Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [63]
And I remember that from the moment I entered that place I felt lost.
‘What do you have for me?’ asked the moriman, who wore a Western-style suit.
For once Marie was silent. We had no money. We had not thought of that.
The moriman busied himself, rearranging objects around him. He did not ask us to leave and we, in turn, made no move to do so. ‘You belong with the white women. The ones whose husband wears black and comes to visit them once a week like a stranger.’
I had to think for a minute what he meant by that. Presently I replied: ‘That’s not their husband. That’s Father Bernard.’
He was the priest who came to hear our confession. From the dormitory we could see him coming down the lane from the direction of the boys’ school. He would grind his cigarette out in the mud before he reached the gates and enter the convent chewing on a sprig of sorrel freshly plucked from the gardens.
‘Ah, so this is why they have no children of their own. What do they want with you, then?’
‘We are being educated. It is a school.’ said Marie, pompously.
‘A school?’ the man considered this for a moment, letting the word slide around his mouth for a moment or two, before it slipped over his lip.
‘And they are married. The nuns. Actually. They’re married to God,’ added Marie.
‘Ah yes. They have a spirit husband,’ nodded the moriman. ‘A very powerful spirit. One day I would like to visit this school and see these witches for myself.’
‘They’re not witches. They’re nuns. I told you.’
The moriman shrugged. ‘Then tell me, where did they come from and how did they get here? And what of all those things they possess? Beyond the knowledge of mortal man. Such things were not made on this earth.’
The nuns didn’t have a great many possessions, still they had more than any of us. In the library were picture books and old magazines. Among the pictures of giant cities, of men in hats and women holding dogs like babies there were some I remember more than the others. Pictures of men in uniform, of aeroplanes filling the night sky like bats. A ruined city. Some years later I saw a photograph of a great cloud the shape of a cotton tree. An image of a scorched pocket watch with the time: a quarter-past eight. And another one, a strange photograph of the shadow of a man on the steps of a building, except most of the building was gone. And so was the man. Only his shadow remained. It was the first time I realised there had been a war.
‘And so they are bringing you up to worship that spirit too. That’s good. It is a powerful one. But, tell me, do they teach you their witchcraft? Or keep you just to work for them?’
Upon the floor he spread a few bits of metal, some nails and little pieces of scrap. From his pocket he took another piece of metal and this he rubbed between the palms of his two hands. Eyes closed, face tilted upwards, he muttered some words in another language. Not Temne or Mende or Creole. Arabic, maybe. He blew across the surface of the ground in front of him and then on to the lump of metal in his hand. Then he extended his hand, palm down, over the objects as they lay on the ground.
Before our eyes those dead pieces of scrap came alive. One by one they leaped from the floor. Flew through the air into his hand, his fingers closed around them.
It was a cheap trick. But I’m telling you now — other things happened in that dark room. Things that truly came to pass. That I can never explain. The moriman told us to close our eyes and to imagine the person we most wanted to see. Behind my eyelids I saw my mother and I walking together when I was very small. I smelled the scent of her, felt her squeeze my hand. ‘Open your eyes and tell me what you see,’ said the man. Right there behind him, I saw her. Standing in the shadows of the room. Her eyes rested on me for a moment. Then she took a backwards step and slipped through the wall.
There were no trances, no mirrors or bowls of water through which a diviner communed with the spirits as we had been led