‘He wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Just try to maintain a clear sense of your own self. There are certain prayers and meditations that I can teach you—’
‘No,’ the deserter cut her off. ‘None of that. If I need my head to be clear I won’t want to be filling it with that sort of nonsense.’
‘Well, don’t go filling your belly with Gar’s moonshine, either,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to choose four men to help you. The god might need restraining. Choose from the unwedded men. It’ll be a great honour for them.’
* * *
As he’d expected, Ardwyn had left Swinley long ago, barely a year after himself, taken the married name of Melhuish and become Mother of her own small congregation in Cirencester, supported by her husband’s money. He looked for her as the Farrow began to arrive from all over the country during the following days, imagining how she might have changed and whether, God forbid, Gus had spawned his limp-chinned progeny on her. It was a relief, then, when they finally arrived, to see that she was virtually unchanged from the autumn of 1916, and unencumbered by brats. Maybe the planes of her face were a little more defined, or maybe that was just the combination of make-up, a more modern hairstyle, and his own faulty memory insisting that she must have looked younger because so much time had passed. Her clothes were smarter – the kind of wasp-waisted suit he’d seen in American films – but her spirit, to use Mother’s terms, was just as bright and scornful, if her laughter at Gus and his scowl in response was anything to go by. They arrived in a burgundy MG VA Saloon, a beast of a car, so fuel rationing obviously wasn’t a concern, and the moment she saw Everett she gave a shriek of delight and rushed to embrace him, mashing his lips with her own.
‘You look appalling,’ she said, when she pulled away and properly took in his lean and scruffy appearance. ‘What have you been doing all these years?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ he said airily. ‘Bloodying my soul with as much death as possible to prepare myself for killing a god.’
‘Still, it can’t have been all fun, surely.’
By this time Gus had marched over, but Everett noticed that as angry as he obviously was, he didn’t try to pull Ardwyn away or touch her at all. ‘That’ll do,’ he snapped. ‘Winnie, we have a thousand things to do before tomorrow…’
Everett choked. ‘Winnie?!’
Ardwyn winced apologetically. ‘He thinks it’s endearing.’ To her husband she said, ‘Given what we’re all going to be doing the day after tomorrow, you can hardly complain about me showing a bit of affection for an old friend.’
‘Friend, is it?’ Gus looked him up and down. The same contempt was there but it was better hidden now. More controlled. Augustus Melhuish had grown up, it seemed, and the deserter began to think that he had the makings of a dangerous man. ‘Well, since you are my wife and what is yours is mine I suppose that means he is my friend also. Let me shake your hand, friend. Let’s let bygones be bygones.’ He put out his hand to be shaken, and Everett saw that his tusk bracelet had gold finials. Obviously.
Amused, Everett obliged. Gus didn’t attempt anything so obvious or adolescent – or futile – as to test his strength against Everett’s grip, but held it just a little too long, turning his wrist over and inspecting it in mock surprise.
‘What, no tusk? That’s funny. I thought you were one of the Farrow. I must have been mistaken. And yet I hear that you are to perform the sacrament. Possibly I’m mistaken about that too.’
‘Darling,’ said Ardwyn, somewhat frostily, ‘you’re mistaken about quite a few things.’
‘May I have my hand back?’ asked the deserter. ‘Or do you intend to propose? Your wife might not like that.’
‘My wife is more than capable of deciding what she likes, as I’m sure we both know. That being the case.’ Gus stepped back a pace and bowed. ‘Darling, please accept my apologies for interrupting your reunion. I will see you later, at your convenience. I need to talk to some people to clarify my understanding of Saturday’s celebration.’
Ardwyn and Everett watched him go.
‘He’s going to try to turn the other Farrow against you,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘You don’t seem especially worried about it.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m Mother’s choice. At the end of the day there’s nothing he can do about that. Plus, he won’t cause a fuss on an important occasion like this. It’s more likely that he’ll wait until all of this is over and try to have me quietly killed.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, you boys! You know I almost want to see you two fucking each other on Saturday just so that I can see you fighting to be the one on top.’
It was his turn to laugh, then. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’
‘Really? Care to take me to your cottage and show me how much?’
So he did.
10
THE SACRAMENT OF THE FIRST FLESH, 1942
IN CONTRAST, TWO NIGHTS LATER WHEN HE STOOD BY Moccus’ column with the knife in his hand, naked in the firelight and surrounded by rutting figures, it stirred no heat in him. He was not witnessing a display of desire. Their grunts and squeals, their sweat and spit – it was all a part of the summoning, like Mother blowing the bone carnyx, but there was something desperate about their frenzy, like a child throwing a tantrum to get its parent’s attention.
When the aged figure of Moccus
