Against the cyclorama, Sister Woman waited, extending silence. A sphere of light enclosed her, separating her from darkness.
“Mother and Father were burning in hell,” the girl told her brother and the woman who stood over her with the book. “I waged war with Satan for their souls. I have pulled them out of the bottomless pit. Now I must dedicate my life from here on to the Lord.” The woman knelt, and so did Brother Man.
Her careful spell constructed to be smashed, Sister Woman still waited to crush it. The hypnotized would be awakened harshly, ready to grasp for God's salvation. Now! She shattered their trance: “The seventh seal was broken, Heaven watched in awe and saw— …” She flung her words at the moaning congregation: “… —Jesus—in hell!”
In a torrent she unleashed the words that would conquer souls:
“Nailed to the cross, the sky a war of elements, Jesus looked up and pled for the living: Father, forgive them for they know not what they do! And in hell, flames scorched higher in rage at the radiance of his holy sacrifice! The damned writhed in boiling rivers of their loathsome sins! And the Lord looked down into hell! And he pled for the damned: Father, forgive them for they know now what they did! Between the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, Jesus descended into hell! Open the door of fire! He floated over the vile brimstone! And Satan roared out of the blaze: Thou art Lord of the saved in heaven, but I am Lord of the damned in hell! And Jesus saw the tinderwood of the fiery nation materialize as the evil Lord forced his slaves to perform each deadly sin before him in a pageant of corruption! And howled blasphemies damned Jesus and heaven! And limbs of fire formed writhing copulations! And lust roared out in panting curses and laughter! But out of the whine of evil ordered by the prince of darkness, out of the unclean laughter, the riot of lust, Jesus heard the sad, pleading whispers buried within the rising conflagration: Save us, O Lord of the Universe, save us who live in hell! And the Lord ascended to the throne of heaven and petitioned God for a second death of purgation, a new salvation—and it was granted! And bands of angels lunged into the pit! And heaven and hell warred on the raging battlefield of the abyss! And the Lord poured out his power, and one lost angel was freed! And the Lord extended his might, and another lost angel was set loose! And the Lord drew holy strength, and a third lost angel was released! And the Lord battled fiercely, and a fourth angel was unchained! Four angels freed! And then more released from burnt damnation! The sinful dead rose against the devil's deception of them! Those deceived into unrepenting, blinding sin struck in revenge for the heat of hell! Oh, when the seventh seal was broken and heaven was stilled in awe, the souls of the dead damned to hell rose against Satan and were saved!” In triumph, Sister Woman grasped for heaven.
Praise God! They are risen! Help them now, Jesus! Oh, beloved savior! Help us now! Bless you, Sister Woman, and the power of the Lord!
Sister Woman paused as the camera pulled back on a clearing sky. “And how did that come to pass?” Her black eyes were colorless again. “Because gathered about the cross of His martyrdom, the faithful living prayed and repented, stirring the power of angels, saints and martyrs, the warriors of God. It was the living who gave them that power! You!”
Only this afternoon in the grotto, the word had come. The wind inhaled, its howling abated. “The Lord has guided me at last,” Sister Woman told Brother Man. “He has instructed me to deliver the same sermon that the lost woman and the lost youngman first responded to. He will imbue those past words with new ones, and in them will be his proof.” They retreated to her viewing room draped in black, and they watched the tape of that sermon the man and the woman responded to. Brother Man saw Sister Woman's lips move in rehearsal of her own past words, and she added others aloud.
Yes! Jesus had surely whispered into her ear, Brother Man knew. Yes! At this very moment that man—wherever he was—would be receiving ineffable proof! Yes! And he and his great offering would cause all to marvel at the power and the glory of Sister Woman and the Lord. Yes! His eyes attempted to search the massed audience again. And again he could make out only the ominous shadows of guards moving along the aisles, pausing, moving.
