Jago (46 page)

She paused on the threshold of the chapel, and looked back. The hallway stretched for a hundred yards, dotted with ghosts. The floor undulated like gentle waves. Taine bolted the front doors and used the big keys in the locks. She thought of Paul, shut out of the Temple, and guessed he was better off. In this struggle. Hazel’s boyfriend was a civilian. She was the good soldier, bound by duty. The chemicals in her brain gave her a responsibility, whether she wanted it or not.

Pain burst behind her eyes, and she had to be steadied by Karen, who held her hand, squeezing. Tottering like an old woman, Susan took her place in the front pew, fighting the explosions inside her. Agony blurted out of her mouth as she coughed. Karen’s hair stood out sideways.

‘Sorry,’ Susan said through pain, ‘not… my fault…’

‘We share Love,’ Karen said, smoothing her hair.

The Lord God came into the chapel and strode in glory down the aisle, Mick and Taine trotting respectfully behind him. Mick was robed in white, a winged band around his forehead, a brass instrument he could not play in his hands. Symbolically, he was the Angel of the Last Trump. Taine’s ponytail was undone, hair hanging to his shoulderblades, and he wore matte black sunglasses. In Jago’s fancy-dress theology, the Brother was Samson, strongest of the Faithful.

Susan looked for Hazel. Tied up inside like a knot, she knew she would have to sit through another Great Manifestation. Hazel was kneeling before the altar, waiting. A lamb, a kid. Oh, child, Susan thought, child…

* * *

Jenny looked at Hazel’s profile, and helped her fix her hands together in prayer. Hazel’s face, side on, cut in half Sister Kate’s, face to, making one moon-face, noses meeting. Hazel’s exposed eye looked at the altar, while Kate’s looked at Jenny. The combined face was cross-eyed. Hazel trembled, not sure what to do.

‘Bow,’ Jenny said, kindly.

Jenny’s nose touched her pressed-together fingertips. Kate held the postulant’s hand and stroked her back.

‘It’ll be all right, Sister-Love,’ she said.

‘All right,’ Jenny echoed.

The temptation to turn to Beloved was enormous. Jenny could feel His presence as He came down the aisle. She could hear the Brethren’s breath held in awe. She felt the Heat, saw the Light.

She flashed back to her own Great Manifestation, with Janet holding her hand, the thrill of the Divine Touch, the Coming of the Light, the acceptance into the community. Only then had she understood the name. The Abode of Love. She remembered Beloved’s face, filling her field of vision. She remembered becoming the vessel for His Love, the channel for the redemption of all. For Jenny, it had been a rebirth.

The postulant was unsteady, uncertain. That was the lot of all the unsaved, confusion and despair. Soon, Hazel would share in such wonders. All confusion gone, all despair past.

She knew her part in the ritual, had learned the words by rote, rehearsed them when alone, poring over her school Bible. She remembered how Janet had said her piece when Jenny had been the postulant. Janet’s voice had been lovely, firm, perfect. Everything about her elevation had been perfect. It was down to Jenny to give Hazel the gift that had been given to her.

She drew breath, almost bursting with excitement. Kate took the veil, a transparent silk square threaded through with silver, and placed it on Hazel’s face.

‘Look up,’ she said.

Hazel did, and Kate set the veil in place, slipping a circlet around her brow to pin it. The veil sparkled.

To herself, Jenny thought, ‘The Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s…’

Kate turned Hazel around to face the flock, to face Beloved.

Beloved shone.

‘Let Him kiss me with the kisses of His mouth,’ Jenny said, finding strength in her voice, ‘for thy love is better than wine…’

‘Because of the savour of thy good ointments,’ Kate joined, ‘thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins Love thee…’

* * *

‘Draw me,’ Jenny Steyning said, attention split between Hazel and Jago, ‘we will run after thee. The King hath brought me into his chambers…’

Susan wasn’t hurting so much now. Jago was focused on the ceremony, and there was less loose power floating around. She could almost get some peace in her head. Now, the tinnitus was outside. At first, Susan thought the noise was a gale-force wind, battering the old roof of the Agapemone. Then she realized it was a crowd chorusing with one voice. It was as if the whole village, population swelled by the festival, were howling doglike at the moon. In the chapel, the flock were engrossed, hypnotized. If they heard the wailing, they paid it no attention.

