Shattered (14 page)

‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Anyone here?’

A long moment passed before she heard footsteps and then the door was opened by a woman of indeterminate age, whose pale face, high-necked shirt and long skirt reminded Gemma of the painting
American Gothic
. A black scarf tied hair back from a face as plain as an Arnott’s arrowroot biscuit.

‘Peace be with you,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ said Gemma. ‘My name is Gemma Lincoln and I’d like to have a session with .
 
.
 
.’ She paused, not quite knowing how to phrase it. ‘With the Archangel.’

The woman gave her an appraising look. ‘Have you made an appointment?’

‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘But I wanted to inquire about a session – maybe even about becoming a member of this community. I was impressed by some of the teachings of the Archangel. The teachings and prophecies about the end of days. Your website intrigued me.’

The woman’s face brightened and there was the hint of a smile on her thin lips.

‘Yeshwa’s teachings on the end of days?’ she asked.

Gemma nodded, although she had no idea who Yeshwa might be. ‘Actually, a friend of mine is part of your community,’ she added. ‘Grace Kingston.’

The woman frowned. Not such a good move, thought Gemma.

‘She is here, isn’t she?’ she went on. ‘I had a letter from her just recently.’

The frown deepened. ‘Oh,’ said the woman. ‘You’d better come in then.’

Gemma accepted and stepped inside, following her guide. Along the verandah, several bunk beds hung with towels and clothes indicated a dormitory, but the woman went through a door into a dark interior. Gemma blinked, but even when her eyes adjusted, the space she’d just entered remained dim. It must have been the chapel or assembly area, a large internal room with chairs against the walls, a central table covered in a white cloth and the eternity symbol in some sort of metal on a stand surrounded by seven golden candlesticks in which candles burned. At the end of the room, and surrounded by white and gold drapes, hung a huge painting of an angel.

‘Reziel?’ Gemma asked.

‘Yeshwa had it painted, from the Archangel’s own description of himself,’ said the woman. ‘Plus his own visions.’

Gemma nodded as if she understood that was the usual way of it.

A large purple banner ran around the walls like a broad picture rail, and Gemma swivelled round to read its embroidered words: ‘Babylon the great is fallen: and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.’

‘What did Grace Kingston say in her letter?’

Gemma brought her attention back from unclean and hateful birds and stifled her immediate response, which was ‘None of your business’. If she said the wrong thing, this could make things difficult. ‘She told me a little about Yeshwa and how happy she’s been since she came here and received Archangel Reziel’s personal message for her.’

The woman leaned closer, her eyes narrowed, apprehensive. ‘Did she happen to say what the message was?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Gemma. ‘But Grace also suggested that there was no better way to use my money than to invest it in my spiritual wellbeing.’ Gemma kept her face serious and businesslike, despite the threat of a smile in the muscles around her mouth. ‘She said that Reziel’s teachings would be sure to assist me.’

‘That’s so true,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘When I first came here, I knew nothing about my own personal divine script. Now I know I’m on the path. All I have to do is listen to Reziel.’ The suspicious expression returned. ‘But we were under the impression that Grace had no family or close friends.’

‘Apart from me, I think that’s quite true,’ said Gemma.

‘Just one moment, please,’ said the woman, disappearing through another doorway. ‘Wait here.’

Gemma did so, looking around. The walls were covered in murals, alternating between idyllic impossibilities of lions frisking with lambs and children and scenes of apocalyptic destruction. Flaming comets ignited buildings in a painting next to another mural of people gathered around the shining eternity symbol, now covered with grapevines. Gemma didn’t like this place one bit.

She was wondering about unclean and hateful birds and was about to open a large book lying on a chair when a sound made her turn around. Above her, seven lights in the form of silver stars suddenly lit the room so that the gliding figure approaching her, robed entirely in white, glowed like a lamp. Together with his long hair and flowing robes, the features of the draped figure bore an unmistakable likeness to the large portrait of Archangel Reziel.

‘I am Yeshwa,’ said the man as he approached. ‘Prophet and witness of God, humble servant of Archangel Reziel. Peace be with you until the end of days and beyond.’

‘Hello,’ said Gemma, unable to match such a greeting, ‘I believe you’re the proprietor of this place.’ This must be Sheridan Stark, Gemma thought.