Now Sister Woman leaned forward, speaking intimately to each listener. “After the death of someone loved—a mother! a father! a sister! a brother!—did you sob in anguish in the desert of your loss? Did you regret?—cry out, If only I had—! If only we had not…! If only I could shout into heaven or hell and be heard! If only I had another chance, more time, an inch of time, a few seconds more, a moment, a breath, a sigh, a sliver of a magic moment, a glimpse— …!” She stopped. “Oh, hear the agonized screams of those in hell! Feel their pain as they walk on scorching stones! Hear them choke on bile and vile smoke! Those you love tortured beyond imagination! Hear their howls of agony!”
“I hear them!”
“Please! Stop their pain!”
Moans of tortured ecstasy rose.
Within the twisting hysteria, a slender form moved urgently out of the dark shadows in back and into the penumbra of colored lights. Seeing it—but swept by Sister Woman's glory—Brother Man allowed no fear this time.
“If you could save them, all regrets would be swept away!” Sister Woman pulled back the tide of accusing memories she had unleashed.
“Help them! Help us!”
“Tell us how!”
“How?” she breathed softly. “Oh, with your tears shed in repentance for sins, with your purity, your trust, with acts of sacrifice, offers of love.” Rivulets of words flowed. Her tears gleamed like diamonds, precious presents. The opened palms poured her abundant promises. “And those will quench the flames and blow like a cool sea breeze over the fires and soothe the captive souls—and allow the second death, the new resurrection, salvation! and your own will be assured!” Other words rushed: “Just as your evil will fan the flames into fiercer heat torturing in unspeakable pain those you love!” She leaned back, the battle fought. “Choose!”
“I have chosen!”
“I have purified, I am purified!”
Then a man's urgent voice screamed, “You have given me proof, Sister Woman!”
It was him! Brother Man knew. He saw only a dark shadow.
The slender form stood in the aisle.
Sister Woman rose from her throne.
The man did not walk toward her. Guards and ushers moved about him.
Brother Man advanced beyond the impeding lights.
Sister Woman remained standing, staring.
Brother Man knew what she must already have known: It was not him. It was an old man, trembling now in holy frenzy, mantled in the white robe. But tomorrow it would be that youngman Orin!
Standing, Sister Woman was tiny. She was a tiny, fragile woman. Now into the camera she sighed, “Oh, tomorrow! At the Gathering of Souls! Bring your gifts of love to God, your souls! Announce your presence and say, exultantly: I am— …!”
She stopped. She stared deeply into the camera. Her eyes were black, black. She waited, as if listening for urgent words.
She finished: “… —and say, I am slain in the spirit of your love, O Lord, for You have given me proof of the fireworks of God!”
Brother Man shut his eyes, blinded by her beauty.
Escorted by several guards, Sister Woman glided away from the studio, away from the sobs, the pleas, the grasping hands. Quickly, Brother Man covered the tiny form with a white satin cape. Although since the seven days of fever she had never perspired, after her sermons, her body quivered. Along halls and cubicles he led her to her dressing room. Guards remained outside.
Brother Man closed the door. Sister Woman sat on a white sofa. One large picture—of Jesus rising out of dark flames—hung on her walls.
The telephone rang.
Sister Woman held the receiver to her ear, she did not utter one word.
The voice at the other end of the line said, “Sister Woman, you are a disciple of Satan.”
She closed her eyes.
The controlled voice of the m
an continued. “You warned that Satan deceives, in order to deceive more cunningly yourself. You are his deceiver. You gave no proof, you just added words to the sermon she drew false hope from. You lied. You gave me—and the blind woman— … You gave me no proof. She told me what the proof would be, Sister Woman, and then I would know you had reached her, the way you promised; I would know because she would speak to me through you when you would say, ‘I am here.’”
Seconds after he had hung up, Sister Woman kept the receiver at her ear. Her darkened eyes and red lips were abandoned in the drained face.
Brother Man took the telephone from her and placed it on its cradle.
Before her, darkness whirled. To stop it, she stood up, her frail body in forced control. She said harshly, “Something awesome will happen now! Let it break loose!”
Her small body sagged into the chair. A coldness rushed through every vein in her body. An evil God? A holy Satan?
She was perspiring! Brother Man saw in amazement. And trembling! Just like when the fever— …!
