She was right. He peered out the window and saw that a couple of tumbondé men were clambering around on the roof of the lead bus, putting up the gaudy banners that were the signal to halt and make camp for the night. The bus turned left off the edge of the freeway and into an open field. So did the second one. Jaspin, with a shrug, did the same. And behind him the whole strange caravan of buses and cars and wagons and trucks that had been coming down the pass like some weird motley giant caterpillar turned left too, one by one, following the bus of Senhor Papamacer out into the field.
Jaspin pulled his car up next to the second bus, the little orange-and-black one in which the eleven members of the Inner Host and most of the statues of the gods were traveling, and got out. He turned and shaded his eyes against the fierce mid-afternoon sun and looked back up the little ribbon of steeply rising roadway into the mountains out of which they had just descended. The line of vehicles stretched on and on as far as he could see back toward the summit. It probably went all the way back without a break to Gorman at the very least, and most likely a lot farther than that, on beyond Tejon Pass maybe, as far as Castaic, even. Incredible. Incredible. This whole thing is absolutely incredible, he thought. And for him one of the most incredible aspects was his own presence in it, right here in the front of the procession, just one notch behind the Inner Host. He was here as an observer, sure, as an anthropologist. But that was only half of it, maybe less than half. He knew that he was here as a follower of the Senhor also. He had made the surrender; he had accepted tumbondé; he was going north to await the opening of the way and the coming of Chungirá-He-Will-Come. Last night, lying in uneasy sleep on an air mattress next to the car on some desolate abandoned street in what once had been Glendale or Eagle Rock, he had had a vision of one of the new gods moving in serenity through a world where the sky and everything else were green; and the god, that shining fantastic creature, had greeted him by name and promised him great happiness after the transformation of the world. How strange all this is, Jaspin thought.
“Look at that, will you?” he said. “It’s the Mongol horde on the march!”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Barry.”
“I say something wrong?”
“The Mongol horde. This isn’t anything like that. They were invaders, evil marauders. This is a holy procession.”
Jaspin looked at her strangely. She was drenched with sweat, shining with it. Her T-shirt was soaked, almost transparent: her nipples were showing through. Her eyes were glowing in a frightening way. The glow of the True Believer, he thought. He wondered if his eyes ever took on a glow like that. He doubted it.
“Isn’t it?” she said. “Holy?”
“Yes. Of course it is.”
“You sound so irreverent sometimes.”
“Do I?” Jaspin said. “I can’t help it, I suppose. My anthropological training. I can’t ever stop being a detached observer.”
“Even though you believe?”
“Even though.”
“I feel sorry for you,” she said.
“Come on. Ease off.”
“I don’t like it when you make jokes about what’s happening. The Mongol horde, and all that.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m flippant. So shoot me. It’s in my genes, being flippant. I can’t help it. I’ve got five thousand years of flippancy in my blood.” He reached out for her, lightly touching her bare arm, gliding his fingertip through the perspiration on her skin and leaving a streak. She pulled away from him. She was doing that a lot lately. “Come on,” he said. “I’m sorry I was flippant.”
“If this is the Mongol horde,” Jill said, “you’re one of the Mongols too. Don’t forget that.”
Jaspin nodded. “You’re right. I won’t.”
She turned away, rummaging in the car, groping in the water-cooler. After a moment she came up with a bottle of water, took a deep pull, put it back without offering him any. Then she wandered away and stood staring toward Senhor Papamacer’s bus.
The new Jill, he thought.