‘Spiritual leader,’ he said with a smile that Gemma couldn’t read. ‘Our sister Gretel has said you are interested in our group and already know one of our number?’

‘That’s right,’ said Gemma. ‘Grace Kingston.’

‘And how do you know Grace?’ he asked, still smiling.

‘She’s a friend,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I fear there’s been a little misunderstanding on your part.’

‘Not at all,’ said Gemma. ‘I understand perfectly why I’m here. I had a letter from her.’

‘A letter. That may be so,’ he said, ‘but we don’t have any family or friends in the world any more, Miss Lincoln. Not once we’ve joined The Group and received our personal message from Heaven. No friends except the friends among The Group and no family except the family of God.’

Gemma noticed Yeshwa’s eyes were flickering between her cleavage and a point just a little to the left side of her head – as if someone was standing there. She even turned sharply, half-expecting Gretel’s presence just behind her, but she was alone with Yeshwa.

‘You see,’ said Yeshwa, ‘Grace has been informed of your presence. But she has the right to decide with whom she will connect. And the fact is, she doesn’t want to see you. I’m very sorry to say you’ve wasted your time.’

Yeshwa’s manner was obsidian courtesy, perfectly well-mannered and implacable. His eyes continued their peculiar trajectories between her cleavage, her own eyes and the point just to her left.

‘And now,’ Yeshwa continued, ‘I must excuse myself. Our sister Gretel will show you out.’

‘But my reading .
 
.
 
. I want to hear my message,’ Gemma managed, noticing that Yeshwa’s gaze was now firmly fixed on her cleavage.

‘It’s a little unorthodox without an appointment,’ Yeshwa smiled at her condescendingly now, ‘but then, heavenly entities are very different from us. I’m just getting the message that we could waive the usual regulations for you.’

‘That sounds hopeful,’ said Gemma.

‘Are you aware that you have a very powerful presence that accompanies you?’

‘Not as such,’ she said vaguely, biting back a bad joke about body odour.

‘This presence indicates that if you were to undergo a clearing ritual, you could perhaps receive Reziel’s wisdom and see your friend.’ Yeshwa’s eyes moved to the point behind her left shoulder. ‘Because then you would truly have a relationship based in truth, rather than illusion.’

This could be an excellent opportunity, thought Gemma.

Sister Gretel had silently appeared. ‘Come this way,’ she said. She must have been somewhere close by all the time, Gemma realised, listening.

A little spooked, Gemma allowed Gretel to lead her to a small room off the central assembly area.

‘You’ll need to disrobe,’ said Gretel, modestly turning away.

‘Why on earth?’ Gemma demanded, deeply suspicious.

‘You need to put all worldly things aside,’ said Gretel. ‘Putting off the flesh and putting on the spirit. You’ll find a gown to cover your nakedness, specially designed and blessed for the purpose, hanging behind the door. I’ll return in a few minutes.’

To cover your nakedness, Gemma mentally repeated the biblical phrase. This was very weird, she thought. But if it gave her access to Grace .
 
.
 
. She’d been in weirder circumstances than these.

Shivering a little in the chilly room, Gemma took off her outer garments, keeping only her underwear on, then slipped the flimsy white muslin robe behind the door over her head.

Gretel returned and frowned. ‘Everything but the robe has to come off.’

Gemma felt herself rebelling, but bit back her words. Silently, under Gretel’s watchful eyes, she removed her bra and knickers then replaced the robe. Grace must have undergone this too, she thought.

‘Now,’ said Gretel briskly, ‘all Yeshwa needs is something personal of yours.’

Like my credit card, Gemma thought.

‘That sounds easy,’ she said, looking through her briefcase and finding an exhausted lipstick. ‘What about this?’

‘That would be perfect,’ said Gretel.

‘What happens now?’ Gemma asked, taken aback. ‘I’m getting cold.’

Gretel gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

Gemma followed her out of the small room back into the large assembly area. It had been darkened now so that only a few pinpoints of overhead lighting remained, like distant stars.

‘Wait here. The session will begin in a few minutes. Just empty your mind.’

Yeah, right, thought Gemma. Here she was naked, just about, shivering and wearing some sort of nightie, waiting for a meeting with an archangel.