‘I am black but comely, oh ye daughters of Jerusalem,’ Kate Caudle continued, ridiculously, ‘as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon…’

As far as Susan understood, the Song of Solomon got into the Bible by mistake. With its mix of erotic, mystic, dramatic and twaddlesome, it was a natural cornerstone for Jago’s selfserving religion.

‘…tell me, oh thou whom my soul Loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon…’

Susan looked at Jago, rejoicing in the glory of himself. Central to his church was that he got all the good parts: the Lord God, Ezekiel, King David, John the Baptist, the Messiah. He was Lion and Lamb, Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Handsome and dignified in Old Testament magnificence, he was now Solomon the Wise, the Young, the Virile. Beneath the embroidered robe, he was naked, barefoot to show humility. He stood arms out, the gold and silver threads of his sleeves catching light. If things had been otherwise, Susan thought, he could have lived a perfectly useful, harmless, fulfilling life as lead guitarist of Status Quo. Slowly, solemnly, a churchful of necks craning to keep eyes fixed on him, Beloved ascended to his spot behind the altar, robe rippling and throwing off light.

‘If thou know not, oh thou fairest among women,’ he said, words familiar, ‘go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds’ tents.’

The first time, with Janet as postulant, Susan had been tempted to giggle at the nonsense about shepherds and the Queen of Sheba. But even then she’d known more or less what to expect. It had been hard not to feel sick. And since then, she’d watched Jenny’s elevation. Sometimes virgin blood spilled before the altar.

* * *

It was a dream, and Hazel let herself go with it. It was draughty in the chapel, her skin goose-pimpled under her thin dress. Her nipples were tight, pleasant knots. The flagstones were ice under her knees.

‘I have compared thee, oh my love,’ Kate said, ‘to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots. Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold…’

As Kate spoke, she took a necklace from a wooden box by the foot of the altar. Hazel instinctively dipped her head and the Sister slipped the necklace over her, resting the heavy jewels on her chest.

‘A bundle of myrrh is my well-Beloved unto me,’ Jenny said. ‘He shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.’

She looked up, veil clinging to her face. Everything was beautiful. Candleflames sparkled. A white face in a window shone, moon behind it. Hazel didn’t understand the words, but Love welled inside her, surrounding her, taking in the Brethren, wafting towards the Beloved Presence.

‘Behold, thou art fair, my Love,’ Jenny said, standing, helping Hazel up too. ‘Behold, thou art fair.’

Hazel’s knees tingled after so long kneeling. Her robe, pressed into her skin, came free like a sticking plaster. Kate, made awkward by her child, stumbled, and Hazel had to put an arm around her to help her up. Together, the handmaidens stood before the altar. Jenny put her head close to Hazel’s and lifted her chin, raising her eyes. She saw the Beloved.

‘Thou hast doves’ eyes.’

Looking at Him, Hazel saw it was true. His eyes were the gentle, golden, peaceful, wise eyes of doves. Behind, radiating through His robes, phantom dove-angel wings spread wide, the points reaching towards the roof.

‘Behold, thou art fair, my Beloved…’

This was Love in the Flesh.

The handmaidens stepped back, respectfully. She was alone before the altar, before Beloved.

* * *

‘I am the Rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys,’ Jenny continued, ‘as the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the wood apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my Beloved among the sons…’

This was Hazel’s night now. Who stood before the altar was the vessel, the representative for them all, for all the Sister-Loves, for all the Brothers and Sisters of the Agapemone, for all the world.

‘…stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of Love. His left hand is under my head and His right hand doth embrace me.’

Having come out from behind the altar, Beloved took Hazel, slipping a hand under her hair, and another around her waist. The memory of His touch was enough to make Jenny falter.

‘…I charge you, oh ye daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till He please…’

Beloved bent His head down and kissed the postulant, touching His lips to her veiled forehead. Everyone felt the pleasure.

‘…the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land…’

Jenny had thought when Beloved kissed her at her elevation that she would swoon and be unable to go on. But she had managed. She saw Hazel go limp in Beloved’s embrace, and willed strength to the postulant.

