Cursed Be the Child (11 page)

Still, she wished there could be another family outing—tomorrow. Last evening, when they were getting ready to go out for dinner, she’d told him about Laura Morgan’s invitation and suggested he accompany Missy and her to church.

Warren said he was more likely to visit Uganda than Grove Corner Presbyterian, thank you very much. Okay, if she wanted to go and thought she needed a fix of socially acceptable American voodoo, that was just fine. But for him, “Well, if God exists, then I’ve worked out a deal with him.”

She said, “What’s that?” knowing he expected her to ask.

She braced herself for what was coming, blaming herself for bringing up the subject in the first place.

Warren said, “I stay out of God’s house, and He’d damned well better stay out of mine.”

She wished he had not said that.

— | — | —

Two: o Drom Le Vila
The Way of Dark Spririt

A number of years ago, a scholar of ethnology, working on his PhD dissertation, sought out the
Rawnie,
the great lady, Pola Janichka. He’d learned of her fame as a storyteller and wished to include a number of her
Darane Swature
in his work. He thought the
swature
would illustrate archetypal themes.

When he explained what he wanted to Pola Janichka, she told him she was sorry, but she could not provide him a single swato. He tried to convince the
Rawnie
of the scholarly value of his work, but she refused.
Swature
were not meant to be written down. A
swato
must be spoken, coming from the heart so that it can reach the heart. When one heart touches another, the truth is shared.

This is a
swato
of Pola Janichka:

“Once a boy, a
chavo,
went into the deep woods to check the snares of his father. As his father had set out many snares, it would take no small time for this task, so the boy took with him food and water. He took with him three coins, since one can get along in the world with little money, but not without any money. To pass the time, he had in his pocket his favorite toys, a lead soldier and a tiny whistle carved from the bone of a hedgehog by his uncle. This was all he had with him when he went into the deep woods.

“Late in the morning, the boy realized that he was lost, far from the
kumpania. Naxdaran,
he told himself, do not fear. He had water, he had food, he had money, he had toys, and though this was all he had, what more did a child need? He would eat now and drink, and then he would pray to
O Del,
the good God, to show him the way out of the woods. With this thought, he seated himself, his back against a tree.

“But before he could eat and drink, and sadly, before he could offer up any prayer to
O Del,
the boy felt a great tiredness, and his eyes closed, and he slept.

“And when he awoke, there were children gathered about him in a circle.

“Had the
chavo
been older and therefore wiser, he might have seen that these were not ordinary children.

“There was a sadness in their eyes that was not the sadness known by living children. But the
chavo
had known little sadness in his own life, so he could not understand. There was a paleness to their faces that was not caused by the sickness or fear known by living children, but the
chavo
had always been glowing with health and he’d seldom known fear, so he could not understand. Indeed, there was much about them that was mulano, ghostly, but the
chavo
recognized none of it.

“He did not know these were not living children, not
juvindo
, but
detlene
; they were the spirits of dead children.

“Then all together the
detlene
held out their hands. And then all together, they spoke. ‘Help us! Share with us! Be generous! Be kind! Help us!’

“The
chavo
laughed. These children had come to beg,
mong,
from him, as he himself had often begged from others!

“Though he was not old enough to be wise, the
chavo
had a good heart. He said, ‘I have money I will share with you.’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘We have no need for money.’

“The
chavo
said, ‘I have water I will share with you.’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘We have no need for water.’

“The
chavo
said, ‘I have food I will share with you.’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘We have no need for food.’

“The
chavo
said, ‘I have toys I will share with you.’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘We have no need for toys.’

“‘I am sorry, then,’ said the
chavo
. ‘There is nothing I can give you. There is nothing I can do for you. When I came into the woods, I took with me money, food, water, and toys, that is all. I have nothing else.’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘Yes, you do. There is something else.’

“‘What is it that I have?” asked the
chavo,
‘that I can share with you? What is it that you want? What do I have that you need?’

“All together, the
detlene
replied, ‘You have life. That is what you can give to us. That is what we need.’”

— | — | —

Eleven

With only a touch of make-up, in a yellow dress and hat that had been chain department store fashionable a few seasons earlier, there was nothing to distinguish Emerald Farmer from other worshippers in True Witness Church. She’d not spoken to anyone, but her slight New York accent would not have attracted undue attention. True Witness Church had known visitors from all across the United States, indeed, from the entire world. They’d come with afflictions of mind, body, and soul to Mt. Franklin, Alabama, to Reverend Evan Kyle Dean’s home church, so that Reverend Dean might cast out foul spirits of sickness and torment, make them healed and whole, and grant them a miracle.

There hadn’t been many outsiders recently, because it had been nearly a year since Evan Kyle Dean had conducted a healing service. He had not been on a crusade for two years and, for the past three months, even his television program, Witness to Wonder, was in reruns. Yet every Sunday, he preached at True Witness.

