Cairo
January 2011
The cool of the morning. The hollow slap of water against a wooden hull. No sight of the shore or the sky.
Aden had woken her an hour ago by nuzzling her ear. Cairo felt as though she’d only been asleep five minutes. She had her own class of the smallest children at school now, as well as the duties on Otto’s rotating roster: Vigil, gardening, kitchen, firewood, laundry, crèche and workshops. She’d fallen into bed after Night Call and slept right through the unborn baby’s kicking, and the mosquitos, and the heat.
She sat up, disorientated, heaving her clumsy body around. It was still dark.
‘What’s happening? Can’t be time for Call already?’
‘Shh … no. Justin’s going to take you fishing. Here, I brought you tea.’
She rubbed her eyes. The baby was nowhere near due but she wondered how much bigger it could possibly grow. She felt as though all her organs were being squashed to make room, and she’d developed the pregnant woman’s waddle.
‘Fishing? In the middle of the night?’
‘It’s not for us to question.’
‘How d’you know? Is he here?’
Aden handed her some clothes. ‘I just know.’
Minutes later, they were on the jetty. Cairo had become attuned to the natural world and sensed that dawn wasn’t far off. She inhaled the morning freshness as she took Aden’s arm. Their partnership had been an arranged one, she knew that, but it made her very happy.
‘Can’t you come too?’ she asked.
‘Don’t question Justin.’ Aden’s voice had a sharp edge, which wasn’t like him. ‘He never asks for anything we can’t give, or anything he wouldn’t give himself.’
‘But … what are we being asked to give?’
He didn’t answer. She heard oars on water before Justin’s boat appeared out of the gloom, with Peter tail-wagging on the bow.
‘Morning, you two!’ cried Justin, throwing the painter. ‘Coming fishing, Cairo?’
They left Aden standing on the jetty. He waved as Justin pulled away, and she waved back. Seconds later he’d melted into darkness.
Justin was a strong rower, but it took some time to get out to the deep part of the lake where he wanted to fish. They talked about the pregnancy, and Cairo watched the evening star as it sank towards the horizon. At last Justin stored the oars, humming to himself as he pottered about. Peter sat on a piece of sacking and watched his master’s every move.
Cairo tried not to think of the lightless depths that lay beneath the flimsy wood. There were no life jackets on board and she felt hopelessly heavy. She wouldn’t survive long if she fell in there. She’d drown, and the baby would die with her.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Justin. ‘I’ve never sunk one yet.’
‘I wasn’t worrying.’
‘Fibber.’
They both smiled.
‘Coffee?’ he asked, producing a thermos and pouring some into a tin cup. ‘It’s a beautiful brew. I made it myself.’
‘Thank you.’
She watched as he broke a muffin in half to share. She hadn’t expected luxuries like this. She knew that Justin’s lifestyle was spartan, even more so than that of the Watchmen. Yet here he was, taking her on a fishing trip with all the creature comforts. Like a father.
Like a father. A memory flitted through her mind; it ran in and out, playing hide-and-seek with her consciousness. Her dad on a weekend, gleefully bringing out the sandwiches. This is the life, eh Cass? The reservoir wasn’t big. They could have walked around it in ten minutes. He showed her how to tie on the fly, and how to cast. Have a go. Let the line just … ooh, watch the trees.
A world away, and half a lifetime.
‘Worrying about something?’ asked Justin.
‘My father,’ she said. ‘We used to go fishing.’
‘Sounds like a good memory.’ He was opening a tackle box. ‘Of course you have good memories. Your family aren’t evil.’
‘No.’
‘But they can never understand Gethsemane. Okay, we’re ready. Would you like a go?’
‘I’d rather watch you.’
She heard the swish of the rod, the whirring of the reel, followed by a small splash as the line hit the water.
‘It was my father who taught me to cast,’ said Justin.
‘Your father?’
