Portent (28 page)

    'Ah, yes, bot it has been so long. Won't you tell me where you lif now? Kom closer and whisper it to me.'

    
There lived an old witch…

    Eva stood before the shadowed lady.

    
… who tempted wild animals and birds, and the pixies who lived in the forest…

    His sister was about to be enfolded in the lady's arms.

    
… and little lost children to come to her…

    But instead the lady had gripped Eva's wrist and was rising from the chair, her shape still half in shadow.

    
… to come to her so that she could boil them in her stew…

    A mighty thunderclap shook the cottage and the door behind Josh flew open wide.

    
… and eat them!

    'Eva!'

    Josh dashed forward as his sister turned towards him, but the dark shape was still rising over her, rising and growing huge, the shawl slipping from her shoulders as they broadened, just as her hair had slipped away to reveal a face so black and cruel that Josh almost fell to the ground in terror.

    Eva swung round to see what could frighten her brother so and she screamed when she saw the giant that towered over her. She tried to back away, but the monster held her tightly by the wrist and drew her in.

    'No!' cried Eva, her resistance futile.

    Josh flew into them both, flailing madly at the monstrous figure-a woman still, he realized, but changed now into a huge evil-looking black woman with a single long hole beneath her flattened nose and scars on her face, who swatted him away with her free hand as if he were no more than an irritating fly.

    'Leave her alone!' Josh yelled and jumped to his feet to charge at her again. So fierce was his kick-and more importantly, so violent was the intent in his mind-that, whether in surprise or real pain, the monster released her grip on Eva. The boy grabbed his sister and dragged her towards the open door.

    But just as they reached it, it slammed shut.

    He let Eva go so that he could pull at the handle, but as he strained at the unnatural force that held the door there, a shadow loomed on the grainy wood. Eva helped him, their hands yanking at the handle together, and without warning the door swung open again just as lightning stuttered outside and blinded them all.

    With terror in his heart Josh plunged out into the rain and ran and ran as the night returned and the wind swept against him as if to slow him down. Through the shrivelled bluebells he pounded, crashing into the undergrowth without a backward glance, his chest raw with fear and the harshness of his own breathing. And as he fled blindly from the dream he called to Eva: 'Run, Eva, run, run…'

    He called even though he knew she was no longer with him.

    

    

    As usual, the evening news was grim. A dust storm had swept across highways in America's Midwest, causing vehicle pile-ups and many deaths, a cyclone had whipped across the Bay of Bengal, and there had been an earthquake in Kazakhstan, one of the Commonwealth of Independent States.

    Rivers lit his fourth cigarette of the night, aware of Bibby's disapproving glance, but not deterred by it, and watched the small two-dimensional television perched on a comer of the kitchen's dresser. The others sat around the kitchen table with him, their attitudes sombre despite the almost-empty wine bottle before them. Unwashed dishes from a hastily prepared supper lay stacked in the sink. The television's reception was bad although not, they suspected, because of the set's age: the night air was still troubled by atmospherics.

    At that precise moment they were watching a giant boiling waterspout on the screen, at least 300 feet high and filmed from some distance away, its spray cooled by heavy rain into blustering clouds. It had erupted in the middle of an ancient Indian city.

    From time to time the picture faded and fuzzed with snowy blemishes or double images, but just then the picture was clear-and awesome. 'The wrath of the inner Earth,' Poggs remarked over the newscaster's voice as though quoting an aptly remembered text.

    'But it's so high,' his wife said, a hand to her face in alarm.

    'The pressure must have been extraordinary,' replied Poggs. 'It must have-'

    He was interrupted by scampering footsteps on the stairs outside the open kitchen door. They heard Josh's frightened voice calling for his mother before he appeared in the doorway clad in pyjamas, his eyes filled with tears and his narrow shoulders shaking. Diane was already halfway there to meet him.

    'Josh, what is it?'

    He threw himself into her arms and buried his face into her waist. 'It's Eva,' came his muffled answer. 'The bad lady's got Eva.'

