Cuisinart. Unless the last four bodies had been mutated in ways
concealed by clothing, we had not encountered another refugee from The
Island of Dr. Moreau since the woman slumped in the Morris chair
downstairs, and we seemed overdue for another close encounter of the
bowel loosening kind. I was tempted to pick up Mungojerrie and pitch him
into the room ahead of me, to draw fire, but I reminded myself that if
any of us survived, we would need the mouser to lead us through Wyvern,
and even if he landed on his feet unscathed , in the great tradition of
felines since time immemorial, he was likely thereafter to be
uncooperative.
I moved past the cat and crossed the threshold with absolutely no
cunning, adlibbing and adrenaline-driven, hurtling headlong into a
deluge of Victoriana. Sasha was close behind me, whispering my name with
severe disapproval, as though it really ticked her off to lose her last
best opportunity to be killed in this sentimental wonderland of filigree
and potpourri.
Amidst a visual cacophony of chintz, in a blizzard of bric-a-brac, a
television screen presented the cuddly cartoon creatures of the veld
capering through The Lion King The marketing mavens at Disney ought to
turn this into a bonanza, produce a special edition of the film for the
terminally distraught, for rejected lovers and moody teenagers, for
stockbrokers to keep on the shelf against the advent of another Black
Monday, package the videotape or DVD with a square of black silk, a pad
and pencil for the suicide note, and a lyrics sheet to allow the
self-condemned to sing along with the major musical numbers until the
toxins kick in.
Two bodies, numbers ten and lucky eleven, lay on the quilted chintz
spread, but they were less interesting than the robed figure of Death,
who stood beside the bed. The Reaper, traveling without his customary
scythe, was bending over the deceased, carefully arranging squares of
black silk to conceal their faces, plucking at specks of lint, smoothing
wrinkles in the fabric, surprisingly fussy for Hell’s grim tyrant, as
Alexander Pope had called him, although those who rise to the top of
their professions know that attention to detail is essential.
He was also shorter than I had imagined Death would be, about five feet
eight. He was remarkably heavier than his popular image, too, although
his apparent weight problem might be illusory, the fault of the
second-rate haberdasher who had put him in a loosely fitted robe that
did nothing to flatter his figure.
When he realized that there were intruders behind him, he slowly turned
to confront us, and he proved not to be Death, the lord of all worms,
after all. He was merely Father Tom Eliot, the rector of St.
Bernadette’s Catholic Church, which explained why he wasn’t wearing a
hood, the robe was actually a cassock.
Since my brain is pickled in poetry, I thought of how Robert Browning
had described Death the pale priest of the mute people’ which seemed to
fit this lowercase reaper. Even here in the animated African light,
Father Tom’s face appeared to be as pale and round as the Eucharistic
wafer placed upon the tongue during communion.
“I couldn’t convince them to leave their mortal fate in God’s hands, ”
Father Tom said, his voice quavering, his eyes brimming with tears. He
didn’t bother to remark upon our sudden appearance, as if he had known
that someone would catch him at this forbidden work. “It’s a terrible
sin, an affront to God, this turning away from life. Rather than suffer
in this world any longer, they’ve chosen damnation, yes, I’m afraid
that’s what they’ve done, and all I could do was comfort them.
My counsel was rejected, though I tried. I tried. Comfort. That was all
I could give. Comfort. Do you understand? ”
“Yes, we do, we understand, ” Sasha said with both compassion and
wariness.
In ordinary times, before we had entered The End of Days, Father Tom had
been an ebullient guy, devout without being stuffy, sincere about his
concern for others. With his expressive and rubbery face, with his merry
eyes and quick smile, he was a natural comedian, yet in times of tragedy