There had been a subtle change, he noticed, in her attitude toward him since they had set out from San Diego with the tumbondé caravan. Or perhaps it wasn’t so subtle. She had cooled; she had become very distant. She was much less the timid waif now, much less tentative and subservient, much more self-assured. No more gratitude that the wonderful erudite Dr. Barry Jaspin of UCLA kindly permitted her to stick around. No more of that wide-eyed awe from her now; no more gaping at him as though he were the custodian of all human wisdom. And the sexual thing between them, which had been so free and easy the first couple of weeks, was fading fast, was hardly there any more. Well, some of that had been inevitable, Jaspin knew. He had been through it before with other women. He was human, after all, feet of clay right up to his eyebrows like everybody else, and she was bound to find that out sooner or later. She was starting to see that he was less wonderful than her fantasies had led her to think, and she was starting to look at him more realistically. Okay. He had warned her. I am not the noble, romantic, intellectual figure you think I am, he had told her, right up front. He might also have said he wasn’t the awesome lover she imagined him to be, but no need; she had had time by now to discover that herself. Okay. Okay. Being worshipped wasn’t all that great anyway, especially when it wasn’t based on anything real. But something else was going on, something a little scary. She was still basically a worshipper at heart, a dependent personality: what she had done was shift her dependence from him to the gods of tumbondé. The awe she had had for him was reserved now, it seemed, for Senhor Papamacer as Vicar-on-Earth of Chungirá-He-Will-Come. She would, he suspected, do anything the tumbondé men asked her to do. Anything.
He stared toward the south again, looking up the high mountain wall. The vehicles were still streaming down into the Valley, an unending flow of them. This was the fifth day of the journey, and day by day the size of the procession had grown. They had taken the inland route to avoid problems with traffic and with the authorities in the big coastal towns; they had gone up through places like Escondido and Vista and Corona, and then around the eastern edge of Los Angeles. It was a slow trip, with frequent stops for rituals and prayers and enormous communal meals. And it took forever to get things started up again when the order went out to head for the road. Probably the bulk of those who were here were people who had been part of the caravan since San Diego, Jaspin figured—tumbondé wasn’t widely known outside the southern half of San Diego County, where the big refugee populations were—but as the vast procession had rolled along, a good many other people had joined in, perhaps a great many others. There might be fifty thousand people by now. A hundred thousand, even. Truly the Mongol horde on the march.
“Jaspeen?”
Turning, he saw one of the high tumbondé men, the one named Bacalhau. It was getting easier to tell them apart, now. Despite the intense heat, Bacalhau was wearing full tumbondé rig, boots and leggings and jacket, even the sombrero, or whatever it was, that flat black wide-brimmed hat.
“The Senhor, he want you,” Bacalhau said. He glanced at Jill. “You, too.”
“Me?” she asked, surprised.
Jaspin was surprised too. Not that Senhor Papamacer would summon him to an audience—he had done that yesterday evening, and also two days before that, each time treating Jaspin to a long rambling repetitious monologue describing how the first visions of Maguali-ga and Chungirá-He-Will-Come had happened to enter his soul two or three years ago, and how he had immediately understood that he was the chosen prophet of the new gods. But why Jill? Up till now the Senhor had shown no indication that he even knew Jill existed.
“You come,” said Bacalhau. “You both.”
He led them to the Senhor’s bus. It was painted in the colors of Maguali-ga and bore the huge papier-mâché images of Prete Noir the Negus and Rei Ceupassear mounted on the hood on either side of the front window. Half a dozen other members of the Inner Host were lounging around its entrance when Jaspin and Jill approa
ched it—Barbosa, Cotovela, Lagosta, Johnny Espingarda, Pereira, and one who was either Carvalho or Rodrigues, Jaspin was not sure which. Like Bacalhau they were all in formal tumbondé costumes, though some had loosened their collars.
“Maguali-ga, Maguali-ga,” Lagosta said, sounding bored.
“Chungirá-He-Will-Come,” Jill replied before Jaspin could make the ritual response.
Lagosta stared at her with a flicker of interest in his chilly eyes, but only for a moment. He gave Jaspin a frosty look too, as if saying, Who are you, pitiful branco, sad honky noodle, to rate so much of Senhor Papamacer’s attention? Jaspin glowered back at him. Your name means lobster, he thought. And you, Bacalhau, that’s codfish. Some names. Lobster, codfish. The holy apostles of the prophet.
“Pardon me,” Jaspin said.
The Inner Host men sprawling on the steps of the bus moved aside, making room for them to go in. Inside the bus the air was thick and stale, and there was the sour smell of some strange incense on it. They had pulled out all the seats and had divided the bus with brocaded curtains into three small rooms, an antechamber, a chapel in the middle, and living quarters for Senhor Papamacer and Senhora Aglaibahi down at the back.