‘I want to know what’s going on,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ve never met an archangel before.’

‘The ritual is very simple,’ Gretel explained. ‘You will be covered by the sigils of the angels –’

‘Sigils?’

‘Every angel and archangel has a signature, known as a sigil – a form of divine writing. Please wait.’

Gretel was suddenly gone and in the doorway stood an apparition. A tall, white-robed figure, face completely hidden under an impassive mask of gold, approached. Was it Stark? Gemma was unsure as no hair showed under the long veil. Behind the masked figure walked another, which she recognised as the spare figure of Gretel, now also gowned and masked, carrying a long piece of fabric covered with odd curling glyphs: short, transecting tendrils with knobs at the ends, in gold, reminding Gemma of scientific models of atoms.

Silently, the two figures approached, the tall one indicating that Gemma should sit on a carved chair.

Gemma fought back the desire to laugh hysterically. The charade felt so theatrical, so contrived. She strove to find some spiritual uplift in it and failed.

She sat while Gretel draped the lengths of gold-printed fabric over her, obscuring her vision. The material was sheer enough for her to discern shadows and she was aware of movement overhead, as someone made circular passes around the top of her head. A low, droning sound arose from some hidden speakers, similar to the sound of chanting Tibetan monks.

‘Archangel Reziel!’ Yeshwa’s voice invoked. ‘Be present among us! In the name of the most high, the many and the few, I command you!’

This command was repeated twice more, in a rising voice, and at the same time the growling chant of the monks became louder and louder until Gemma’s ears were ringing with it. The desire to giggle passed, replaced with anxiety and childhood memories of strange pagan practices as depicted by Hollywood.

The circular passes around her head moved lower. Now she sensed the movements at mid-face level. It took all her willpower not to pull the gold-painted shroud away and jump up. Grace must have gone through this ritual, Gemma told herself again.

She sensed stillness as the movements of the figures beyond her veil ceased.

Instead, she heard a strange voice intone, ‘I am here. I declare myself to be present. I am Archangel Reziel.’

Gemma froze. Had a third party entered the room or was this some sort of ventriloquism on the part of Yeshwa?

‘I pronounce this being to whom you have brought me to be of a superior kind – a being of great quality. Only a little purging is required before she can join in all our mysteries.’

The movements beyond Gemma’s veil started again and the mention of ‘purging’ alarmed her. She was aware of the close physical presence of one of the figures; Yeshwa – she was sure it was Yeshwa – was moving against her, pressing his body into hers. She was about to protest when she felt hard fingers probing around her breasts.

‘Get away from me!’ she roared, jumping up, pushing Yeshwa backwards, her hands powered by the instinctive force of her entire body. Ripping the veil from her face, she saw Yeshwa struggling on the floor, entangled in his draperies, muffled curses coming from behind his mask, now slightly askew, so that it seemed to sneer at her with malevolence.

Gemma pushed past Gretel and ran to the small anteroom, scooped up her belongings, raced back through the large central area and out onto the verandah. Heading for the flyscreen door, she ran down the steps towards her car, doubling back a few metres to retrieve a fallen shoe. She unlocked the car, threw in the clothes and scrambled in. It wasn’t until she tried to put the key in the ignition that she realised she was shaking. The grotesque manner in which Stark had groped her, the formal, theatrical setting of the assault on her body, made it all somehow sickeningly worse. She snatched up her jacket and put it over the thin gown she’d been given and started the car. As she reversed down the driveway, she saw Gretel, no longer wearing her angel outfit, running across the front of the house towards the kneeling woman, who’d paused in her weeding to look at Gemma’s car.

Gemma braked and watched as Gretel grasped the weeding woman’s arm, jerked her to her feet and hurried her towards the side entrance. But just before starting up the steps, the woman paused and turned, looking back towards Gemma. Her face beneath the scarf was pale and her tawny hair, where it was not hidden by the scarf, was almost exactly the same colour as Gemma’s; the woman’s jawline identical to that of Dr Archie Chisholm, their philandering father. Stunned, Gemma switched off the ignition. She leaned out the car window and her gaze locked with that of the woman being hustled inside by Gretel. In that split second, Gemma saw something that frightened her.