‘Mm. Well, the man who called me his son. He used to take me to a canal, somewhere in Essex. I was about four. We caught nothing but supermarket trolleys.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He died. Motorbike.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Justin said not to worry, it was a long time ago. Then he asked about the children in Cairo’s class, every one of whom he knew and loved. He understood their individual foibles, and who was best friends with whom, and who needed extra care. He wondered whether there were any resources Cairo needed, and she mentioned more early reader books.
‘Talk to Rome,’ he said. ‘He’ll order them.’
Without fanfare, the sun hauled itself over the horizon and into a layer of cloud. Justin cast again and again, the line snaking onto the milky opacity of the water.
‘Do you ever hear voices, Cairo?’ he asked.
She was startled. ‘No! Should I?’
‘I think you will one day. I foresee that for you … hang on, have I caught something?’ He peered, shook his head, and unhurriedly cast again.
Cairo was leaning closer, watching and listening. Six months ago she’d have been looking for some way to escape (Help! Trapped on a tiny boat with a raving nut job!) but she was a different woman today. She knew that human existence was a speck in the universe. She’d communed with the Infinite.
‘I’ve heard voices ever since I was a little boy,’ said Justin. ‘Not mad, hallucination voices. Real voices, of real beings. I’m perfectly sane, I promise you … Aha!’
The rod was bent almost double. This was the part she didn’t like about fishing. She’d never really wanted to catch anything, though her father always put the trout back. That was the rule, in the little lake.
‘Isn’t it stressful for the poor thing?’ she’d asked once, looking at the gasping mouth and pulsating gills.
‘Not if you’re very careful,’ Mike had said. ‘Not as stressful as being banged on the head.’ He’d lowered the fish into the water with both hands and held it there, and they watched it come to life and flick away.
Justin let his line out, wound it in, let it out. ‘He’s a big fella,’ he said. ‘Look … there! See him?’
She did—a silvery flash of tail, churning the water. Little by little Justin brought it closer, finally dropping a magnificent trout into a net. It lay flapping, rainbow scales shining, while Justin lifted a vicious-looking knife out of the tackle box.
‘Glorious creature,’ he said, taking hold of the fish. Cairo winced and looked away, despising herself for being feeble. When she turned back a second later, Justin had cut its head clean off. ‘Seems a bit barbaric,’ he said, ‘but it’s a lot kinder than clubbing it or leaving it to suffocate.’
He dropped both head and body into a bucket. Then he sat down and grabbed the oars.
‘Back to my place for breakfast?’
They pulled the boat up the beach together. Once she was on dry land, Cairo stood entranced. Justin’s island was a miniature paradise, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre. Rocky coves and pumice sand surrounded a bush-clad interior. She heard the melodic sweetness of a tui and caught a flash of his white pom-pom among the crimson flowers of a pohutukawa. She’d thought the Gethsemane settlement was peaceful, but this was another world again.
‘Welcome!’ declared Justin. ‘Here’s my cabin, up in the trees … come along in, we’ll make some more coffee. I have a propane stove. Bit of a luxury.’
It was a simple cabin, smaller than her own and very bare: just a few books, writing paper and a pen lay on the table. The floor was swept, the stove unlit. The porch looked straight across the lake to the mountain.
‘What a magical place,’ said Cairo.
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Justin was gutting the fish, then lacing fillets along a couple of sticks.
‘Not lonely?’
‘I need to be alone. But I have Peter for company. And the birds—so many birds! Rome visits me often. Sometimes I have guests to stay.’
‘Guests?’
‘Watchmen, when they need special care. Maybe they’re fighting their demons, maybe depressed. Maybe just overwhelmed by life.’
‘Like Paris. She told me that you were the only one who listened. And Dublin. And Kyoto.’
‘Or it’s just a friend, like you, who’s good enough to while away an hour or two with me. Right, I think we’re ready. Let’s sit outside.’ He led the way out to the beach and nodded to a ring of pumice. ‘If you’d just add a couple of bits of wood to the fire and blow on it?’
