Children of Paradise: A Novel (43 page)

—Why a branch? I was a young man, a teenager poised at seventeen between the boy I was and the man I would become. The writing on the window thrust me into manhood. I did not look back. My mother tried to beat me for repeating the dream. She said it should never be made public, since the whole thing blasphemed against all the known teachings of the Lord. I left home. I slept in shelters. It took me a long time to make people listen. They thought me mad and a swindler. I made it plain that I was out to capture their soul for God, and if that was a swindle, I was surely a swindler with a capital S and proud of it. Not dangerous pride. God would stem the flow of all falseness of spirit, like pride. I would rather hold my hand in a naked flame than harbor one ounce of pride.

—As I say in my nightmare, I fly with the devil, and I think deep underground should be hot, but it is cold. I picture steam, hot springs, volcanoes in subterranean tunnels lit by spontaneous flames shot from lava, but it is pitch black. It is so dark, we seem to cut through the blackness to make our way. Perhaps the devil takes me to the North Pole rather than the center of the earth. Or the devil has lost his bearings. I have a compass around my neck, tucked under my shirt. I should offer it to him if he keeps pretending he knows where he is going. I reach for it and the pointer spins and spins. I shake it and still it rotates. The devil is not taking me forward, sideways, slantwise, or even backward; the devil revolves on the spot and the revolutions spin so fast they throw off the world, chunks of it at a time, for something that is not a world at all. And the moment I work this out for myself, the devil begins to slow down, but my compass keeps spinning.

—Is the devil tired? I think not. The devil must be near home. I have to make my move. Devil, I shout as we come to a standstill, before you roast me or freeze me or tear me to pieces, I have a statement to make in my defense. The devil without a face always looks taller, thinner, than his victims. The devil favors black attire, a simple black gown and hood, hooves, and a staff nearly his height with special powers. That is my comic-book version of the devil. In truth, the devil operates out of me, and that’s why he succeeds in directing my every move. I follow his lead and yet I seem alone with my thoughts. The compass continues to spin. I may be standing on a magnetic field. I almost throw it away and remember I am not in the usual place with a left and right and up and down. I am in a world of my own making, with my own rules and regulations. Everyone in my world must do what I say or face my punishment. And now here I am, at the mercy of the devil in this same world. Here I may be upended because all around feels solid, no air and no light.

—Devil, do not show me mercy. I do not want your mercy. There cannot be room for mercy if this world of mine is to work for everyone in it. World without end. El Dorado. Shield for all my followers. Show me justice. That I can swallow however big the pill you have for me. In everything I do, let justice be my guide. Real justice has no truck with mercy. Mercy is too much like pity.

—The devil with no face throws off his hood and I see every face from the commune, young and old, man, woman, and child. The time for all those faces to show on the devil’s head takes a lifetime and is over in the blink of an eye. I see them all, nearly one thousand people lined up before me as for police. The faces say things I cannot hear. The thousand mouths make shapes for words, single words. I make out a why, and once I recognize it, other words become clear: please, don’t, help, God, Father. Mouths that say nothing in life, baby mouths, take shape on a death mask and form words: no, Jesus, devil, mercy.

The preacher wipes his wet face repeatedly and keeps it hidden for several seconds in his handkerchief. Nora, Dee, and Pat surround him, and he pushes them away. His shirt sticks to his skin. The room of faces, all in tears, stare at him and some of them make the sign of the cross. The commune, frozen during the preacher’s speech, mobilizes slowly and the people dry their eyes and add a small prayer of their own for a painless transition from this world, across the terrain patrolled by the devil, and into the safety of paradise. Most of them think they will be fine, the preacher has seen it all, has foretold all, has done it all, and he is their leader and he will guide them to the other side.

Trina hurries to the main house to see the preacher. The guard tells her to be a good child and go away, since the preacher is very busy with last-minute preparations for the U.S. delegation. Trina says her wish to see Father concerns these very plans. The guard begs her to leave and says if he disturbs the preacher and makes him angry, he will have to pay a price and it is more than his job is worth. Trina says what if she guarantees to him that the preacher will be pleased and he will be rewarded for interrupting the meeting, would that change his mind?

