Portent

  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 Al
mighty 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.

  13

  '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.

  His bed had been neatly remade and he sat on the comer for a moment to reflect on last night's conversation with Diane. He thought of the twins, their background, her alcoholic husband and his death-his suicide? And the light. A mystical sign, she'd suggested. Nonsense or… Or what? Get real, he told himself. Telepathy between twins was one thing, he could handle that; but a mystical sign? A sign of what? He drank the last of the coffee. A sign of their paranoia, maybe. And Poggs and his family were dragging him in. He shook his head, annoyed at himself. Annoyed because there was something about these people-perhaps it was their earnest sincerity-that made him half believe.

  He grabbed the bathrobe hanging over the back of a chair and slipped it on before realising it was the spare that Diane had borrowed. Her faint scent was still in the material and he breathed it in, unaware of his own smile. Rivers went through to the bathroom, his mind busy.

  Breakfast of ham, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes was on the table and Diane was fiddling with the small TV when he came into the kitchen fifteen minutes later.

  'Can't get rid of this damn interference,' she said, glancing in his direction. 'Hey, jeans and sweatshirt-doesn't fit the Met Office image.'

  'I'm off duty.' He went over to the television and saw the picture was broken up by now, the sound itself fuzzy. 'The aerial must've shaken loose last night.' He checked the leads at the back anyway. 'I don't know-your radio's got problems as well.'

  He was surprised. 'Atmospherics?'

  'Could be. Sit, before your breakfast gets cold. You're out of eggs, by the way.' She switched off the set.

  Rivers realized he was hungry, ravenously so. He sat at the table and Diane joined him, although all that was before her was a glass of orange juice.

  He pointed with his fork. 'Is that all you're having?'

  'I found a couple of apples earlier. A lot healthier than what you're about to eat, but I didn't figure you for the health-food type.'

  He nodded agreement. 'You'd be right. So tell me the plan today.' She poured him fresh coffee. 'No real plan. We go back to Hazelrod, you talk to the children, we see what develops.'

  'What are you expecting?'

  She shrugged. 'I have no idea. I'm as puzzled as you are about this whole thing. We all are.'

  'Okay. We take it as it comes. But I think you'll be disappointed.'

  'We'll see. I'm just glad you've decided to go along with us.'

  'Let's say I'm curious. My own investigations have got me precisely nowhere so, like I said last night, I've got nothing to lose.'

  'Thank you anyway.'

  It was his turn to shrug.

  ***

  'Why is it so busy?'

  Rivers, in the passenger seat of Diane's Ford Escort, studied the heavy traffic. 'It's the rush to get out of London. They're scared of another earthquake.'

  Ahead, the ramp leading up to the M4 flyover was blocked with motionless vehicles.

  'I hope they've all got somewhere to go.' Diane inched the car forward, progress on the roundabout beneath the motorway painfully slow.

  'I don't think they care,' Rivers replied. 'These people just want to be out in the open, away from falling buildings.' He leaned forward and tried the car radio again, but the static that broke up-occasional moments of clear reception was too painful on the ears. He quickly switched off and gazed out at the sky. Overhead there appeared to be one massive sheet of white cloud, the sun visible only now and again as a vapid and ineffectual disc. The air itself was uncomfortably warm and humid.

  Someone behind thumped impatiently on his horn, and naturally others joined in the chorus. So much for alternate weeks, thought Rivers, as he observed the different colour stickers on windscreens all around. But perhaps these motorists weren't so wrong to panic, for who could say there would not be another tremor? Who the hell would have predicted the first one?

  'We should have taken a quieter road out of London,' Diane said, her hands tense on the steering wheel.

  'There won't be any quiet roads out of London today. Relax, we'll get there eventually. Once we're on the motorway things'll be smoother.'

  'I'm not so sure. I bet it's packed solid up there as well.' The car moved forward a few more inches.

  A police traffic helicopter passed low overhead and veered away to the left, heading across to the south side of the nearby river. Rivers watched it go, envying its freedom. He made up his mind. 'Okay, it might be better to try another way. Rather than make for the ramp, ease us over so we can take the next exit. It'll take us down to Kew Bridge and over the Thames. Traffic might just be a little easier on the other side.'

  She flicked the indicator switch withou
t further discussion and began to edge the Escort over to the left. Other drivers were not keen on the manoeuvre, and Rivers stuck his hand out of the side window in a placating gesture. It took some time, but eventually they drove off the roundabout and headed south along the Chiswick High Road towards the bridge. Soon, however, Diane had to bring the car to a halt: traffic ahead was backed up from a busy junction, the lights there apparently having failed.

  'Getting out of the city is going to take the best part of the day,' Diane complained resignedly.

  Rivers grinned, although he hardly felt relaxed himself. 'Until a few years ago, rush hours in London were like this all the time.'

  'I remember, although we've always avoided the place. Dirty, smelly, about to collapse in on itself-and that was before the earthquake.' She laughed, then became serious again. 'I still don't understand how it could have happened. Surely a fault would have shown up before now.'

  'Probably a fracture so minor no machine could detect it. Then something happened deep down in the Earth-an eruption of some kind-to disturb it, make it worse. That sort of thing is happening all over the world every minute of the day. This one happened to be more serious than most and in a very vulnerable place.' He frowned. Something was going on up ahead, a disturbance of some kind, but he couldn't make out what. Distant shouts came through the open windows of the car. Then he understood.

  'Wind up your window and lock your door,' he ordered Diane sharply.

  She looked at him in surprise and he saw it was already too late. A large brown-skinned face had appeared behind Diane's shoulder.

  For a second or two Rivers was unable to react-the face was familiar, the huge staring eyes, the broad, strangely disfigured nose-but he blinked and the face changed. It was still that of a black person, but the features had altered instantly. Confused-and with a deep dread remaining-he stared back into those hate-filled eyes.