He suddenly remembered the day in London when he and Diane had been attacked by thugs as they waited in a line of traffic. The visage that had appeared at the car window-for a moment only he had seen the image of this woman and then it had dissolved into the brutish face of their would-be assailant. It had been a premonition, and now that face was real. It glared down at him from the top of the stairs: the crazy staring eyes, the thick, savage lips, the dark, pockmarked skin-and the flat nQse with its deep shadow beneath. Even from that distance and in that gloomy light he could see-he could feel-the hatred of her gaze.
And a recognition seemed to flicker in that gaze for a moment, and he wondered if she had had the same precognitive moment on that day, but in reverse, with him as the subject.
Her expression changed to one of curiosity and she moved to the first step and now something registered in his own mind, something that only shock and fear could have made go unnoticed before. In her arms she carried a small, curled bundle, a figure made even smaller-and infinitely more vulnerable-by the immensity of the black woman's own bulk. She was holding Eva.
He thought the woman was coming down to him, perhaps to goad him with the child she held tight against herself, perhaps to reason with him using Eva as a shield, or even a threat-those powerful hands could easily snap the little girl's neck (had they done exactly that to Bibby? he wondered). But no, she would not goad him, nor would she threaten him with the child; she looked strong enough to snap Rivers, himself, in two, and that, he thought, was her intention.
Instead she gave a jerk of her head and the man with her slid by and started down the stairs towards him. As he came he was fixing something to his forefingers and when lightning blazed again it picked out the tiny curved blades of the ring knives.
30
Rivers had known deep fear before. Three months ago when the research aircraft had begun its spiralling dive over the Gulf of Mexico, tossed and shaken by the hurricane with only the pilot's experience and innate skill pulling the plane out of the dive, his dread had been all-consuming. That was the moment he had thought he was going to die and it stayed with him during the long and rough flight back to the mainland, the crippled aircraft's remaining engine spluttering and stalling every inch of the way. Captain Heckart-the poor courageous pilot who was to die anyway-had crash-landed the plane just outside Galveston and all but three on board had been killed instantly. Of those three, one had lost the fight to live six weeks later, one was now little more than a vegetable with no memory at all of the accident, and Rivers himself, while recovering physically-apart from the leg he had thought would never heal-had been left with scars of a different kind. For him the memory of the storm, the terrible journey after the research aircraft had sustained severe damage, the dead body of Gardenia pressing itself against him almost in a lover's embrace-and the light, the tiny, beautiful ball of light that had warned of the disaster that was to follow. That deep and appalling fear returned each time he thought of, and each time he saw, the portent.
Then there was the other kind of fear, the sort that could be so dreadful because it left you helpless and without hope. He had felt that debilitating fear during the last few days of Laura's desperate struggle for life, when the perniciously new form of malaria had swiftly claimed her, wasting her body within such a short span of time, taking her finally when no contact could be made, her confused and tormented senses denying communication, refusing that last contact when death was inevitable and only words could comfort. She had gone and he could only pray that his words of love would be heard beyond her life.
There had been other times when he had been afraid, naturally, but none were so significant, none felt with such desperation; until now.
The sight of this man descending the stairs, fixing these wicked blades to his fingers, and the strange giant of a woman on the landing above, aroused a terrible fear, for he was presented with a choice: he could either escape through the door, or he could face the horror. It was the choice that made this fear so desperate.
He almost chose the craven way, but he knew Diane would never flee from Hazelrod with him, not when she was aware that Eva and her family were inside the house. Besides, he had seen Eva stir, a tiny frail hand waving listlessly in the air to flop over the massive arm that held her. That small gesture-together with the contemptuous look the black woman had given him before disappearing from view-helped him decide.
The advancing man was halfway down the stairs, his eyes fixed on Rivers, no expression, no sign of any emotion whatsoever in them. His hands were slightly raised, thumbs supporting the sides of the ring knives' blades.
Could they kill?
Rivers wondered. They looked lethal-were these the weapons that had cut Hugo?-but the blades were short. Perhaps if they were sunk into an eyeball, or scythed across an exposed throat… He moved with a speed that gave no time for further thought.
As his foot found a step between the torso and right arm of the corpse on the stairs, Rivers gripped the carving knife sticking from the body and pulled. The knife came free with surprising ease and he continued the motion, twisting his wrist and bringing up the blade in one fluid movement so that it plunged deep into the groin of the assailant above him.
The man uttered a peculiar kind of strangulated yelp and fell on to Rivers, the ring knives flailing the space behind as if he were a non-swimmer out of his depth. Rivers lifted him, jerking his shoulders back at the same time so that the intruder slid over him and tumbled down the rest of the stairs to fall in a heap at the bottom, his body entangled with that of the corpse. He writhed there, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched, his hands around the knife handle as if to pull it free. To do that would cause more pain and he was afraid of suffering any more than he had to; but soon he had no strength to do it anyway, and before Rivers had reached the top of the stairs the man's throat was gurgling its death rattle.
There were two doors on that side of the landing and one of them was open. The room was in darkness, but he could sense the big woman's presence, could smell her sweat-soaked stench, as soon as he entered. And then he saw her standing by the dim light that came from behind. He became still as blinding light swept through the room, the thunder almost instant and shockingly close. As the light flickered he caught sight of Eva's little body, dressed in her nightgown, lying on her bed, her arms and legs outstretched, her eyes now open and staring up at the ceiling. The bedroom must have belonged to Hugo and Bibby, for the bed itself was full-sized, a curving headboard of dark wood at one end, a footboard of similar shape at the other. He had a chance to take in the room's layout before the light faded: there was a dressing-table to one side of the window and a huge old-fashioned wardrobe against a far wall; small cabinets stood either side of the broad bed, a lamp on each one. The position of the nearest lamp still in his mind as the room plunged into darkness once again, Rivers made for it rather than scrabble at the wall near the door for the light switch. He found the switch and clicked it on; the glow was barely adequate.
