'Tony was an alcoholic,' she began baldly enough. 'Have you ever known one of those two-headed monsters, Jim? I mean really known them, not just been aware they seem to be soaked a little too often?' She didn't wait for a reply, nor had she honestly sought one. 'We met when I was a student nurse at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. He was brought into Casualty one night with a cracked jaw-seems that he and a few of his friends had chosen the wrong bar to celebrate the end of their Finals. The barman there didn't care much for students or their high spirits, and when Tony's behaviour got too out of hand he was shown the door the hard way. No one was sure if he'd broken his jaw when he landed on the sidewalk, or if the barman's fist had done the damage. Tony's friends were in no condition to judge.'
'I don't understand-what was he doing in Boston?'
'Oh. Exchange student. Very popular in those days. He was trying for a degree in languages at Boston College. Got it too. Tony was very bright, if not much else. Anyway, although he couldn't talk very well, we struck up a relationship while he was recuperating in hospital. We dated, and in those days the good head was the dominant one; the bad one didn't take control till much later.' She gazed reflectively into the bottom of her glass. 'I didn't meet his parents, Hugo and Bibby, till Tony brought me here to England, and by that time we were married.'
'Did they approve?'
'Approve?' She tapped his knee. 'You really are quaint, aren't you? Oh, I think they were pleased enough. I learned later that Tony had never been easy to handle, although there was no real malice in him. I guess he just liked the good times too much. And I did too in those early years. But gradually I got interested in his father's work. Even in those days Poggsy was fighting for the environment, long before it became such a popular issue. He realized the urgency. Pretty soon I was so involved I didn't pay attention to much else, and that hardly improved my relationship with Tony. A relationship that had already begun to falter. Maybe the work was my refuge from his drinking. It certainly became a vicious circle, because the more he drank, the more I buried myself in Poggsy's work, and the more I did that, the more Tony hit the bottle. But at least I began to understand part of Tony's weakness. It wasn't only that he failed to live up to his father's achievements, but he couldn't live up to his family's ideals either. And I was quickly becoming in tune with those ideals. Okay, so this is the simplified version, but what the hell, we only have till morning.'
Diane smiled, but Rivers could tell she was masking a lot of hurt.
'We all made excuses for him. People do for drunks they love. I'm no psychologist, so maybe it wasn't inevitable, but eventually his frustration showed up in other ways.'
'Violence against you.'
She looked up in surprise.
'There had to be something more for you to be so bitter towards him.'
'It shows that much?'
'Hardly at all. Earlier you didn't seem so saddened by his death.'
'Grief doesn't stay around for ever. Besides, in some ways Tony's death came as a relief. I know that sounds awful, but you had to know how destructive he was, to himself and to others around him. I had hoped that once we adopted the children, he would change-and I think in his more lucid moments, he felt the same. But when I came back from Romania with the babies, something worsened inside him. Don't ask me why, how; perhaps he realized they represented another ideal for him, something more to live up to. Maybe it was all too much.'
The soft light reflected in her moistened eyes. 'As they grew, became little persons, be began to hate them. He was never cruel, I don't mean he hated them in that way. But he never… cherished them, he was always cold towards them. And angry. I understand the anger least of all, but it was there, a kind of simmering resentment. There was something in the children that made him too aware of his own feelings, and somehow he feared them. Then one day, when they were five years old, he tried to hurt Josh.' She stopped, as if seeking reassurance to continue. Rivers spoke quietly, with no pressure: 'Tell me.'
Diane ran stiffened fingers around the rim of her glass, her thoughts far away for the moment, reliving the anguish she was reluctant to reveal. Finally her hand ceased its movement and her eyes focused on Rivers. 'We were all living at Hazelrod then. Tony and I had tried to make it on our own more than once, but he was so unstable and his drinking was even worse when he was away from Hugo and Bibby's influence. And naturally, the more I became involved in Hugo's work, the more sensible it was to live under the same roof. Bibby was able to look after the children more and, well, frankly, the atmosphere was a whole lot healthier at Hazelrod.
'Poggsy and I were in the study when we heard Eva screaming. We found her on the stairway, her face white with terror, and we could hear Tony's shouts from above, coming from our bedroom. When we got there he was holding Josh off the floor, against the wall. He was holding Josh by the throat.'
'Christ…'
'Yeah, Christ.' Diane stretched over and placed her glass on the coffee table. She laced her fingers together, one elbow still resting on the sofa. 'Tony had been sleeping off one of his drunken rages when he woke to find the children in the bedroom, apparently just staring at him as he lay on the bed. We gathered that much from Tony himself, although he wasn't too coherent. Why should that have upset him so? God, I wish I knew. He was raving, screeching something about the children "raking his soul". His words. They made no sense at all.