—He’ll be pleased and I’ll get a reward?

—Yes, sir.

—But how, Trina?

—I can’t tell you. You have to trust me.

He shakes his head and opens the front door and walks in and the preacher shouts at him to get out and he is about to turn and leave when Trina barges past the guard and bows to the preacher and asks him for two minutes of his time, please, please, please. The reverend’s face changes from fury to a smile.

—Okay, Trina—just two minutes.

The packed room steams with the sweat of senior guards, managers, and assistants. All of them think Trina has something about her that they cannot pin down and therefore grudgingly respect, but none of them understands what possesses her to walk in at this busy moment, except some inflated sense of her own importance to the commune, fed by the preacher’s overindulgence.

—Father, I want us to hold a parade for the delegation. No one in this room has to lift a finger. I know you’re all very busy. My mother and the children will help me.

—Go on.

—I want us to hold a parade of the children, the bright future of the commune, all the children of paradise, acrobats, musicians, dancers, all led by Adam dressed up as our mascot.

—I don’t know, Trina. I like the idea very much, but Adam and lots of children loose around the place . . .

The once mute prefect pokes her head into the room:

—Father, I will help Trina.

The preacher jumps up out of his chair and rushes over and places his hands on the prefect’s shoulder and stoops down and looks up at her and then at Trina.

—How did you do it, Trina? How?

—We played together with the friendly things of the forest, Father.

The prefect nods and speaks.

—I’m sorry I didn’t stand still for you, Father, but the tarantula has itchy feet.

The preacher bursts out laughing. He topples backward and rolls on the floor, and the entire room convulses with laughter. The preacher holds his stomach. He points at the prefect.

—Itchy feet. You all hear that, not doubt, not the devil, but itchy feet.

He rolls around and laughs and his assistants help him up. He grabs the prefect and kisses her face several times and sinks into his chair and wipes his face and chuckles all the time and shakes his head. Blood springs from his nostrils and he grabs his face in his handkerchief. He waves her away.

—Go on, Trina. Have your parade. Do whatever you want. You are something else, Trina.

Trina turns to leave, but the preacher remembers something. He beckons to Trina to wait for a second. He examines his bloody handkerchief, and Pat stuffs cotton wool up his nostrils. He waves Trina to come closer and she steps into his embrace and he plants two kisses on her forehead and gives her the key to Adam’s cage. Trina hands the preacher her handwritten announcement for him to read over the commune-wide loudspeaker system. She says goodbye and bows to everyone, turns on her heels, and departs with the prefect. The preacher announces to the room of his senior guards and managers and assistants that he cannot wait to see the radiant light that will shine from this child in heaven.

The preacher passes Trina’s announcement around the room and solicits the opinion of everyone present. A heated discussion ensues. The majority of the managers, senior guards, and assistants say Trina really has gone too far this time. The preacher says a parade of children might be the very trick needed to thwart the malice of the delegation toward the commune. He reminds them that Christianity should honor children, who are the only ones predisposed to enjoy the fruits of Christ’s teachings here on earth because of their innocence. He thinks Trina’s plan might be a fine counterpoint to the serious business at hand of matching the delegation strategy for strategy. Fewer guards will need to watch the children. All the children will be in one place and readily accessible. The preacher moves that they pass Trina’s motion to hold a parade and that he reads her notice over the PA system as is, no edits. Pat seconds the motion and changes the cotton wool in his nose. The ayes win the motion. There is not a single nay. Several people appear to withhold their vocal support despite no formal abstentions. The preacher claps his hands.

—Motion carried, unanimously.

He reads Trina’s announcement over the commune’s loudspeakers by first of all calling everyone to attention and adding that this concerns Adam as well.

The commune freezes, taps are turned off, hammers pause over nails, someone stops halfway up or down a ladder, someone pushing a red wheelbarrow rests it on the spot, someone stirring a pot lifts the spoon and lets sauce drip from it. Adam ceases rocking from side to side when he hears his name.

