against her and every wrong step she might make. She included in this lengthy list the possibility that Josh might not be able to continue overseeing Lolly's clothing.

The wisdom of her foresight was clear the moment she saw Lolly in the courtroom on Monday morning, hair teased into a mane, eyes made up, lipstick a smear, and a scarlet dress so tight it looked painted on. Carolyn grabbed her, steered her out into the bailiff's anteroom, and from there, with a female guard, to the women's room, where Lolly was, over feeble protestations, stripped to her underwear, washed, brushed, combed, and redressed in a set of clothing that Carolyn had brought with her just on the off chance.

“I looked good before,” she wailed.

“You looked like a hooker,” said Carolyn firmly. “Juries put girls who look like hookers in the tanks. Who dressed you up like that?”

“My mama. She said somebody give her the clothes.…”

Carolyn could imagine who had given her the clothes. When they went back into the courtroom, the girl was neatly dressed in clean jeans, low-heeled shoes, and a knit polo shirt.
Though elsewhere this might have been too informal for court, in Santa Fe it was sufficient. Her hair, though somewhat the worse for the quart of mousse that had been gooped onto it, was reasonably neat.

“Now, what're you going to do?” Carolyn asked when she was seated.

Lolly made a sullen face.

“Look, kid. If you want to get tanked, fine. I won't waste my time. If you don't want to get tanked, then cooperate.” Carolyn had chosen not to mention the death penalty, on the theory that it would only send Lolly into a complete funk if she understood it at all.

She mumbled. “I'm s'posed to sit still, and not chew gum, and not make faces, and not, like … say anything, no matter what nobody says. But I can tell you things in a whisper if I need to.”

“Right, Lolly. It's going to be long, and it's going to be boring. Just do the best you can.”

Carolyn seated herself, feeling the surge of people behind her. The courtoom was like a tidal pool, with people pouring in and out, shifting groups of them, whispering and exclaiming. They were discussing the news, the epidemic, the change.
My wife thinks this. My husband told me that. My mother said. Judge so-and-so thinks. Did you read this? Well, I think what will happen is
.

Carolyn eavesdropped unabashedly. They were not talking about Lolly, or the case. So what were they all doing here?

The question was answered when the bailiff entered, looking at his watch. Some of the visitors aped the action, then drifted out and away, followed by others. The ebb and surge had been courthouse workers, clerks and secretaries now gone to their own offices and courtrooms, leaving only about ten people behind. So much for the great interest in this case the media had claimed! Carolyn felt a certain weary annoyance about that.

The bailiff called order. Judge Rombauer came in amid a rustle and confusion of getting up and sitting down. The case was called. The jury filed in, some members of it smiling and nodding at people in the courtroom. Were they neighbors? Relatives? Carolyn shook her head slowly. What attendance there was had come to watch the jury more than they had the trial.

The attorneys went through their ritual minuet, declaring
their presence and preparedness. Carolyn thought, absurdly, that the whole thing should be set to music. Drums for the bailiff, fanfare for the judge, solemn horns for the jury.