A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [12]
“Remember saying you’d like to come along with me to the next special service, Rachel?”
“Oh yes. That’s right. I did.” I feel the weight of the granite inside. No escape now. I brought this on myself.
“I didn’t want to mention this before, not until we were more sure of it – sure it would last, you know, and was the genuine article and not just a nine-day wonder or something –”
“Mention what?”
“Well, a few – some of us – not many, you know, so far, but some –” Calla’s usually firm voice fumbles, “some have been given, it seems, the gift of tongues.”
What shows in my face? I dare not think. Whatever it is, it makes her forge explanations instantly, strongbows of argument, as if she believes I’m bound to be conquered by them.
“It was a perfectly accepted thing in the early Church. Nobody thought there was anything strange in it then. We hold ourselves too tightly these days, that’s the trouble. Afraid to let the Spirit speak through us. Saint Paul cautions, of course. Not to let it take the place of ordinary prayer which can be understood by everyone. We’ve been careful about that. But he accepts it, Saint Paul, I mean. He says I thank my God I speak with tongues more than ye all. And what about the tongues of men and of angels? What else does the tongues of angels mean, if not glossolalia?”
“What?”
She can’t mean a word of it. But she does. I don’t know which way to look, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her face. She doesn’t look fanatical. She looks sturdily cheerful and now something else – determined to make me see.
“Glossolalia,” she says. “That is the correct word for it. But we mostly say the gift of tongues or ecstatic utterances because – well, those words describe it better, see?”
“People speak – aloud – and don’t know what they’re saying? And nobody else knows, either?”
“Sometimes another one can interpret,” Calla says, talking quickly but in a subdued voice quite unlike her usual. “Listen, child, I know it must sound unbelievable. I thought so, too, at first. But now I know – well, I just know. I’ve seen it happen. Even if no one understands, the undeniable thing is the peace the person who’s been gifted comes back with.”
“Have you –?”
She looks for a moment stricken, her square, strong face saddened as though by some deprivation.
“No, it hasn’t been given to me. Not yet, anyhow.”
All I can think about is what if it’s given to her tonight? If I have to endure to be there, and see her rising, hypnotized, and hear her known voice speaking gibberish, I think I will faint. How to get out of it? I can’t bear watching people make fools of themselves. I don’t know why, but it threatens me. It swamps me, and I can’t look, the way as children we used to cover our eyes with our hands at the dreaded parts in horror movies.
Calla is looking thoughtfully at me.
“Perhaps you’ll not want to come along now. I had to tell you, though. It wouldn’t have been right not to. If you don’t want to come, Rachel, it’s quite okay. Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want that.”
“Oh, I’m not worried in the slightest.” The lie rises to my mouth before I can prevent it, and then I have to go on. “I’ll come along, Calla. Of course I will. I said I would.”
There is some obscure comfort in this. At least I’m not breaking my word.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes. Certainly.”
Why am I trapped into this falseness? I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I don’t want to argue. I just don’t feel up to it.
But I don’t want to go. I cannot