On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (20 page)

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The strange procession slowly wound its way along the misty musty moorland footpaths like a scene from some medieval painting. At its head was Father Stringer, a man whose enormous force of personality was larger even than his immense form, or indeed his vastly oversized moustache. At his side walked Grimble, pale and uncertain by comparison, and behind them trailed most of the local congregation, for despite the distance between the various ragged farms, houses and workshops that made up the parish of Two Bridges, it was a tight little community, and when something untoward occurred word would get around with unfathomable speed. This part of the moors had never ventured into the modern world; there were no telegraph poles, no mobile phone masts, and even the roads themselves were barely more than dirt
tracks. And that was the way they all wanted it to stay, for who would live in such an anachronistic backwater if not by choice? Most of them rarely ventured beyond the boundaries of the moor itself, not if they could help it, for the world beyond seemed alarmingly chaotic and cruel. Father Stringer had lived, for a time, in the local city of Exeter. It was there that he had attended the seminary that had polished his vocation and made him a priest, but he had been all too happy to return to the peace and stillness of his youth. Nowadays he took no interest in anything outside this quiet little empire of souls. Indeed he resented any intrusions, and by all accounts at this moment they were heading towards just such an intrusion.

As they approached the edge of Wistman's Wood an anxious hush descended upon the assembled crowd, and their pace began to waver. Only Father Stringer retained his determination, as he headed, unperturbed, into the damp and gloomy tree-line, shouting behind him various words of encouragement and holy invocations to urge his followers onwards. At the back of the ragged crowd Mary-Beth clutched tightly to her grandmother's bony hand. Her parents had both died when she was six and now it was her grandmother who looked after the awkward and gangly eleven-year-old girl. She had never been a problem, was always polite and did her chores without arguing, but nonetheless Granny Rowther greatly resented this imposition upon her dotage. Certainly she was a tough old bird; she still baked her own bread, kept up her own vegetable garden, and every morning walked the five miles to Tavistock post-office to drink tea with the Blakeneys and catch up on all the local gossip. No, it was not so much the effort but the responsibility she begrudged. She had disliked being a mother the first time around and had little patience for this second run, and so, with callous indifference she pulled her hand away, and moved forward to talk to Widower Shrive, for whom, as everyone knew, she had something of a liking. Mary-Beth was used to such rejections, but still on this occasion, what with the woods and the rumours, it stung her a little more than usual. She
had learnt to be brave over the past five years, so took a deep breath and followed the others, counting to ten over and over in her head like her mother had taught her.

The little wood was damper than the day before and the air smelt ripe with rotting mulch and fungus. Everywhere water dripped from the leafless branches and trailing lichens, and occasional glimpses of sunlight sparkled here and there, trapped within the droplets like tiny precious gemstones. The mist was clearing, lending the wood a slightly brighter magical feel, though not without an air of lingering menace. Mary-Beth could hear the resonant tone of Father Stringer rumbling on in the distance, but chose to focus instead on the tuneful chirrup of the skylarks above the trees, and the gentle pitter-patter of water falling upon granite at her feet.

Suddenly her wilful reverie was broken by a wild hubbub up ahead. Shouts, gasps and exclamations burst through the wood sending her heart racing with fear, and she ran to catch up with the others. Once they were back in sight her pace slowed just a little. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the crowd was silenced by the booming voice of Father Stringer. There they were, clustered in a small clearing. It seemed that they were gathered around something, though what it was she couldn't see, for she was still quite small for her age. The good Father Stringer was holding forth with more vigour and passion than she had heard in him before. There was a strange tone to his voice, an excitement, though she couldn't quite catch the words. Now back amongst the reassuring crowd her fear turned to curiosity and she carefully sewed her way through the mass of bodies to the front, but before she could reach her destination she felt someone grab her by the shoulder and turn her round. It was Widower Shrive, white as a sheet, a look of shock and horror in his eyes.

“You mustn't look my dear. It's too... too dreadful.” But she shook him off and pushed her way through.