The thunder had died away moments after the lightning and he could hear the wind and rain outside the window. The woman there had not moved, but now she let a hissing breath escape her. Rivers straightened up from the lamp and faced her.
He could not help the shudder that ran through him when he moved aside to allow the light to reveal her, for this close she was even more awesome. The smock-like dress she wore was dark-coloured, black or perhaps navy blue, and it reached down almost to her thick ankles, the arms loose and split at the elbow so that her broad and powerful-looking wrists were plainly visible. Her hair was in crinkly curls around her face and there were scars, not pockmarks, that seemed almost tribal on her cheeks. Her nose was flat, misshapen, and there was something else odd about it; maybe it was a trick of the light that caused the shadows to be so deep, but it looked as if she only had a single nostril. Instead of a shudder, this time a cold ripple ran between his shoulder-blades to the base of his spine.
Still she did not move.
'Eva,' Rivers said urgently. 'Eva, come here to me.' He didn't dare take his eyes off the woman in case she made a move towards him. There was no response from the child on the bed. 'Eva,' he said again, this time raising his voice so that it was almost a call. Still there was no response. He risked a glance towards her and for one heart-stopping moment he thought she was dead. Although her eyes were open, he could tell they registered nothing. He breathed a short sigh when there was a slight stirring as her chest moved up and down.
'She cain't hear you.'
His attention snapped back to the tall woman. It had sounded like
'cain't heyar you'
.
'She ain't dead.'
Ain't daid.
'But she's not with us.' The voice was low and gravelly, almost like a man's.
'Who are you?' Despite the tension, he wanted to know.
'Git away from her.'
He remained where he was, but a feebleness, an almost nauseating weakness swept over him, as if this woman's voice had a power of its own. Her accent was that of the southern states of America, he was sure, but the knowledge only added to his confusion. The man he had come face to face with in the downstairs hall had called her Mama Pity-no, Mama Pitie, he had used the French word, its accent plain (and his accent had been pure Bronx). Just what was she and those others doing here, and what did she want with Eva? At once he remembered his conversation with the old man-the children's Dream Man-in the crofter's cottage in the Highlands. The old man had told him there were many forces at work in this time of change, some for the good, but others committed to chaos and destruction, opposing influences whose sole purpose was to wreak havoc against mankind. Their motive was unclear, but these latter forces had been ever-present throughout mankind's evolution (and long before that, he had added enigmatically). Rivers had assumed the old man had spoken metaphorically, that these other forces symbolized the contrariness of the human psyche that was natural and innate to everyone; but now he understood it must assume a physical identity, that this woman, this Mama Pitie, was the word made flesh. This debilitating weakness that was nothing more than fear of her told him the truth of his considerations.
More in desperation than curiosity he asked, 'What do you want with this girl?'
Mama Pitie stared at him for long seconds, her ample breasts rising and falling as if with exertion. Then she said, 'She's the parasite that feeds off Mother Earth.' The words were spat at him, their rage stinging him like hot pellets. But in her eyes he caught the merest hint of frustration.
'She's just a kid,' he said as coolly as he could. Could it be possible? he thought. Could someone so small and frail stand in the way of whatever crazy ideas this woman had for the future of the world? But then Eva wasn't alone; she had Josh, and if the dreams were true, if the old man's words had meaning, there were many others-thousands, perhaps-like them, all psychically joined in the battle to shape the Earth of the future. Some, those of a religious nature maybe, would refer to it as the age-old battle between Light and Darkness, while others who took the Bible even more literally might say it was the eternal war between God and the Fallen Angels. Yet others would declare that mankind held its destiny in its own hands and now was the time for all voices-all minds-to be heard. The old man had said the human mega-psyche, the neglected sense that linked us all, had been revived, or reclaimed, by the children of the new evolution, and it was this special power that linked us to the planet itself. The thoughts crowded in and Rivers had to still his own mind.
'Every man, woman and child is the parasite,' the big woman was saying slowly, 'an' it's time for the clensin'.'
He wondered if he could reason with her. 'You've got it wrong,' he said, the calmness in his voice a lie to the paralysing fear he felt. 'We are the Earth. We're part of it and the Earth is part of us.'
'Mother Earth is destroyin' us.'
The inner turmoil he had felt over the past twenty-four hours had begun to evaporate. The old man's testimony had been difficult to accept, especially for someone as pragmatic as Rivers, but because his predictions that Josh and Eva were in mortal danger and that he, Rivers, was the one who would help them had become true, the realities had somehow become starker, the truths more plain. Since yesterday he might have acted as if he were convinced, but a grain of doubt had remained; now this bizarre creature before him had flushed away that last dissenting speck of disbelief. Lovelock and Hugo Poggs were partially right, but they had both missed the essential truth: mankind was born of the Earth, its earliest life forms crawling from the muddy depths of the oceans and seas, the light giving it energy, taking away the darkness, the part that was the absence of energy. The light became part of the human psyche, for the light was hope, it was faith, it was life itself. Its warmth was the very essence of feeling. It became the metaphorical symbol for love, for compassion, for the spirit of life. The light had enabled mankind to rise above the underworld, to become more than a mindless organism existing in the world's crust. And even now, the light was mankind's focus, it was showing the way, just as some believed it showed the way at the moment of death.
Mama Pitie was still speaking and her voice had risen to evangelical tones. 'Mother Earth is shakin' us off Her back, gettin' rid of the bugs that have been eatin' away at Her heart. She will no longer be the tormented one an' Her wrath shall be great.'