Within minutes, the fish was gently cooking. It smelled exquisite. Justin and Cairo settled on smooth wooden stools under the cicada-hissing trees, their feet in the sand, watching wisps of smoke in the wavering air.
‘You said you heard voices,’ ventured Cairo.
‘One in particular,’ said Justin. ‘He’s been visiting me—on and off—since I was five years old. He calls himself Messenger. I was a sad kid. My mother and I were refugees, in a way, and things weren’t good. Messenger promised that one day I’d rule over the people who were hurting me. Wait, Justin, he used to say. Your time will come.’
Cairo began to have a very odd, very intense sensation. A mist was clearing from her mind. Something extraordinary was being unveiled.
‘I grew up with a lot of violence,’ said Justin, ‘and I gave a lot back. By the time I was Rome’s age I hated the world and everyone in it.’
‘I can’t imagine that.’
‘Ask Liam! He knew me back then. People were afraid to look me in the eye. They saw the rage. I was a one-boy crime wave—petty theft at first, then drugs kicked in and I got nastier. The shrinks said I had conduct disorder, the police thought I was a psycho who was going to kill somebody. And one day, I almost did. An innocent stranger.’
Cairo saw only a serene, middle-aged man with sea-green eyes, a man whose love chased away shadows. He looked like a university professor, perhaps, or a distinguished actor.
‘Was it a car accident?’ she asked, thinking of Paris.
‘It was a knife. I drove a knife into a young man’s stomach.’ He saw her shock and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. I know about sin. I know about hate and anger and shame. I know about forgiveness.’
‘Has everyone in Gethsemane heard this story?’
‘Only those I trust.’
It was his gift to her. She hugged his words. Those I trust.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked.
‘He survived. We were both lucky.’
‘And you?’
‘I descended into hell. I crawled into a hole and tried to die. And it was at that moment—the darkest of my life—that Messenger returned. He brought reinforcements, thousands of them—an army! They came to tell me who I am.’
His gaze held hers, affectionate but a little severe. She sat absolutely still. She couldn’t look away.
‘Cairo,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Cairo. Don’t you know who I am?’
The answer was dazzling. It was in the air, in the lake, in the sky. It was in the drifting smoke, the rattle of cicadas, the music of the birds. It was in every atom of the universe. She was on her knees in the sand. How had she been so blind?
Old Cassy—the one who’d never been to Gethsemane—would be scoffing right now. What a load of old bollocks, she’d be saying. Get yourself out of there, girl. But Cairo’s mind was open, her eyes were open, and she could see clearly. She knew she was in the presence of the light of the world, of Jesus Christ himself.
‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Of course I know you! I’ve known you all my life.’
Bliss rippled through her body and her mind. Even her unborn child seemed to somersault.
‘The baby’s dancing,’ she said, laughing. Then she burst into tears. ‘He knows exactly who you are!’
For an hour or more she knelt at his feet. She never wanted to be anywhere else. He broke the white flesh of the fish to share with her. While they ate, she asked about his previous mortal life. He described his mother, who always believed in him. He reminisced about his cousin John, brutally murdered. He remembered siblings and friends who resented him.
‘The same patterns this time,’ he said. ‘And the same old guard, vested interests—modern-day scribes and Pharisees. Though I’ve kept a lower profile. The idea this time around isn’t to get myself executed.’
‘Is the Infinite your father?’ she asked. ‘Are you the Son of God?’
The question made him chuckle. He held out a scrap of fish for Peter.
‘We’ve watched humans tying themselves in knots with their clumsy theology. Century after century, war after war; Judaism and Christianity and Islam and Hinduism and all the others, splitting into a thousand different sects. They’ve all got it hopelessly, catastrophically wrong! You’d think Christianity would have done better, since I do actually exist. But no. I mean, the Trinity? Seriously? Where on earth did that come from?’ He held up his hands in exasperation. ‘And the Creationist narrative! Beggars belief. The sheer ignorance and arrogance of it makes me weep. Transubstantiation would be hilarious, except that people have been tortured to death for questioning it, which isn’t funny at all.’
