Portent (21 page)

    'We seen it, Mama!'

    Her voice lowered from the peak it had reached. 'An' so you will see yo' own salvation if you seek it in me an' mine.' She waved her hand at the row of silent men who stood behind her and the altar. Gleaming white shirts and plain ties could be seen at the neck of their black robes; underneath the robes they wore dark grey business suits. 'So you will find yo' liberation from the rest of mankind through my supplications to the Divine Mother on whose Body we breathe, an' yo' atonement to me shall be yo' atonement to Her!'

    The Temple resounded with their praise and the clapping of their hands, their shouts of jubilation and acceptance.

    Rather than command it, she waited for them to quieten. Then, her voice low again, she said, 'Bring the po' little one to me.'

    A collective sigh swept round the assembly. Near the back, a Negro woman stood, a baby of perhaps seven months in her arms. 'Bring him to me, child,' bade the priestess once more.

    The woman with the baby came forward, haltingly at first, then with more conviction as others in the congregation lent their encouragement. Her steps became hesitant again as she drew near the black-garbed woman before the altar.

    Mama Pitie glared impatiently, holding her huge hands out for the swaddled baby. The mother held her bundle forward to be received, her head bowed. The baby was taken and the swaddling unfolded to reveal the boy's twisted and withered arm. Mama Pitie held him aloft so that all could see, and a moan of sympathy spread through the gathering.

    'This mark is the outward sign of inward sin,' the priestess told them. The shame of this mother is this child's pain.'

    Distressed, the baby's mother sank to her knees, her head hung low to her chest, her shoulders bowed.

    'You left this church, Sister Angeline, and listened to the lies of those who call themselves holy. How they help you now in this child's need? Will you listen again to them Ursuline'-she pronounced it Urslahn-'nuns who worship the false mother an' her unholy son, they who preach wicked lies an' fornicate wit the men who call theyselves priests?'

    The kneeling woman shook the whole of her upper body in denial. Never again would she visit the uptown convent of the Sisters of Ursula-the Sisters of Evil, Mama Pitie called them. No more would she clean their convent, launder their clothes, heed their untruthful words. 'Forgive ma foolishness, Mama. The Divine Mother has punished ma son for ma wrongs.'

    'Yea,' from whose who watched.

    'Ask fo' ma forgiveness, Mama.' She wept loudly.

    'You'll stay faithful to this Temple,' the priestess stated, rather than questioned.

    'Oh yes, Mama.'

    Mama Pitie stood proud, surveying the rest of her flock as if to make sure they bore witness to this wretched woman's promise. 'So shall you all be faithful,' she told them.

    'Amen, Mama,' they eagerly replied.

    Mama Pitie turned from them and laid the lame baby on the altar. 'Hear us this day, 0 Divine Mother of All. Lend us yo' powers to heal this sick one who suffers through no fault of its own. Hear us an show us yo' Divine Mercy.'

    She reached over the wriggling bundle for the stone cup that rested on the altar. It was filled with a liquid that had the colour and consistency of beetroot mixed with mud. No one but the high priestess knew what the potion was made from, but those who were closest to the altar swore it smelled of goat's blood and excrement. Mama Pitie faced the congregation once more and held the rough chalice aloft before bringing it to her lips.

    The people murmured; some moaned; some sighed. She drank.

    Dark liquid ran in two rivulets down from her mouth on to her chin and they heard her swallow, the sounds loud and guzzling in the Blessed Temple of the Sacred Earth. When she lowered the cup again, her full lips were slick and glistening, her teeth smeared with red.

    She replaced the cup on the altar and picked up the child once more, unwrapping the cloth that bound the small body so that it was naked and exposed to everyone in the hall.

    'Behold this child,' she intoned, her eyelids drooped as if she were in trance, only slits of whitish-yellow seen beneath them. 'Behold this child,' she repeated, 'an' be witness to its mama's punishment. But now she renounce this badness and the child, it suffer no mo'.'

