The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [43]
Mary stood in the rush of the day and watched them. How they suffered as they went about their tasks, muttering to themselves or instructing the air, laughing at nothing, shaking their arms, twitching, rocking back and forth, closing their eyes suddenly and holding still like a child awaiting a blow, like a wife awaiting her husband’s fist. They were attacked, all of them; devils attacked them. Her truth would exorcise them. But it seemed that Simon was safe. She watched Simon, so large and soft with his big white hands. His coat was pulled smooth as a horse’s hide across the breadth of his shoulders. His curly hair shivered in the breeze. He was not the first person she had to give the news. Somehow, in his idiocy, he knew. He was kind and frightened, and magnified the kindness in others, shamed their cruelty. More was not required of him. Look how he tended the vegetable patch with his watering can. The thick leaves purred and bounced under sparkling strings of water.
The pure water. Drops scattering. Seeds of light falling in the grass, on the earth. She made light, also. She must have caught it from the angel. Her fingertips left stains of golden brightness that she struggled always to leave in threes or multiples of three. She had to speak. She couldn’t keep it in. As though her mouth were full of water. But to whom?
There was Clara, a witch, a friend of the devils. But not Clara. Not yet.
William Stockdale approached on his rounds. In his hand he carried a stained cloth and so she knew that he was the one she must try first. She could not see whether the stain was blood, but it was certainly ruddy, dark, human. He was Roman, a crucifier. He held the people in torment. She stepped into his path, held up her hands and he came towards her, not knowing that he had no choice but to come to her. He didn’t see the shining tunnels in which people walked when they moved according to His Will. No matter. She stood still and he was brought to her.
‘The Lord is love,’ she began.
‘Indeed,’ he said, not stopping.
‘He is love,’ she repeated, stepping again into his path, halting him. ‘And He is everywhere.’
‘That’s nice for him.’
‘And returning. He will return and He will judge.’ She tried to stare piercingly up into his eyes, but the sun burned behind the man’s head. She addressed his waistcoat buttons. ‘You must shrive. Your soul is in danger. You can hold nothing back. All is seen.’
‘I’ve seen plenty myself, and if you don’t mind I’ve work to do.’
‘Take heed. Hearken unto me. I bear an angelic message.’
‘I’m grateful for the warning. Now if you’ll let me . . .’ He stretched out his left arm, placed it past her shoulder and tried to sweep her aside, but she gripped him, swung round like a door. She must see the change in him. The word must reach him.
‘You must be pure. You must empty yourself.’ Stockdale dropped the cloth onto the ground and with his free hand shoved at her forehead. Mary flew back onto the grass. She smiled up at the sky and its finely dragged high cloud. Suffering had been sent her. She felt his gratuitous boot sink into her stomach. Her work had truly begun.
Annabella was good with Abigail, soft-eyed, patient, able to play. The child stood entranced, trying to keep her wriggling fingers still as the beautiful older girl wrapped around them the thread of a cat’s cradle. Dora sat nearer the light of the lamp, embroidering borders on the linens of her future married life. Hannah had taken the finest needle from Dora’s sewing box. Carefully she pushed it into the skin of her fingertip and across, then out of the other side, making a white ridge where it passed through. It wasn’t painful, slightly tight, but not painful. She enjoyed lightly terrorising Abigail by showing her the sliver of metal passing through her flesh.
‘Look, Abi.’ She wagged her finger over Abigail’s eyes, then grabbed her own wrist and sucked in air as though in pain.
‘Ow!’ Abigail said.
‘Don’t be so childish,’ Dora said.
Hannah pulled the needle out again, placed it back