Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [18]
Only if they renounce the world now, he preaches, will sinful men and women be fit to leave it when the trumpet sounds. Like the disciples who left their nets upon the shore and followed Jesus, the Buchanites have had to resign all earthly drags and entanglements: trades and professions, homes, families even. No one is sir or mistress, husband or wife any longer; there is no more servitude and no more marriage. Only if they live in holy fellowship together, under Friend Mother's close guidance, will they be able to purify themselves for the Coming.
The time is short. The Buchanites have given all their money to Hugh White, to hold and use for the common good. The Brothers work together to dig a well and chop wood, or hire themselves out as labourers in exchange for fresh rabbit meat, bread, and turnips; the Sisters share the childminding, washing, mending, knitting, cooking, and brewing of medicines. Everyone wears homespun clothes of light green, which Friend Mother says is the colour of hope.
Hugh is what Friend Mother calls her former minister: one plain syllable. It makes him feel like a boy again. Enemies accuse Luckie Buchan of being mad, or devilish, a ravening old she-wolf that preys on the flock of the true Kirk, but Hugh knows otherwise. He was dust and Friend Mother watered him. He was barren and she made him fruitful. When she fixes her eyes on him, he knows he will be with her in heaven, and soon.
One morning Hugh calls the congregation together on the grass outside Buchan Ha, to hear Friend Mother speak.
"What is the body?" she begins, getting out her tinderbox.
"A frail wee house of clay," says Hugh fervently, "that will soon cave in."
She nods magisterially. Young James Buchan, one of the three children of her own body, lights her pipe for her; Friend Mother takes a long draw. "There must be a fast."
"All day?" asks Hugh's wife, Isabel. Of course, Isabel White is not Hugh's wife anymore, he reminds himself. Nothing is what it was in the time before.
"For forty days," Friend Mother corrects her sweetly.
Silence, like quicksand under their feet.
"Like Elijah did," says Hugh a little hoarsely, "like Moses. Like Christ himself."
She gives him a long smile. "To purify yourselves in preparation for the Coming," she tells her Children, "ye must turn your faces against all earthly nourishment for forty days. Not as much as a bannock must pass your lips. Just as a horse is trained for a race, so ye will be strengthened."
"Strengthened by eating nothing?" asks Isabel White, feebly.
A nod from Friend Mother, who blows out a small cloud of the smoke that helps her preach. "Just as a goose must be plumped up for Christmas, so ye shall fatten on the Bread of Life."
No one says no.
The first day is long; they go about their work silently. Everyone goes to bed with an empty stomach. No one is sure whether they are allowed to drink anything, until Friend Mother relieves them by coming round with a pitcher of water with a little molasses melted in it. They gulp it greedily, the adults as well as the children; even Hugh permits himself a cupful. It lifts their mood like wine.
The next morning he wakes flat-bellied, welcoming the new sensation. He feels lighter, purer already; the great hollowing-out has begun.
But in the long garret, six faces are missing: two single men and a family who must have sneaked off in the night to the nearest town. No one says their names. Friend Mother seems satisfied, though. "This Fast will split the sheep from the goats," she murmurs to Hugh.
Now on her orders the windows are nailed shut and covered, letting in only enough light for reading; this will help them keep the world and the devil at bay. Hugh spends half the second day writing a hymn to inspire the flock. "Feed," he repeats under his breath. "Deed, indeed, decreed, seed, with all speed."
The more on living words we feed,
The less of earthly food we need.
At sunset the Buchanites go up onto Templand Hill and sing their new hymn. The June air