She felt the cold perspiration dotting her forehead, then running down her face, her neck, down her breasts, between her legs, into her body.
Brother Man reached out to stop the violent spasms. The cape slid off. His fingers touched the flesh at the top of her smooth, smooth shoulders. He closed his eyes.
She made a rasping sound as she pushed his hand away. Releasing her tense body, she leaned back. Then she said in the tiny voice of the child who had raged in fever for seven days, “I have been with Father and Mother in hell—I waged war with Satan for their souls. I pulled them out of the bottomless pit. If I had lost, we would be with them in hell. Four lost angels—Mommie and Daddie. And you and I, brother and sister like them.”
Lost Angels: 14
“There ain't no God!” Orin yelled. His hand had remained on the telephone since he had hung up moments earlier—as if it might still speak to him, retract or add, revise. He looked at Lisa and Jesse James in amazement. “There's no God.” This time he whispered it. The words were followed by two long gasped sighs. His blue eyes were the color of evening light, that dark. The face was so crowded with rage and surprise that Jesse took a disguised step away from him.
“She was lying, and the blind woman's really dead,” Orin said in wonderment. Sorrow overwhelmed the other emotions flickering on his face. The thick eyebrows knotted.
As if, for the first time, death existed for him, though it had surrounded them in this city of gaudy dying. Gently, firmly, Lisa lifted his hand from the receiver. The hand was cold, so cold. She covered it with both her hands, to bring back the abandoning warmth.
Suddenly Orin laughed.
Jesse greeted the laughter eagerly, forcing his own. “You never were serious about that Sister Woman, were you! Were you!” He turned to Lisa for confirmation. “Orin was just joshing us all along, like he's always doing! And we believed him! We believed you, Orin!”
“That's right—a big joke!” Orin's laughter continued.
“It wasn't real,” Lisa said softly. No warmth returned to the hand she held.
The television stared blinded. They had faced it for a timeless time throughout Sister Woman's angry sermon, waiting for the words she did not speak.
Still laughing, Jesse took another step away from Orin; this time he did not disguise his move.
Lisa formed laughter, forced laughter.
Jesse extended the straining howls. Now the three laughed and laughed and roared and laughed. They folded over on the bed. The infected laughter tumbled into hysteria. They fell back on the mattress. They held each other. The hollow laughter united them, protected them. The more they tried to stop it, the more the enraged laughter seized them. Lisa gasped, “Orin, you're crazy!”
The laughter faded into an echo. Orin stood.
Outside the wind abated as if the hot desert might be preparing to withdraw it, the sound they had grown used to. Dust scratched at the window. Lisa's last words echoed.
And he had been crazy—she had banished that thought, till now, now that the insanity was over. And it was over!—now that Sister Woman was buried in the gray glassy darkness of the television. And the spectral man in the park was gone, too. Both had existed for them only there, on that lifeless screen, Lisa realized. Now the nightmare was over!
Lisa stood next to Orin. “And you're crazy, too!” she tossed at Jesse, to diminish the impact of her earlier careless words.
Jesse jumped off the bed, and he swept his sinewy arms about Lisa's and Orin's waists—attempting to spin around with them. But his hands dropped away. The three bodies stood apart, as if abandoned by a slow centrifugal force.
“Got to get out of here!” Orin's gaze ricocheted from the dead television set. “Got to celebrate, ‘cause it's all over!” he revised the urgency. “A drive, take a drive, to the ocean!”
“Yes!” Lisa agreed quickly. That seemed right—to go there, where the water would wash away the residue of the horror.
“Yeah!” Jesse greeted. Anything—anything!—to shove back the objectless panic bruising the laughter.
Orin was already at the door, Lisa grabbed Pearl, Jesse rushed outside.
Black wind in short anxious bursts that anticipated its dying—or perhaps only another momentary respite. Orin stared at an expiring vortex of dust.
Inside the indigo Cadillac, Jesse thought, The money! We'll just go on and on now, just like before! Better! Much better! He, Lisa, and Orin!
