Karlene Morgan

The word has gone out: You are ordered to appear on the fifth day of April, and the objects thus summoned now do so - some with vengeful expectancy, others, reluctantly, under warrant.

Let us create a place for the convocation. Let it be a thick-walled room with peeling paint and scuffed concrete floor. At one end, directly opposite heavy doors, place a raised platform with wooden rails, such as may in another place have been a choir stall, but which will here serve as the seat of judgement. Hang a huge wooden crest on the wall behind but let it totter slightly to one side so that a stoic-faced woman in a feathered dress seems perpetually at risk of having a crocodile slide from its perch on to her shoulders. Call forth a clock with a shattered face and hang it beside the coat of arms.

Quickly, admit 30 or so straight-backed benches and let them stand at left and right of centre, creating just enough space between each so that one can shamble in but must sit sideways to avoid bruising one's knee. Then bring forth the Book. We must have one whose size and appearance bespeak its importance. So, secure quotations, fill out requisitions and purchase orders, in triplicate, and, when this task has sufficiently exhausted numberless clerks and middle managers, secure and place the said book on a stand that will hereafter be referred to as the 'Dock'.

Scatter other bits and pieces of scenery - a fading flag, a gavel, a table with a rickety leg, another table, a wheezing old fan - and we are ready.

Into this scene, now, come some eight or 10 women in white uniform. They file silently into the first two rows. A young man who seemed originally a part of the group detaches himself and sits fidgeting in the back. We will not bother ourselves with the others, the motley crowd which now clatters in for the spectacle, for the Crown at once calls Mulvina Sinclair to the dock.

She is a small, very black woman, with a sharp, lined face and quick eyes. She wears a loose tunic of royal blue and her head is wrapped in swathes of cloth from which a pencil and wilted leaves protrude.

Who is this woman who now places a thin veined hand on the Book and recites firmly? What turn of fate has brought her to this place, away from the hot hills and tree-rimmed compound where the weary and heavy-laden seek rest?

Years before, men lounging in the dusty square picked their teeth and shook their heads in regret. At 40, when frequent child-bearing has left its mark on the bodies of most women, Mulvina walked inviolate among them. She was round and bursting with juice. But none dared whistle or make a suggestive remark, for, many years previously, Mulvina had seen the Archangel at the river and lived in the light of His promise.

She was called to heal and to prophesy. Her children and her children's children would succeed her in this royal priesthood. On how and when these things would come to pass, the Archangel remained silent, but Mulvina did not once question His word, and so waited a full 19 years for the man who would bear the seed of His promise.

Samuel Sinclair's erstwhile drinking companions still talk of the unseen hand that dragged him from Merle's Bar and propelled him across the river to the compound of Our Holy Lord of the Redeeming Blood. It had started a night like any other; with the hot rum stinging the backs of their throats, and with Merle at her raucous best, had ended with Samuel suppliant and weeping at th of grace. Mulvina laid hands on his well-muscled shoulders and affirmed the steadfastness of her god.

Samuel, bathed and in clean shirts, now perambulated the lanes and byways proclaiming the mystery of his rebirth. Conversions of that nature, though rare, were not without precedent, and so would have quickly lost all wonder had it not been for the changes in Mulvina herself. Having no language to sufficiently explain the aura of contentment that now surrounded her, the men in the square fell finally to ribald glances and commentary tinged with envy.

"Ah boy, that man Sammy lucky, eeh!"

In one who, only months before, had seemed the least likely candidate, Mulvina had found her mate. In due season, they were married.

And so should end our story, with Mulvina preaching and healing, with Samuel by her side; with the throbbing of drums, the clapping of hands, the rasping of feet on bare ground, and the sobbing of the white-robed sisters.

But there was no child, and Samuel laboured under the burden of accusation.

It was in one lengthy period of fasting that the Book fell open and revealed again the story of Sarah.

And Sarah said unto Abram, "Behold now, the Lord hath restrained me from bearing. I pray thee, go in unto my maid, it may be that I may obtain children from her."

Mulvina, anxious for a resolution, and claiming a clear directive in this passage, searched among the flock and found Doris.

Doris Minto was a short, squat woman with hips made for childbearing. Childhood conflict had broken or removed several teeth outright, so that when she smiled one straightway wished she would stop. In addition, her eyes demonstrated a tendency to look in the opposite direction from the object of their attention: a fact which one found unnerving but for which it would have been uncharitable to blame her. With such looks to commend her, and with no pressing queue of suitors, Doris was well suited to the job.