'Josh was rigid, not struggling, not trying to defend himself, just still and passive, his body flat against the wall. For one dreadful moment we thought he was already dead. I grabbed Tony by the hair and pulled his head back, while Hugo tried to prise Tony's hands away from Josh's throat. It was a battle I thought we were going to lose, because Tony had a madman's strength. Then suddenly he stopped of his own accord as if he realized what he was doing, the rational part of him at last recognizing the insanity.
'He let Josh fall to the floor and stood over him, staring down at the little body for what seemed a long time. We still had hold of Tony, afraid to let go, but then he crumpled to his knees and buried his head in his arms, wailing like a baby.
'We took Josh from the room and comforted him, but he was quiet, not even trembling. He was pale though, as pale as death itself. When he saw Eva they clung to each other as if no one else in the world mattered. They shut us out totally, and that hurt. It brought home the harsh fact that these kids were not my own flesh and blood, that I'd never know that closeness, no matter what.
'After that we never allowed Tony to be alone with the twins. I was all for packing our bags and leaving with them there and then, but Bibby managed to persuade me to stay. And besides, Tony, himself, was so contrite. He sank even further into his misery and self-loathing and begged us to forgive him. But it was the end of the road for me-I couldn't cope with our wretched life together any longer. The idea of the children being in danger… no, enough was enough. It was time to cut loose and I began to make my plans.
'But divorce proved unnecessary. Within two weeks Tony was dead, killed in a car crash. Yes, he was drunk at the wheel-what would you expect? Fortunately he only managed to kill himself, no other vehicle was involved; somehow he managed to smash his car into a flyover pillar on the motorway. And maybe that was a blessing, who can say? What would his life have been without us? He would have been the one to get out after, or before, the divorce, you see-Hugo and Bibby would never have let us go. Tony was the one to leave, and he knew that.'
Diane's voice became firmer. 'I know what you're thinking and no, I don't believe it was suicide. Full of remorse he may have been at the end, but Tony was too selfish to take his own life. I think he simply fell asleep at the wheel; or maybe he was just incapable of keeping the car in a straight line. According to the coroner's report, he had so much alcohol in his system it was a wonder he could remember how to switch on the engine.'
She let go her breath and her body sagged as though relieved of a burden. 'So now you know the full story. Aren't you glad you asked?'
His own glass empty, he leaned forward and put it next to hers on the coffee table.
'You're a man of few words, Mr. Rivers. Anyone ever tell you how infuriating that can be? Sometimes-'
He kissed her, a soft touching of lips.
Diane was too surprised to respond.
His face remained close to hers. 'The only thing you haven't told me is what you saw in him in the first place.'
She shrugged. 'We were young, he was charming. Never underestimate the blindness of youth. I need another drink.'
He caught her arm as she stretched for the brandy. 'No, you don't.'
She was almost angry. 'Don't worry, I'm not like him, not like Tony. God, he was example enough. Maybe you're right though-I don't need another drink. What made you kiss me?'
It was his turn to be surprised. 'It seemed like the right thing to do.'
'Out of sympathy?'
'No, nothing like that.'
'I'm not looking for anyone else, Jim. Josh and Eva need all my care and besides, there's so much to do. Poggsy's so exhausted by his efforts to make people face up to the truth of what's happening around us and he needs all the help I can give him. His health isn't that good.'
Rivers rested a hand on her shoulder. 'Forget I kissed you. Why don't we both get some sleep now?'
She bowed her head slightly so that he could not see her eyes. 'I don't want to forget.' Her hand touched his. 'But you're right, let's get some sleep. Something tells me we're going to need it.' A tiny yet startling frisson ran through him, somehow emanating from where their flesh joined, a subconscious acknowledgment perhaps of a thought too subtle, or too vague, to recognize. For an instant, the soft image of the white orb flitted through his mind, this abruptly overwhelmed by something darker, an ominous shadowing that welled sullenly, only to wane almost immediately, resurge again, then disappear.
He sat back in shock, although the impression had been neither forceful nor demanding; a faint yet sinister dip in perception, that was all, a mild but baleful trespass. Rivers took in a breath and the moment passed, barely to be remembered, let alone understood.
'Are you okay, Jim?' he heard Diane say.
And he was unsure of the answer.
***
O yea, sing in praise and beg forgiveness.
The upraised voices filled her body, spread through her big bones.
O yea, Mother of Earth, shine through me.
The congregation, a confused mixture of whites and blacks and those who could be described as neither, clapped in time, shuffled their feet in rhythm, and sang from their very souls. Behind them, the doors to the Temple were locked and bolted, for this sanctum was for the truest of believers and not for idle worshippers, guarded from interlopers who sought only the foolish religions and who wilfully disregarded the one true source.