Los Angeles is a city that becomes deserted early. The daily frenetic activity—made possible by almost limitless sun and warmth, which nestles at the edge of the city, the beginning of the ocean—stops early, or moves inside. Only tight, scattered insomniac pockets remain for night figures to prowl within yellow-lit shadows.
Odd to be driving these empty streets, Lisa and Jesse realized in surprise. The pattern of their lives, drawn by Orin, had culminated nightly in their return to the motel to hear Sister Woman after a day of touring the city. That had all shifted as abruptly as the blades of slicing dust ahead.
Compressed within the car, their laughter seemed emptier. Stopped for long moments, it would erupt sporadically as the Cadillac glided smoothly onto the Santa Monica Freeway. Only isolated cars dashed along its lanes, lights like the tracers of bullets. Warm currents of wind swept into the car.
Off the freeway! They were on the wide Malibu Highway, driving along the wavy coastline, flanked on the right by precipitous cliffs, which slide into the ocean when the earth trembles or water floods; and on the left by the world of the ocean's darkness. They drove beyond the gray yellow lights of open cafes, through the canyons of Malibu, into deep darkness.
Orin shifted to the left into the paved road that circles Zuma Beach. Scattered here and there, were darkened cars, vans, wide deliberate distances between them.
Orin parked the car so that it blended into the shadows near bruised cliffs that rise up to end the road. They got out. “Over there.” Orin pointed to craggy promontories, blacker than the ocean and the sky. Under the smoldering moon, livid white waves lapped over the beach.
The three moved along the warm sand and toward the dark outlines of jutting rocks—beyond the fallen silhouettes of couples on the beach. The night was so white the three cast deep shadows on the sand. The cliffs were farther than they had appeared.
When they reached them, rocks loomed before them. A broken path led through an opening to a small crescent of beach known as Pirate's Cove. Orin climbed the rocks, helping Lisa, held up by Jesse.
The whipped spill of waves mantling the shorelines had reduced the strip of sand. Above it, a huge, black cliff rose straight up. At the tip of the sandy clearing, rocks formed caves before bunching into boulders clutched by rabid crests of water.
They stood on the warm sand and against the tall cliff. There was a rare breath of coolness in the air, and within the sound of advancing water, an indistinct, insistent murmuring containing a million whispers. Hot wind plucked at
the sand through breaks in the wall of rocks.
Orin raised his chin—as if in defiance of the roiling ocean; as if he were through hunting patterns within the chaos of forms and elements.
Following his gaze, Lisa saw in the night and water, whorls of darkness.
They moved toward the sheltered cave against the huge knots of rocks. Exhausted, Lisa slid onto the warm sand, Jesse lay next to her, and then Orin was on the other side. Their laughter had died somewhere in the night and along the beach.
Lisa felt coils of emotion unwinding as the two beloved bodies pressed against hers and she pressed against theirs.
Before Jesse fell asleep, he glanced at Orin. When they woke … Orin would announce new plans…. A new future…. And everything would be fine…. Fine…. Like Cody, always in control…. And Orin was like Cody, not him, Jesse, he faced that easily; he, Jesse was the loyal friend Cody never had … till now. The peaceful thoughts woke Jesse into a dreamy clarity. “I never was really mean,” he said. “Just always figured I needed to be tough.”
Before she fell asleep, Lisa realized she had left Pearl in the car, on the back seat. That was all right. She curved her body so that all three were closer. Muted here, the sound of the waves now promised peace. Lisa thought, It was always possible. It is possible.
Beyond the cave, the sounds of night conspired in hushed tones.
Day flooded the horizon of silver water and glaring sand. Erratic puffs of hot wind rose and died.
Lisa sat up. Roused by her abrupt movement, Jesse woke.
“Orin's gone!” Lisa said.
Jesse blinked at the blaze of morning, shimmering layers of gray and silver and blue. They moved out of the cave. Wind swooped, was slain, stilled like the wings of a dying bird.
Orin's footprints, beginning a diagonal toward the gnarled rocks, had been erased by the slapping water. Jesse felt the pull of terror.
They watched the water rush against the land and then retreat, leaving a jagged wet pattern, returning to erase it, creating another, quickly destroyed, and then another.