The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [56]
It was the usual religious nonsense that had flowered since the War's end, equal parts delusion, untidy thinking, and egomania. My own tradition of Judaism believes that there is nothing God loves more than a quick-witted argument; the words Millicent Dunworthy read were an excellent illustration of the need to teach Rabbinic debate in public schools. Her audience drank it in, educated and prosperous though they were, although it was clear many of them had heard the text before. One or two of those near me were even shaping the words under their breath as the woman read.
It went on, and on, personal revelation linked with Biblical references, world mythology, and historical events, all of which was designed (if one can use that term) to place “the man” (clearly, an autobiographical third person) firmly in the pantheon of holy men throughout the ages, and to link his ideas with those found in the world's great religions. The inclusion of Nordic deities brought a degree of innovation—most synthesisers drew on the Egyptian or Indian pantheon—but apart from Loki and Baldur where one might expect Thoth or Shiva, I heard nothing that would justify the violence done to rationality. The room was warm, the incense cloying, and it had been a long day; I kept from dozing off entirely by alternating the composition of a rude letter to Holmes with a running list of fallacies, errors, and lies.
The reading came to an end at last. The book was allowed to close, and the woman looked expectantly over our heads at the back of the room. Footsteps came down the aisle, the robed man and woman carrying, respectively, a carafe of clear liquid that looked as if it belonged on a bedside table, and a pair of ordinary drinking glasses. They placed the utensils in front of Millicent Dunworthy and stood to the side; for an instant, she looked like a woman in a night-gown getting herself a drink of water, and I choked back a laugh. The woman beside me shot me a look of glowering mistrust, and I hastily rearranged my face to solemnity.
“For those who thirst for the light, drink deep,” Miss Dunworthy's voice declared. I was startled, for the words resembled those of another religious leader I had worked with some years before. However, I soon decided that this was not mysticism, but melodrama. The congregation rose and made their way to the front, where each took a worshipful swallow. Five more of them, four women and a man, wore matching gold bands on their right hands.
When all but I and one other had received their communion, the woman drank some herself, dashed the remaining drops on the floor, and declared, “Go your way in the love of The Master of Lights.”
She tucked the book in her arm and swept down the aisle again. Her robe, I noticed, had a small crimson shape, an elongated triangle topped with a circle, embroidered over the heart—the design I had glimpsed on the cover of the book:
A keyhole? Or a spotlight, illustrating the church's name?
To my pleasure, the service was followed by tea and biscuits served by their equivalent of the Mothers' Union—stewed tea served in an attitude of sanctity was an ideal setting for the picking of brains. However, the congregants did not seem inclined to linger, either because of The Master's unexpected absence or simply the stuffiness of the room, so I should have to move quickly.
I turned to my neighbour, on the theory that the toughest nuts to crack (so to speak) hold the sweetest meat.
“What a most satisfying reading that was! And tell me, was that just water you were drinking?