She towered over them, her immense body garbed in dark robes, and most were afraid to gaze squarely into that obese face. Those who dared quickly averted their eyes for fear their looking might gain her attention. Enough to have heard the stories; no need to test their validity. Rumours, the foolishly brave or stupidly ignorant murmured; not so, warned the aged and wiser ones.
Mama possessed the old powers, and those powers were acquired through the ancient magics, the obscure but timeworn rituals. Some whispered they were from the Black Ceremonies themselves.
It was to the Earth that the assembly sang, to the Blessed Mother of All Life that they beseeched to be spared the disciplines of Her wrath, and those passing by outside these gloomed confines might well have thought that this church was filled with fervent Seventh-day Adventists; had they been able to see what lay beyond the screened windows and had they been able to distinguish the words of those vigorous hymns, then they might have wondered exactly what religion could invoke such darkness of spirit and liturgy. The altar itself was draped with black cloth, the single vessel on its surface was of grey stone. There were no candles and no ornaments, other than the stone altar cup, of any kind. There were no pews: hard benches and chairs seated the congregation. And there were no painted images, no icons, no crucifixes. The interior was darkly austere, the poor light cast by lamps hanging low from the high ceiling. This Blessed Temple of the Sacred Earth tolerated no distractions.
Many New Orleaneans knew of the Temple's existence in this crescent city (it had, after all, been there for as long as the cathedral only a few blocks away; longer, in some respects, for fire had destroyed the St. Louis Cathedral three times during the last 300 years) though very few spoke of it. The building itself, wedged inconspicuously between others of similar appearance, was unremarkable. The wooden steps led from the banquette to stout double doors; on either side were two sets of long, ornately barred windows, their heavy shades permanently closed; the apartments above were served by a filigreed gallery, on which the tall and obese figure of a black woman occasionally could be observed watching the jostling crowds below. Even the locals knew little of this sombre gargantuan, except that she was called Mama Pitie by her followers and that she was some kind of high priestess of this veiled sect. It was rumoured that she performed miracles (such fancies flourished among the rich nationality 'stew' of the old city, these descendants of bonded servants and slaves from the French Caribbean settlements, of French and Spanish nobility and mixed race whores, of German farmers and Acadians from Nova Scotia, blended with other latter-day European immigrants).
Mama Pitie inspected her flock with an impassive eye. Some of these followers sang their earnest hymn with eyes closed, while others sang with eyes staring fixedly into the shadows of the ceiling. A girl of no more than sixteen years, light-skinned and pretty, her Negro mother lost in the glory of worship beside her, allowed her attention to wander; she gaped at the woman who stood before the plain altar. Mama Pitie's eyes snapped on hers, trapping her gaze as a spider might fall upon some foolishly bold fly. The young mulatto tensed rigid, unable now to look away from that gross face with its one nostril trenched beneath the flattened nose, from those bulbous eyes that held such stark dread, and the scars on her broad cheeks. Her mother sensed the sudden fear in her daughter and quickly turned the girl's head away; gratefully the daughter closed her eyes and whispered the hymn, swaying slightly against her mother, who silently willed her not to faint.
The singing came to an untidy finish and the congregation sat on benches and chairs, the sound of their movement echoed by the unadorned walls. Now, together, they could look at their priestess without fear of gaining her consideration on themselves alone. Mama Pitie raised her arms and the assembly intoned: 'O yea.'
'O yea, my brothers and sisters.' Her voice was as dark as her features. 'The'-it was said as De-'Mother of All do bless her children.'
Some called out loudly, while others murmured their gratitude.
'The Mother of All will take care of her babies in times of tribulation. They shall not starve, they shall not perish. But if they suffer, then it be Her will.'
'Right,' someone called.
'It's true, Mama.'
'O yea.'
Mama Pitie let her arms fall to her sides. 'In the bad times that come, Mother will sustain they who believe. Mother will replenish the land when those dark days have come and gone, an' only the truest of her daughters and sons will know her mercy.'
'Yea, Mama Pitie, Mama Mercy.'
'Fo' She be the One, there can be no others, no gods, no devils, no angels, no demons. An' She keep the power in Her breast to deliver us up when the chaos is died away and the ground, it heave no more, and the oceans and the rivers, they rush and they roar fo' the las' time!'
'Yea, Mama!'
'Mother Earth will be at peace wit' the chosun. An' we is the chosun, we will be the keepers of this paradise, an' they is no others! You know the truth of what I say!'
Applause filled the hall and there were moans of rapture. 'Because you seen fo' yo'selves the ways of Her wrath! You seen the earthquakes and the rains and the great tidal waves that sweep over the l
ands of the sinners! You seen that fo' yo'selves on the news programmes! You seen that!'
'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?'