‘Tell me the real story. I want to understand.’
‘You can’t. It’s on a scale that even you, wise Cairo, can’t come close to comprehending. But you can make a start by accepting that the natural universe has dimensions and physical laws that are beyond all possibility of human knowledge.’
‘More things in heaven and earth?’
‘Exactly. The Infinite is far beyond understanding. There are realms beyond realms; heavens beyond heaven, peopled by divine beings. Ironically, science is much closer to understanding God than any religion. But even the most brilliant scientist can’t comprehend infinity.’
The lake licked the shore; the volcano merged into the hot sky. Justin talked, and Cairo floated in the mystery of his words. He was describing the indescribable. She was dazed by the time he emptied his flask of coffee into their cups.
‘Do you remember your baptism, Cairo?’
‘That was the best day of my life.’
‘It was a wonderful moment, wasn’t it? I asked whether you would keep the Vigil and look towards the Last Day. And you said yes. You didn’t know what it all meant, but you said yes. You trusted me.’
‘I did. I do.’
‘I once asked my followers to keep Vigil while I prayed. They fell asleep. You’ve heard the story, I’m sure.’
‘The Passion. In the Garden of Gethsemane. I was brought up by atheists but even I know that story.’
He shuddered. ‘None of the Gospels do justice to the horror of those hours. They got quite a lot of facts wrong … but the core is true. It was the most terrible night of my human life, and my friends couldn’t even stay awake. Well, now I’m back, and this time a lot more is at stake! We can’t afford to fall asleep on the job. That’s why we keep Vigil. A Watchman is always awake, always watching for the Last Day.’ He threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire, and it sizzled. ‘You know it’s coming, Cairo. You were already afraid when you came here. You were afraid for a world that’s going to hell in a handcart. The Devil is doing her work—oh! So merrily.’
She couldn’t read his expression; she didn’t know whether he was serious or not. ‘The Devil?’
‘You don’t believe in her?’
‘I thought it was an allegorical concept,’ said Cairo. ‘Not a sentient being.’
‘You see her work. Buchenwald. Bosnia. The Killing Fields of Cambodia. Rwanda, the Congo … the casual cruelties in homes and schools and offices and factories and farms … on and on, day after day. Our planet is sick. The temperature is rising, the ice is melting, while humans squabble and deny. They’ve got their fingers in their ears, their eyes shut—they’re singing la-la-la, refusing to hear or see. I warned them! Earthquakes, I said. Tsunamis. Famine, war, plague. It’s all there, in the Gospels. The Last Day is coming for mankind.’
‘When will it come?’
‘Soon. In my present lifetime.’
‘But all those innocent people. What about the children?’
‘Let me worry about them. Here at Gethsemane we’ve made an oasis in the chaos. I promise you—I promise you—I won’t leave you or Aden or this beautiful new child of yours. You’ll be with me in the Kingdom of Peace.’
He began to describe a fiery cloud of glory, a legion of angels—more than the stars in the sky—and how he’d regain his divine form. There was too much to take in, especially as Old Cassy still whispered: This stuff is just weird! Get out while you can.
Justin gave her hands a shake. ‘Wondering if I’m a basket case? I wouldn’t blame you. History is littered with people who think they’re Jesus Christ. There are plenty of false messiahs in the world today.’
‘There are?’
He gave a startling shout of laughter. Peter swept his tail across the sand.
‘Enough to make up a football team! They’ve all got loyal followers, and they’re mostly very rich men. Hardly any women. I hate to say I told you so, but … I told you so. One of the last things I did was to predict the false messiahs, and the false prophets.’
His laughter was gone. The shadows were back.
‘Do you love me, Cairo?’
‘You know I do.’
‘I have a job to do. It might take courage. Will you help me see it through?’
‘You only ever have to ask.’
He reached down, laying his hand on Peter’s head.
‘No matter what?’
‘No matter what.’