“You wait,” Bacalhau said.
He pushed aside the heavy curtain and went through into the chapel. The curtain closed behind him. Jaspin heard faint conversation in Portuguese.
“Can you understand what they’re saying?” Jill asked.
“No.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
Jaspin shook his head. “Don’t have the slightest,” he whispered.
After a moment Bacalhau reappeared with a couple of other members of the Inner Host who had been inside. There was never a time when seven or eight of them weren’t hovering close by the Senhor. Jaspin couldn’t tell whether the role the Host was meant to play was that of apostles or bodyguards, or some of each. The Inner Host was made up entirely of youngish dark-skinned Brazilians, eleven lean cool unsmiling men who could pass just as easily for bandidos as holy apostles. There were a few Africans in the high councils of tumbondé also, Jaspin knew, but they didn’t seem to rate the same access to the Senhor. Jaspin doubted that it was a racial thing, since the Brazilians were pretty much as black as the Africans; more likely Senhor Papamacer simply felt more comfortable with people from his own homeland.
“You come,” Bacalhau said, beckoning.
They followed him into the dark musty interior of the bus. Jaspin struggled for breath. Last night when he had been in here it had seemed disagreeably hot and stuffy, but now, down amidst the blazing afternoon heat of the Valley, it was downright stifling. Every window was shut, the smoke of a dozen sputtering candles was rising in the chapel, there seemed to be no ventilation at all. Jaspin came close to gagging. He looked helplessly at Jill, but she didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the foulness of the atmosphere. Her eyes had that glow again. It frightened him to see that look in her eyes.
Senhor Papamacer sat crosslegged at the far end of the bus, silent, waiting. To his left, along the side wall, was Senhora Aglaibahi, the divine mother and living goddess. The long narrow chamber was set up much like the room in which the Senhor had interviewed Jaspin back in Chula Vista: the darkness, the heavy draperies, the candles, the green-and-red rug, the little wooden images of Maguali-ga and Chungirá-He-Will-Come.
The Senhor made a tiny gesture of greeting with his left hand. His eyes came to rest on Jill. He studied her without speaking for what felt like forever.
“The woman,” he said at last to Jaspin. “She is your wife?”
He reddened. “Ah—no. A friend.”
“I thought a wife.” The Senhor sounded displeased. “But you travel together?”
“As friends,” Jaspin said uneasily, wondering where this was leading. He glanced toward Jill. She seemed off in some other world.
The Senhor said, “You know, I have the power of making you man and wife before all the gods. I will do this.”
Jaspin was caught off guard. His cheeks grew even hotter. What the hell was this? Marry? Jill?
Cautiously he said, “Uh—I think it’s best if she and I just remain friends, Senhor Papamacer.”
“Ah. Ah.” Jaspin felt a cold torrent of disapproval surging behind Senhor Papamacer’s timeless expressionless features. From a million miles away the Senhor said, “As you wish. But it is good, being man and wife.” Another barely perceptible gesture, this time toward the silent Senhora Aglaibahi. Jaspin’s gaze followed the Senhor’s hand. Senhora Aglaibahi sat without moving, scarcely seeming even to breathe. She seemed like some temple figurine, larger than life, something made of polished black stone: one of those Hindu goddesses, Jaspin thought, all breasts and eyes. She wore a vaguely sari-like white muslin garment that was so loosely wrapped around her that it plainly displayed the swaying globes of her bosom, the soft folds of her belly. Her dark skin was shining in the candlelight as though it had been oiled. Even after a week among these people the Senhora remained a mystery to Jaspin, a lovely voluptuous woman who might have been thirty or, just as easily, fifty. Tumbondé mythology had it that she was a virgin, but there was something else in the teachings about the ability of gods and goddesses to replenish their virginities as often as desired, and Jaspin doubted very much that the Senhor and the Senhora were living together in chastity. As he stared at her, the Senhora smiled. He imagined himself suddenly being drawn toward those dark-nippled breasts and given the milk of Senhora Aglaibahi to drink.
Jill said, unexpectedly, astonishingly, “I will be his wife if that is your will, Senhor Papamacer.”