    Diane gently held him away from her and crouched to look into his face. 'Who do you mean, Josh? What lady?'

    He began to sob. 'The… the big lady…' He pointed back at the stairs.

    Diane was out of the room before the others had even risen. Bibby quickly followed her.

    Poggs went to the boy. 'Calm down now, Josh. You've been dreaming, haven't you?' There was no accusation in his words, only a mild prompting.

    Josh shook his head vigorously. 'No. We ran and ran, Grandad, and… and we found a place. The lady was inside… but, but she…' He choked on a sob.

    'It's all right, Josh, you're safe now.' Poggs sat on another kitchen chair and drew the boy in between his plump knees. He put an arm around Josh's shoulders. 'It's only one of your nightmares, Josh, nothing to be afraid of. You're awake now.'

    The boy snuggled against his grandfather's chest, his head shaking in denial. 'Not a dream, not a dream…'

    Bibby's voice came from upstairs. 'Hugo, come quickly.'

    Poggs rose at once, startling Josh, who blinked through his tears. Poggs led him by the hand through the doorway to the stairs, while Rivers wondered if he should follow. He compromised by waiting at the foot of the stairs while Poggs and his grandson climbed them.

    He listened to their urgent muted voices for a while before deciding to join them. Halfway up he met Bibby, her features tightened by concern.

    'What's happened?' he asked.

    'Eva. We can't wake her up. She appears to be in some kind of coma.'

    She left him there and soon he heard her in the hall phoning for an ambulance.

    

    

    
French Quarter

    Jumpin' shit, things were gettin' hot.

    Nelson Shadebank wiped the perspiration from his gold-rimmed spectacles, then dabbed the same from his wrinkled brow as he climbed the creaky wooden staircase at the rear of the Temple. The steamy weather caused the sweat (although his only concession to it was the removal of his jacket; his tie was tight against his neck, the cuffs of his pin-stripe shirt unrolled and boasting bright gold links), but the visit from the two NOPD officers instigated the anxiety.

    Hell with it, she hadda be told.

    He turned at the top and walked back along the landing, his armpits damp and staining the otherwise immaculate shirt, undershorts clingy beneath the precisely creased beige trousers, and stopped outside the door of Mama Pitie's private-very private-quarters. 'Oh shit,' he mumbled, reluctant to knock. What the fuck would she be up to in there this afternoon? He guessed she was alone-her last 'requirement' had been dispatched in the early hours of the previous evening, and he himself had organized it -but that didn't mean it was okay to disturb her. Fuck no. Last time he'd done so her glare had made him trickle his pants. Least she hadn't whopped him-he'd seen those huge paws at work on one of her zombies and they were lethal.

    Shadebank had thought he'd struck paydirt when he'd fled New York four years ago and had wandered into the Temple, drawn by the music rather than spiritual need. He'd been curious because those hymns hadn't been in praise of the Lord, but in celebration of Mother Earth, Herself, and sung with revivalist passion. Nor was the crowd, the congregation, all black as he'd expected; he'd entered just before the doors were locked from the inside and found that the worshippers were a mixture of white, black and Cajun. His eyes had shone with their same fervour when he saw how full the offering pouches were after the collection, and it was not from nickels and dimes. Even the poorest-looking among them were more than generous, while Shadebank himself had contributed a twenty, and he was only there out of curiosity.

    But it was more than just the scam value that attracted him to this church. His last employer, one of the Big A's major crack barons, had turned state's evidence to save himself the inconvenience of five life-terms, consecutive, for murder, mutilation, torture, rape and, of course, dealing, and had sung high soprano about anyone and everyone connected to the drugs trade. Fortunately, Shadebank had been tipped off by one of New York's own finest, a cop who'd benefited to the tune of a few hundred grand over the years for services rendered to the gangs, and he had skipped before being clapped. He'd headed south, gravitating naturally towards the cesspit area of New Orleans.