There, standing upon a large granite boulder, was Father Stringer, preaching with an intensity that none had heard from
him before: “... Behold! Behold the Hand of God in action. This gift, a gift to us, a sign to us alone that we have not been forgotten. That He has sent this sign to us is proof if ever proof were needed that all our ministries and Faith have been heard, and have been listened to: that the turning of our backs upon the many innumerable sins that wreak their daily havoc upon the souls of all who have embraced the modern world, its ease of sin, its open ear toward the devil's work, has this day been rewarded. For here, behold: the Love of God. For did He not Love his only son, and yet He sent him to be nailed upon the cross, for Love of us, his flock. And here, today, we see His Love in action once again. This pitiable girl, this harlot, strumpet, tart, this evil vessel, who no doubt plied her sinful trade amongst the Devil's city lights, He has plucked from the path of her Soul's destruction, and granted her the gift of Love, His Love, His ultimate forgiveness. And though today, before us all, she wears the visage of pain and suffering, yet still it is surely as nothing to the pain and suffering that her soul no doubt endured before this act of Love; it is as surely as nothing to the suffering and eternal torment He has saved her from, were she left to burn amidst the agonising flames of Hell's fire and brimstone. Behold! . . .”

Mary-Beth was so entranced by the unfamiliar passion in the good Father's voice that she did not at first notice the girl who was the object of his sermonising; but then her eyes followed his vigorous gesturing towards the pitiable figure and his voice seemed to fade into the distance. She was so beautiful, that young woman, despite the wounds and her pained expression. Mary-Beth had never seen such beauty, not in real life; like the girls in the magazine she had once found at the roadside, that her grandmother had called “filth” and thrown onto the fire. And her clothes were unlike anything Mary-Beth had ever come upon before, ever even imagined: long stockings striped in black and white, and a small silky black top, so thin that the generous curves of her body were clearly visible beneath. Was this how her own body would grow? The only female form she had ever seen undressed
was her grandmother, but this girl, this young woman: she yearned to reach out to her, to touch her, to trace those richly ripened curves with her fingers.

“. . . and so let us pray. Let us pray with more vigour and in greater earnest that ever have we prayed before! For here, here where we now stand, in this sacred grove He did walk . . . here amongst us has He revealed his infinite might . . . Let us fall to our knees, fall to our knees and bow our hearts in deep humility . . .”

As the makeshift congregation fell to its knees Mary-Beth was roused from her fantasy and quickly followed suit, mouthing the familiar words as she continued to stare at the twisted body.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. Forever and ever. Amen.”

“Now let us sing Hymn number 167,
Lamb of God
.”

“Lamb of God, for sinners slain, To thee I feebly pray; Heal me of my grief and pain, O take my sins away! From this bondage, Lord, release, No longer let me be opprest; Jesus, Master, seal my peace, And take me to thy breast! . . .”

As their massed voices echoed around the eerie wood each note took on a strange other-worldly quality. Rabbits and mice were startled, and scurried back to their borrows; birds flocked to the air and circled above, confused by the unfamiliar sounds; snakes slithered out of view; even the clouds of midges seemed to vanish in the breeze.

“. . . Let it not, my Lord, displease that I would die to be thy guest. Jesus, Master, seal my peace, and take me to thy breast!”

The silence that followed seemed suddenly deeper and darker than ever before. Father Stringer had never felt so powerful, so truly in the service of the Lord: God was almost upon him, He was at his ear, whispering divinely; and his disciples were in complete abeyance. It was as if the previous twenty-five years of his
ministry had each day been carefully laying the foundations for this single moment. He took a little time to let it all sink within before continuing:

“And so, dear brethren, the time has come for us to leave this sacred place, to return to our homes and to meditate upon the IMMENSITY of IMPORT that this miracle has brought to our humble community. Tomorrow, at dawn, we shall meet at the church and hold a service of gratitude for what has happened here today. And then, once prayers have been said, confessions taken and humility regained, let us return to this place and build, around this very hallowed grove, a chapel, a humble church of wood, to honour and celebrate the redemption of this unknown sinner . . . Now let us sing Hymn number 143;
A Charge to Keep I Have
!” And the massed voices rang about the wood once again, only this time with more vehemence and commitment:

“A charge to keep I have. A God to glorify. A never-dying soul to save, and fit it for the sky; to serve the present age, my calling to fulfil: O may it all my powers engage To do my Master's will! . . .” At the end of this first verse Father Stringer stood down from the rock and, still singing with all his might, led the way back up the path and out of the wood, towards home. “. . . Arm me with jealous care, as in thy sight to live; and o thy servant, Lord, prepare a strict account to give! Help me to watch and pray, and on thyself rely; assured, if I my trust betray, I shall for ever die . . .”

Mary-Beth waited until the voices were little more than a distant rumble upon the wind before she ventured out from beneath a large granite slab that had at some point become dislodged and toppled by the ancient tree-roots, creating a neat little hidey-hole. She hadn't been ready to leave, and she knew she wouldn't be missed for many hours yet. She was fascinated by the girl; she pitied her, wanted to comfort her, somehow ease her pain. She tore a strip from the bottom of her petticoat and soaked it like a sponge in one of the many little pools amongst the rocks and trunks; then tentatively made her way toward the twisted figure. She really was very beautiful. Her face was white as a porcelain doll, topped with
short-ish curly brown hair with just a hint of red. Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows seemed to be drawn on with some extravagance, like words from a book of spells. She was still breathing, but barely, and every now and then let out a shallow gasp. Mary-Beth reached forward and wiped the wet cloth gently against her face; she squeezed it just a little over the girl's scarlet painted lips, allowing water to flow into her mouth, but received no response. Then she carefully wiped away a small blotch of blood from the left corner of the girl's mouth, and watched a thin trickle of red-stained water run over her chin, down her neck, pooling at her collar bone before once again overflowing, running down her sternum, under her top, between her breasts. Mary-Beth moved a little closer, her heart was beating fast.

Amanda Palmer (for that had been her name) felt the gentle warmth of soft kisses upon her cheeks and finally slipped from this world to the next.

 

By
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I must confess I was initially surprised that crucifixion was such a common theme amongst the many texts I read: of the eight hundred and twenty-seven pieces, forty-two contained some form of crucifixion scene, of which eighteen were self-crucifixions. However after some musings on the subject, and discussions with various colleagues I came to realise that this is only to be expected, after all, which fan doesn't like to think of their dead hero as a martyr, and what easier way to express such a notion? Nonetheless I did find the gruesomeness of this approach toward portraying Amanda's death both fascinating and tantalising, and therefore decided to make my choice from this subject category.

So why this particular piece? After all, by my understanding it isn't even a real
palmeresque
, at least according to the generally accepted definition. Well, most of all I think it is the context of the crucifixion that caught my imagination, or rather the lack of context, for it is given no explanation whatsoever: Amanda's body is merely found nailed to a tree, in a remote English wood, by a superstitious shepherd whose community seems centuries out of time. The author offers no opinion or comment as to why or how, leaving something of an appetising flavour of mystery in the reader's mouth. What follows is a simplistic, yet entertainingly cruel, representation of the world's relationship with Amanda – to the older generation and the establishment, represented by Father Stringer, she symbolises all that is corrupt, debased and decadent in the modern world; to the young and repressed, represented by Mary-Beth, she is an object of sexual fascination. It is also worth noting that only the superstitious simpleton considers trying to take her down, everyone else has a vested interest in keeping her
nailed up there for their own ends: Father Stringer and his congregation want to make her the centrepiece of a new church; Mary-Beth wants to discover her own sexuality by exploring/exploiting Amanda's body. The final scene, a clear biblical reference to Mary Magdalene, is beautifully presented and leaves the reader vividly imagining what happens next.