Samuel at first balked at the proposal, but then set to his duty with commendable enthusiasm. In due time, Doris bore a son and Mulvina's heart, at last, was full.

Exit Doris.

Yet, in the ensuing years, rumours filtered back to the district. Samuel, either by a misreading of the original contract or through a newly struck accord of his own, had cut a path over treacherous hillsides to Doris' door in a distant district. There were more children - some said four. Folks whispered of obeah, and of intimate garments passed over Samuel's food.

If Mulvina heard the stories, she kept it to herself. She prayed harder, fasted longer, and became a dry stick upon which clothes flapped in constant reproach. Sermons once filled with grace now issued dire warnings, and Samuel for his part bore the watchful look of a man expecting to be attacked from behind.

Mr. Bower, conveyor of the Royal Mail and dispenser of gossip, tumbled from his van with the news. The scourge of polio was upon them.

"Three of her children dead, the fourth paralysed. Poor Miss Doris!"

By midnight, his neighbours having left off coaxing him home, a drunken Samuel lay in his own vomit in the square, while from across the river came a lone voice lifted in triumph and praise, such a voice as would have shaken the very walls of Jericho.

In this diseased atmosphere, the boy grew into a pale thin creature. At first he yearned for the fisticuffs and games that occupied the average village lad. But, in keeping with his high calling, his mother filled his out-of-school hours with the useful study of herbs, spirits and the Scriptures. Any show of rebellion was firmly put down, so that, in due season, the rod having been pedagogically applied, the child was trained to her satisfaction. But the boy harboured secrets, chief among which was a hatred of the mantle destiny had placed on his shoulders. He yearned for escape, but saw in the drunken and rotting Samuel the fate of those who spurned thecalling of his mother's god.

And who was this woman who waylaid him on lonely byways, pressed him to her and called him 'My son'? The boy, then 15, freed himself and sprinted to the familiarity of home. But she pursued him daily.

"Come away with me. This is no life for a boy."

"I am to be a priest. I am the fulfilment of prophecy."

"Come away."

"But she will not let me go."

"Then you must find a way."

Terror turned into hope, whose feeble flame, protected by Doris' cupped hands, slowly gathered strength.

At 10 o'clock sharp, every morning, the bus rattled through the square. How hard could it be to clamber on-board and never look back? How hard to strike out on one of the serpentine paths that link the mountainside districts? He dreamed of a thousand escape routes, but each seemed barred by flaming swords.

"I want to go," he finally spluttered one night as they prepared to retire. His mother's furious pronouncement from the Book sent him scampering for the safety to his tiny room. "Your strength shall be spent in vain … and I will bring a sword upon you that shall avenge the quarrel with my covenant."

Some time in the dark of the morning, his heart hardened with resolve.

The Church of Our Holy Lord of the Redeeming Blood needs no walls; those who enter have already barricaded themselves in their faith. On one day of the week only, the building is empty, for, according to custom, Mulvina fasts and prays alone in its dim interior and must not be disturbed.

See now the vague outline of a woman waiting in the silence. Hours later, a sister, timid of rebuke, but desperately needing to retrieve a note sneaked to her by an already spoken-for 'brother', finds the slumped figure at th and raises an alarm.

The crown posits that one Mulvina Sinclair, otherwise known as Shepherdess, of River Bend district, on such and such a date, murdered one Doris Minto of Simpson's Corner. The weapon was a heavy gilt-edged Bible brought down with force on the back of the head.

But wait! The entire sisterhood swears that, at the very moment of discovery, Shepherdess, having forgone her customary prayer vigil, was ministering at the deathbed of one Maxwell Gilzene. The crown will hear of a fearsome wind which swept the district that day, uprooting trees, toppling water drums and causing doors to slam, then fall from their hinges. Might such a wind not have brought the Mighty Book down from its high place?

Such weighty matters are too much for one sitting and will be pondered in the ensuing weeks. So the gavel falls, the asthmatic old fan gives a last shuddering gasp, the crocodile lies poised for a lunge it will never make, and Mulvina steps down from the dock. The sisters shepherd her towards the heavy wooden doors.

At the back of the room is the boy whose tongue has uttered no word since that tragic day, and whose hands tremble so violently that he can hold neither pen nor paper. What emotions fill his eyes, the murmuring women cannot cipher.

But Mulvina understands all. Did not the Archangel promise that no weapon formed against her should prosper? Was it not His spirit that led her away from certain death that day and put the deserving Doris in her place? She understands, too, that those who are to be raised up must first be brought low.

And so, with wisdom and infinite care, she embraces her boy who slumps against her and allows himself to be led out into the light of His promise.

END

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