‘Oh my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock,’ Beloved said, lifting the veil, ‘in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice, for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely…’

Hazel’s eyes opened as the veil slid off her face.

‘My Beloved is mine,’ Hazel said, voice clear, ‘and I am His.’

‘He feedeth among the lilies,’ Kate and Jenny said.

Beloved kissed Hazel.

* * *

Lips touched her mouth, then fastened. A jolt of pure energy shot through her, and she felt the pleasure would never end. Every muscle tightened, every nerve sang. She convulsed, but He held her close, tongue in her mouth, closed eye next to her cheek. Gently, Beloved withdrew from her and smiled. Her heart was overflowing. She became a true vessel, loose-limbed and pliant to His purpose. He eased her back, lifting her off her feet until she rested on the altar. It was surprisingly comfortable, and fit the contours of her body. She felt a touch at her wrists, and saw her handmaidens had come forward. Jenny and Kate held her tight, keeping her from sliding off the altar. Beloved touched her body, and the Light came down from Heaven, entering into her.

I
n the Bomb Site, a ring of flame burned cold and silent. Phantom fire filled the crater like ground mist, not giving off heat. Allison recognized the fire as an aura of the earth. She experimentally dipped her hand into it and felt nothing. Mike Toad gasped, and she laughed at him.

‘See,’ she said, wiggling her fingers. ‘Magic.’

‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ the Toad asked, bending to peer into waving flames.

She grabbed the back of his neck and rammed his face into the fire, holding his head under for a moment, then let him up again.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

The boy was shaking but unharmed.

‘There, there,’ she said, maternally. ‘You know I wouldn’t let you get hurt, Toad Boy.’

Badmouth Ben strode past them, wading into the fire. It eddied around his legs as he made for the scraped-bare shingles at the clearing’s centre. Ben was still changing. Wendy’s skin combined with his leathers so that he seemed to be wearing a poofy pink jacket, stained red in a tie-dye pattern. There were zips, straps and pockets, all made from the sacrifice’s hide.

The scream of the crowd down in Alder was like the pounding of waves, a solid thing that would always be there. From the crest of the crater, Allison could see energy currents swirling and throbbing above the village. There were obvious focuses, a main concentration being the Agapemone. Jago, the Lord God, was at the heart of it all. Allison had been thinking about the man in the Manor House, and realized he was important in the scheme. As important as Ben or herself. He had power.

Ben stood in the fire, gazing at the sky. Allison walked to him, entering the flames. Terry on all fours, scrabbling along, and Mike, frightened, fingering his unburned face, came to the fireline. Jazz, still poised, stepped in, smiled as if paddling in warm water, and walked through the flame, giggling in wonderment. She looked back at the others, still hesitating at the edge. Terry scurried into the burning circle, and the Toad, giving up, followed him. Terry’s back stood out of the fire as he snuffled the ground. Ben stood dead centre, where the fire had burned out and the ground was shining black, speckled with embers. He looked out over the moors, down to the village.

She wondered how far the noise carried. To Bridgwater and Glastonbury at least, perhaps to the Bristol Channel. There were firefly headlights on all the roads, bringing more to join the festival. The cry was worship, but also welcome. Terry was on his haunches, howling along. The Toad also cried out, swept away by the communion of the scream. He took off his hat and tossed it high into the sky. It spun like a flying saucer and sailed off into the woods. The Toad was laughing, his noise lost in the greater noise. He played an invisible guitar, one hand stuck above his shoulder fingering chords, the other worrying his groin. Terry rolled over in the fire and kicked his arms and legs into the air, shaking his back against the ground, scratching for fleas. Jazz was fascinated by the flame. She lay down and let it wash over her, feeling its painless flicker.

Allison dipped a hand into a flame. Her flesh tingled, but there was no hurt. The fire was an echo, a ghost. She raised her hand, and threads of flame ran like mercury in her palm. She drank the fire, and swallowed. She felt nothing. Terry and the Toad were part of the crowd, mouths open, adding their voices to the yell. But Allison and Ben were quiet, enveloped by noise but not a part of it. Jazz was spared, too. Allison realized the London girl had a part to play, and was ready.