    She lowered the baby, who had begun to wail, its scrawny chest throbbing with the upset, and held it in the crook of one massive arm. With her other hand she lifted the twisted limb by the fingers. The baby screeched.

    Mama Pitie paid no heed, making no attempt to pacify or comfort the distressed child. The mother looked on helplessly, her face damp with her own tears.

    The priestess drew out the atrophied arm, ignoring the screeching protests. The arm began to straighten.

    The boy's mother stopped her weeping and held her breath. Small gasps and mutterings ran through the gathering. Whispered exclamations: 'Yea'; 'Mama Mercy'; 'Praise be.'

    It seemed as though the tiny bones themselves were unbending and slowly re-forming, moulding into a correct shape. The deep creases and folds of scant flesh began to shrink away so that the brown skin was smoother, less stiff and rutted. The baby's cries ceased.

    Mama Pitie continued to run her broad fingers along the arm, her face expressionless, eyelids still drooped. Her breathing was laboured, swelling her chest, rasping in her throat. At last she allowed the little hand to drop away.

    And now the baby lifted its own, almost perfect, arm by itself. The fingers curled and uncurled in the air and the limb jerked erratically, but only in the natural way of all babies.

    The crowd erupted into roars of approval and applause as Mama Pitie held the healed child aloft once more. The baby's mother leapt to her feet and rushed forward to collect her offspring, her tears now of joy and gratitude.

    Mama Pitie's eyes blinked open and she looked down at the mother and child. Her lips parted in what might, had there been any warmth to it, have passed for a smile.

    'Mama Pitie, Mama Pitie, Mama Pitie,' chanted the crowd led by the six attendants behind the altar. Yet although the miracle these people had just witnessed should have warmed their hearts, their adulation was tinged with something more than devotion: unease was also in their praises.

    Mama raised her hands, palms towards the congregation as if in blessing, and they stamped their feet all the more loudly. A young woman who had hitherto stood quietly at the side of the hall near to the altar began a fresh hymn and the congregation quickly joined in. The unaccompanied music swelled rapidly, filling the Temple.

    The high priestess, arms still raised, turned her head to one side to catch the attention of her black-garbed cohorts. The signal she gave them, a slight jerk of her brow, set them in motion. They briskly walked to various stations in the hall and passed cloth pouches with metal openings and handles among the singers to be filled with monetary offerings. The flock duly obliged, even the poorest of them, and no purse and no pocket was overlooked.

    The laden pouches were brought back to the head of the hall where a cohort took charge of them and slipped through a door. Mama Pitie stood like a solid black rock throughout the hymn, not joining in, but ever watchful, taking in every face present without once moving her great head. She waited until the hymn-like the others sung that day, a hymn for their Temple alone-was almost over before turning away and slowly walking to the door through which her cohort and accountant had disappeared with the, evening's collection. One of her attendants smartly opened the door for her and, without a backward glance, she left the hall.

    Some sighed to see her go, while others sang all the louder as if hoping she would hear their individual voices over the others and know who it was that sang for Mama Pitie and the Great Mother Earth, and that she-that They-would look kindly upon them. Blessed be the Mother of All and Her Handmaiden, Mama Pitie. For her will had licked the baby child's affliction, just as it had licked the wounds and illness of countless others. Praised be the Mama of Miracles. Unnerving to the eye she might be, with her great bulk, her disfigured face, and those huge all-seeing eyes, but her saintliness was renowned, and her spiritual benevolence legendary. Glory be to this Blessed Saviour.

    Beyond the closed door, the high priestess paused for a moment, closing her eyes and putting a hand against the wall of the narrow corridor for support. She rested there, her breasts rising and falling beneath the robes in great heaves, the music from the Temple now muted. A fine sweat had broken out on her forehead and she dabbed it away with her loose sleeve.

    From the half-open doorway further along the corridor came the sounds of coins being counted and Mama Pitie gathered herself, controlling her breath and straightening her spine. She moved on to the doorway and stood outside, looking in.

