Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [20]
"What are we to do, Friend Mother?" asks John Gibson eagerly.
"Fast, watch, and wait for Christ."
Hugh can see a sort of flatness in the Buchanites' eyes; they have heard this before. He racks his brains for a way to stir the crowd up.
A girl pipes up now, one of Patrick Hunter's children: "What does He look like, the Christ?"
Hugh is about to rebuke the girl, but Friend Mother answers. "His hair is ad white ad wool," she quotes lovingly, "and hid feet are like precious ore as it glows in the furnace. His voice has the sound of many waters, and from his mouth there issues a sharp two-edged sword."
Hugh blanches at the image.
Not everyone is strong enough to live on the Bread of Life, it seems. There are murmurings; complaints, even. Isabel White tells Hugh that their children are not well, but he replies that Buchanites are all—old or young—Friend Mother's Children, and she will provide for them.
One morning some of their community—those who joined only a few months before, James Brown and Thomas Bradley among them—force the doors open, saying they will beg scraps at all the farms of Nithsdale rather than hunger like trapped rats in this barn. Hugh and some other strong men try to pull them back inside, but Friend Mother shakes her head and sucks on her pipe. She watches regretfully as the cowards leave, as if they are walking off the edge of a cliff.
The remaining Buchanites have moved beyond work; they spend the days lying curled up on blankets on the floor, listening to Friend Mother's stories. Her words are more vivid than the daylight, more real than the hard ground under their hips. She tells them of the twenty-four thrones and the seven torches of fire, the thunders and lightnings on the glassy sea. Heaven will be shaken like a fig tree and its stars will drop like ripe fruit. The sky will roll up—
"Like a scroll," murmurs the Hunter girl sleepily.
"That's right, child, like a scroll, and every mountain will be moved."
The Sisters and Brothers lie still, listening for the first vibration in the packed earth beneath them.
Tonight Hugh cannot sleep, no matter whether he lies on his front or his back or his side. His bladder is full and hurting, but he holds it, because he knows that when he relieves himself it will burn. He gets up at last, fearing that his thrashing about will disturb his Brothers, sleeping only inches apart in the long garret. He steps downstairs softly, and pauses at the door to the tiny storeroom where Friend Mother sleeps alone. He wants to ask something terrible. He is about to say: how can we be sure this Fast is right?
But as soon as he comes into the room, stooped, dazzled by the light of her wax candle, he forgets his question. Friend Mother is waiting, open-eyed.
She locks him up in her arms.
Afterwards he shudders as if with cold.
"Hugh," she repeats in his ear, her breath savoury with smoke, "when I first heard you preach that sermon in Glasgow, my soul swelled with righteous love, and it was clear to me all of a sudden that I must leave my worthless husband and be a witness for heaven."
He clings on, speechless. He is thinking of his former wife Isabel asleep in the garret above, surrounded by her Sisters.
"But I cannot do this great work alone. I need one man by my side, the chosen one, and d'you know what the name of that man is?"
"Hugh," he whispers, fearfully.
"Hugh," she repeats, making a glad chorus of the word. "Now Jon't fret." She strokes his thinning hair. "You know there can be no adultery, for marriage is no more."
"Aye."
"Marriage is a bargain with death and with hell, and such bonds are not to be boasted of or clung to any longer."
He nods.
"We are partners in the great work. We can do no wrong," she assures him.
And he tries to believe her.
riend