—All children with the following skills are excused from their chores and must report immediately to Trina and her mother, Joyce, in front of Adam’s cage for a special meeting: all children in the band, all players of a musical instrument even if it is the kazoo, all gymnasts, dancers, acrobats, jugglers, baton twirlers, clowns, mimes, comedians, orators, singers, magicians, Hula Hoop experts, whistlers, and willing marchers, please report immediately to Trina and her mother, Joyce, in front of Adam’s cage.

The commune springs back to life, and the children cheer and run from mops, brooms, laundry, fetching this or that for some adult or other. Of all the noises at the commune, the hymns, the applause, the choir, the band, school rote learning, breakfast, lunch, and supper bells, Trina’s flute lessons by Adam’s cage, the daily industry of the place, hammering, sawing, jabbering, two-stroke and four-stroke engines, the wildlife of the forest, Adam treasures above all the children’s voices unleashed in joy. He jumps up and down and rattles his cage and hoots his own version of happiness. The group of children, over three hundred strong, cheer all the way to the front of Adam’s cage.

The parade crowns Adam its king. He wears a crown made of calabash cut to resemble a castle with an elastic strap under his chin; a velvet cloth partly covers the crown and partly hangs around the sides of it, with beads and false precious stones sewn into it. A king’s cape trimmed with sequins hangs on Adam’s shoulders, and Trina ties it in place with a bow around his neck. Adam holds a scepter, which happens to be a guard’s stick covered in fabric fitted at one end with velvet to simulate royalty and authority. Trina plays her flute and marches next to Adam, accompanied by the rest of the band. Gymnasts and acrobats, jugglers and dancers, and characters from cartoons, Halloween, Day of the Dead, and Carnival troop behind Adam and Trina or occasionally break rank to tumble or display an elaborate dance move. A child in a wheelchair and two others on crutches, armed only with whistles, seem happy merely to be part of the procession.

Kevin and Eric guard them to ease many adult minds balking at the idea of children marching around without adult supervision. Trina passes along the instruction to march once around the compound before they process along a special route.

—Once around the compound, then we follow Trina.

Ryan, disguised as Humpty Dumpty, appoints himself cheerleader, complete with megaphone, and although another child twirls a baton and spins around and flings it high and kicks and falls into a split and straightens in time to catch the baton, it is Ryan who shouts the titles of hymns while Trina with her flute plays the Pied Piper and leads the band at the front of the procession. “Onward Christian Soldiers,” Ryan says, or “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy, Down in My Heart.” The audience sings that line, prompted by Ryan’s drawn-out shout—Deep—into the megaphone.

They somersault, dance, juggle, and sing around the campus with adults looking up from their toil and shaking their heads in disbelief. Joyce walks up and down the procession, keeping everyone busy and roughly in place. Adam carries the scepter and heads the parade. Older boys and girls who are not performing carry younger children on their shoulders and dance with them or push the wheelchair or assist someone on crutches. A blind girl walks chaperoned by two children, a boy on one side and a girl on the other, both holding her hands and telling her about everything.

They complete the circuit of the compound before Trina veers onto the path in the direction of the pig farm. Here Joyce asks the children to pick up the pace and the band goes allegro. According to Joyce’s gamble, it will take the adults about three minutes to miss the parade and realize the children have not disbanded but disappeared. In this three-minute period, she hopes to create a gap between the children and guards large enough to convey everyone to the pier. She calculates that other guards will head down the three other paths that splay out into the forest from that side of the compound.

Joyce acts as timekeeper and counts the seconds. After two minutes she nods at Kevin, who turns his attention to Eric. Kevin asks Eric if they can have a chat in private. Eric says he has a job to do, so it needs to be quick. Kevin promises it will not take long. They walk off into the woods.

—I’ve been thinking, Eric, that we should choose how we get to heaven. I don’t like the idea of poison: too slow and painful.

The second Kevin and Eric disappear, Trina stops playing and begins to run. Adam follows and all the children trot along. The music stops. Joyce runs back along the line to make sure the children in the wheelchair and on crutches and the blind girl all have assistance and can keep up. Joyce reminds them not to rush and risk a fall, just to keep moving at a comfortable pace, since no one will be left behind. At the pigpen, Joyce opens as many pens as she can, and with the help of some children, she steers the pigs onto the path that leads back to the compound. Trina runs ahead of the group and blows short bursts into her flute.