    Inside, Nelson Shadebank looked up from his chore, fingers enclosed over a small heap of coins. 'Not bad, Mama. A good miracle inspires generosity, wouldn't you say?' His accent was New York Bronx rather than the Southern Brooklynese so prevalent among the various dialects of New Orleans. He pushed back the gold-rimmed spectacles that had been perched on the end of his nose and leaned back in his chair. Placing the counted money next to the other stacks of coins and notes on the round table before him, he waited for a reply.

    None came. Mama Pitie passed on out of sight and, with a shrug, Shadebank resumed his counting.

    The high priestess climbed the wooden staircase near the end of the corridor, her breath heavier again as she rounded its head. There was scarcely room for her broad hips to manoeuvre.

    At the top of the stairs she paused again to listen to the distant strains of the hymn as it drew to a close. Soon her flock would be leaving the Temple, each one returning to a world of abuse and despoilment, most of them forgetting the words of her sermon within a day or two, impressed only by the healing miracle she'd performed at the end. Was this the only thing that truly bound them to her? Did her words mean so little? The woman, Angeline, had turned away from the Almighty Mother's protection, until the punishment of affliction had visited her third-born; then, oh yeah, then she had scurried from the clutches of the false Church back to the merciful embrace of the Almighty Mother. But if the Powers had failed to cure the infant, what then? Would Angeline have turned away again? If she, Mama Pitie, had not straightened the unsightly limb, would her followers have doubted her teachings? Was their faith so thin? Mama Pitie felt the rage burn inside.

    Only the next question that came to mind calmed her. Did it matter any more?

    In the gloom of the stairway she smiled.

    Did they matter any more?

    Did any of it matter any more?

    For the human race had fucked up, and the Great Mother would no longer tolerate it.

    Mama Pitie's smile bloated to a grin. An unpleasant grin, there in the shadows.

    And one that froze instantly when an image intruded upon her thoughts. It was the image of a certain man, his features unclear, a psychic manifestation of someone she did not know, but someone with an infirmity like the child's.

    Mama Pitie raised a hand to her temple, concentrating on the projection, aware somehow that this person was important to her. Or he would be. Perhaps soon. Then it was gone, faded like the music below.

    She wondered at it, disturbed and, irrationally, angered by the vision. In some way this man was connected with the children whose thoughts interrupted her own. And somehow, all three were going to play some part in her own destiny.

    She could sense their threat, and she loathed them for it.

    Mystified and considerably troubled, Mama Pitie continued along the corridor towards her living quarters that were above the very Temple itself. In there her needs would be satisfied, her appetites would be filled.

    And screamed protests would be stifled.

    

    

    'Jim.'

    He stirred, but did not wake immediately.

    Diane shook his shoulder gently.

    Rivers opened his eyes and quickly put a hand to them as though the light hurt. He squeezed his temples with fingers and thumb tips, then focused on Diane who was kneeling beside him.

    'I've made you some coffee,' she said, holding up the cup so that he could sniff the evidence.

    He mumbled a thanks and groaned when he pushed himself up on to an elbow. His back and limbs ached with stiffness.

    'You're in bad shape,' she told him unnecessarily. 'Maybe a shower'll help.'

    'I wouldn't bet on it. What's the time?'

    'A little after nine. I let you sleep-I thought you needed it.' She handed him the coffee and he blinked away the last of the tiredness. 'I borrowed one of your shirts-hope you don't mind.'

    He didn't; the light blue chambray hanging loose over her skirt looked better on her than it did on him.

    'I'll make us some breakfast and then we can get on our way.'

    Rivers remembered he had promised to go back to Hazelrod with Diane. 'I'm not hungry,' he said, sipping the coffee and relishing the bitter taste.

    'Maybe not, but you're going to eat. We've got a long drive ahead of us. Now, I'll get on with the cooking while you take a shower. I've managed to scavenge enough from your fridge to make something decent.'

    She leaned forward and her lips brushed against his cheek. It was unexpected and she had risen and disappeared into the kitchen before he could react. Voices from the portable television drifted through the kitchen doorway as he wrapped the bedsheet around his waist and limped towards his bedroom, the coffee taken with him.