Though Emerald Farmer had an incurable, fatal disease, she had not come to True Witness this Sunday to ask for healing. She already thought of herself as dead, dead like Randy, the man she had loved. She had no interest in hearing Dean preach what he called the “Word of God.” If there were a God, and He allowed phony bastards like Evan Kyle Dean to speak for Him, then He was either a cruel monster or a damned fool.

Just as she had the previous two Sundays, Emerald Farmer had come to church today simply to look at Dean, to let the actuality of his existence feed her hatred so that when the time came she would not falter. She would kill him.

And when her brain issued the command, “Yes! Now!” she was ready. There was the gun in her purse. But that wasn’t how she’d planned it, nor the way she wanted it. She needed to talk to him and tell him why he was going to die. What would the sanctimonious bullshit artist look like when he knew God wasn’t going to miraculously turn a Colt .38 into a plowshare, when he realized it was the dust to dust route, that dead was dead and that was it? She wanted him to be afraid, as afraid as the pathetic hopefuls who’d sought his help and were deceived by their own fear and his conniving.

As Evan Kyle Dean took the pulpit for his sermon, Emerald Farmer stared at him and wondered if he could feel the boiling waves of her loathing.

 
“I want to talk to you about God,” Evan Kyle Dean said. With a half-smile, he paused to set up the tag line. “Seems only right. After all, I am a preacher and this is the Sabbath, the day He has set aside so we might worship Him and contemplate His commandments.” The words were flowing smoothly. Evan hoped this time it would be right. It had not been right for months, and, he had to admit, it was getting worse—much worse.

Six feet tall, angular as an archetypal frontiersman, Evan Kyle Dean at 40 still looked like a country boy. Five years earlier, when he’d first met with Marvin Michelson, founder and president of the Christian Communications Consortium, to discuss the program that would become Witness to Wonder, Michelson had told him “You’re a natural for TV, Brother Evan. You have the right image.”

“How’s that?” Evan wanted to know.

“You look like you could be Andy Griffith’s younger brother.”

Live and in person, Evan Kyle Dean seemed more craggy and rough-cut than he did on television. There were grayish circles beneath his eyes that make-up would have camouflaged were he before the camera. And he was doing something he never did on TV; he was sweating. There was a chill ring of perspiration just under his collar, a film on his upper lip and forehead.

He felt cold, felt he had to keep his muscles tight so that he didn’t start shaking uncontrollably.

He was freezing and, it was grimly funny, he thought, that Marvin Michelson had called him “cool” at that initial meeting. “You see, Brother Evan, you’re a cool personality, in the McLuhanesque sense of the word. Low-key and nonthreatening. That makes you well-suited to video and the electronic ministry.”

“I’m sorry,” Evan said. “I don’t understand.”

“You communicate, Brother Evan,” Michelson explained. “You don’t shout at people.” Michelson grinned. “Just between the two of us, Brother Evan, the CCC’s somewhat overstocked with screamers, even though they give us the deep South demographics and contributions that keep our stations on the air. Let’s say, though, you’re a young man from a cosmopolitan city like San Francisco. You’ve been to college, you’re married, doing well at your job, but you sense there’s something missing in your life. You with me so far, Brother Evan?”

“I think so.”

“So you’re ready to ask God into your heart, and, then you happen to turn to a CCC station after the late night movie. Here’s a man bouncing around like he’s on a trampoline. He’s got a plaid sport coat that can cross your eyes permanently. He’s condemning everything from women’s liberation to the Catholic Church. He thinks we ought to nuke the Russians to show them what the Lord thinks about godless, atheistic communism. And he’s yelling at you personally like he’s caught you stealing his car, having sex with his wife, and selling dope and dirty magazines to his little girl. Somehow I can’t see that as the way to bring the word of God to our San Francisco yuppie, can you?”

“It’s not my way,” Evan said quietly.

“I know,” Marvin Michelson said. “You talk to people.”

Evan Kyle Dean blinked. Somehow he’d slipped away—again. Talk to people! That’s why he was standing in the pulpit of True Witness Church. He said, “I want to talk to you about God.” He waited a moment. “Seems only right…” Then he stopped altogether. There was a block of ice pressing down on his Adam’s apple as he realized he was repeating himself.

He tried to recover. “Quite an echo in here, isn’t there, brothers and sisters?” There were a few smiles on the faces of his brothers and sisters all the children of God. “We are, you know,” he said, “all children of God.”

What was happening to him? It seemed he couldn’t think, couldn’t talk. He was sick. The healer was ill; physician, heal thyself. These days, he had no appetite, had to force himself to eat; everything seemed to have a burnt plastic aftertaste. He couldn’t sleep.