“Hey, wait just a—”
“It is a good thing, yes, being man and wife. You do not want this, Jaspeen?”
He faltered and did not reply. He felt as though he had stepped in the path of a runaway steamroller. Marrying Jill was the last thing in the world that might have been on his mind when he walked into this bus five minutes ago.
“If you wish to attain the further knowledge, Jaspeen, you must go onward into the mysteries. And for this you must make the marriage.”
Oh, so that’s it, Jaspin said to himself.
Slowly he began to understand, then. Things had been starting to turn a little unreal, but now they were making sense again. This is mysticism country here, he thought. The Senhor is talking the sacred marriage, the hieros gamos, ye olde ancient primordial fertility thing. You want to learn the inner secrets, you have to go through the initiation. There are no two ways here. Jill must have grasped that intuitively. Or maybe she’s simply a better anthropologist than you are.
Plainly the Senhor was waiting for an answer, and only one answer was going to be acceptable. The steamroller had gone by, and he was flat as a tapeworm now.
He felt helpless. Okay, he thought. Okay. Go with it. Ham it up, Jaspin told himself. Rejoice, rejoice: you have no choice. In the most humble tone at his command he said, “I place myself in the Senhor’s hands.”
“You will take this woman in the marriage?”
Yes, yes, I will, certainly I will, he started to say. Whatever is pleasing to you, Senhor Papamacer. But he couldn’t get the words out.
Jaspin turned toward Jill. Her eyes were glowing again. But not for me, he thought. Not for me.
He shook his head. For God’s sake, he thought, am I really going to marry her, now? This scrawny goofed-up stringy-haired shiksa, this True Believer, this ragamuffin intellectual groupie? The idea was beyond belief. Everything in him balked at it. A voice within him cried out, What the fuck are you doing, man? I place myself in the Senhor’s hands. What? Married? On five seconds’ notice? To her? He imagined the scene, bringing her home to his parents. Mom, pop, this is my wife. Mrs. Barry Jaspin, yes, indeed. I was just waiting for the ideal mate to come along all this time, and now here she is. I know you’ll love her. Yes. Yes. And then he thought, Stop being an asshole. This isn’t anything legal. It won’t mean a thing outside this bus. You can walk away from it any ti
me. Marry her and be done with it, and think of it as part of your anthropological research. A tribal ceremony you’re required to undertake so that the chief will go on allowing you to observe the other tribal rituals. And then he thought, Forget all that. Put from your mind all these thoughts of self and all this scheming for advantage. If you have any genuine hope of yielding yourself to Chungirá-He-Will-Come at the time of the opening of the gateway, you must obey Senhor Papamacer in all things. Jaspin felt his knees beginning to shake. He had come to the truth about this thing at last. He might not be doing this for love, but he also wasn’t doing it out of any cynical fingers-crossed-behind-the-back notion that he was acting purely for opportunism’s sake. No. That was just the rationalization that he was using to hide from himself what was really going on. But now he forced himself to admit the real story. He was doing it because beyond anything else he yearned to have his mind and soul flooded and possessed by Chungirá-He-Will-Come; and unless he obeyed Senhor Papamacer in all things that would not happen to him. So he would do it. For God’s sake.
“I will take her, yes,” Jaspin said.
A flicker of a smile passed across Senhor Papamacer’s thin lips. “Kneel beside the Senhora,” he said. “Both of you.”
4
THE conference room was swaying, sliding, trying to turn green. Elszabet breathed deeply and struggled to keep everything in focus. She knew that she was nearing the edge of hysteria. Maybe I should just tell them, she thought, that I had a space dream last night and I am somehow unable to shake myself free of it, and to hell with trying to be professional up here.
No. No. Stay with it, she ordered herself. You can’t just crap out right in front of everybody.
She brought herself back into the meeting. It was an effort, but she brought herself back in.
Briskly she said by way of getting things started, “We all agree, I think, that we’re dealing with something that’s very hard to comprehend. But I think the first thing that we need to acknowledge is that it’s a phenomenon that can be measured and quantified and delineated in purely scientific terms.”