    It had taken a few days to find out about Mama Pitie and her Blessed Temple of the Sacred Earth after his first visit, but all along he'd known it was a small-time racket-instinct, not his college degree, had told him that. The hurdle had been getting past her over-protective goons-zombies he called them-but he'd managed it by dropping a note in the offerings pouch and hanging around the front door after service. When he finally got to know her, two things surprised him: Mama Pitie's brainpower and the fact that there was no scam-the lady was sincere; weird, but sincere. She was also very evil.

    She had been interested in his ideas of how she could reach so many more people by travelling the country and advertising her arrival in local newspapers and radio stations, and he, personally, could guarantee that donations towards the Temple would triple, quadruple, quintuple and whatever the goddam next one was. Wealth, he assured her, meant power, and power, he added, meant influence. And to influence the hearts and minds of the people would lead eventually to their spiritual union with the Blessed Mother of Earth, Herself. Whether she believed in his sincerity or not he wasn't sure, but that wasn't really important to either of them: what was important was how useful they could be to each other. Shadebank had worked well for her, keeping check on the Temple's incomings and outgoings, organizing Mama's visits to other states, and keeping some order among the zombies, who were as stupid as they were devoted to their high priestess. He also became expert at covering up Mama Pitie's occasional 'aberrations'. Unfortunately, she had been careless about one of her more recent 'choices', and Shadebank had been careless in letting it happen.

    He raised his hand to knuckle the wood, but again hesitated. Was that voices he heard from inside Mama's room? Couldn't be-no one had passed his room downstairs where he'd been attending to the Temple's accounts for the past couple of hours with the door, as always, open wide. Two of the zombies were cleaning the church and the others were either sleeping at home or working. Maybe Mama was talking to herself. Nothing unusual about that. Well, she had to be told the cops had paid the Temple a visit and they'd be back to talk to her direct. He'd played the dumb nigguh to their Southern bigotry and told them she out, offsuh, but they weren't fooled. Oh no, they didn't like his sharp duds and shiny shoes one little bit. If they could have busted him for looking cool they would have.
Okay, apeshit
, they'd said,
we'll be back later
, and one of them had spit on the church floor. What

    Shadebank resented, what he really resented, was that one of the cops was black himself.

    A kind of groaning from inside now. Shit, was this bitch alone or not? What the hell, she had to be told the cops were looking for a missing kid, a young chick who'd disappeared some weeks ago. The kid's folks had mentioned she liked to visit the Temple, so maybe Mama Pitie knew something about her-like where the fuck she was. They hadn't said the last part, but Shadebank could see it in their suspicious pig eyes. Cops didn't like religious freaks-they knew the scams, too.

    Maybe it was time for him to move on. Before this degenerate bitch screwed up the whole operation. Yeah, get the hell out before the shit really hit the fan. There was enough in the safe downstairs to set him up somewhere else. Somewhere a long ways from this crazy woman. A long, long ways. He lowered his fist.

    But the door opened before he touched wood.

    The image of the child was still strong in Mama Pitie's vision even though it was the bookkeeper, Shadebank, who cowered before her. Soon it would fade, though, and she would have to cling to what she could, hold on to part of the girl, keep an element of her locked away inside her own will.

    Mama had risen from the bed, sensing the presence outside the room, Shadebank's inner trembling upsetting her thoughts, interrupting her pleasure. She had lumbered over to the door, a huge shadow moving among other shadows, and when she had opened it she scarcely saw the man standing there.

    Shadebank, this unknowing fool, muttered something that was incomprehensible and Mama Pitie closed her eyes to hold on to the child. Keep her there, she told herself, trapped within. The boy had escaped, but the girl was hers. For now. And the girl had things to tell. So many, many things.

    

    

    'Eva!'

    In the dream his voice echoed back across the great lake from the forests and mountains on the other side. The last sound faded and Josh called Eva's name again.

    The lawns and pasturelands were empty, only the silent pillars reminding him of the times when he and his sister had played with the other children among them, their laughter enhancing the paradise. Memories echoed like her name, gently fading and leaving him alone and desolate.