A bolt of lightning leaps from the sky like the finger of God, to point at the circle of men and charge them all with a stuttering blue light.
The heavens bark and the mob in turn look toward the turbulent skies to read the heavens and to absorb their significance. One word is written across every gaping upturned face – rain – the return of rain, the return of too much rain.
And lo! Ah can see Mule. Ah can! Watch how proudly he highsteps across the heavens. Now there’s your dignity in death, sir! There’s your just reward! Spine straight, coat brushed, head high – O long-suffering life, there’s your fucking prize! And there, look, coming up behind, mah loyal subjects, mah beasts! See the parade of innocents, winged brute creation, marching across the firmament to await the advent of their King. See them all falling into their ranks.
For some a mere glance at the sky served to alert them to the oncoming threat, and no sooner had they looked up than they were looking down again, their fury rekindled – for ah brought the rain, ah brought the rain – for it was, after all, HE who brought the rain.
O now ah know, now ah know what’s happening.
Here she is descending. The shifts of breeze tell me. The blue effluxion, the flutter of wings. O mah winged protector! Mah guardian angel! Is it you? Is it you, come to carry me through the gates? Can you tell me? O can you tell me? Can you tell me what’s happening?
They pour gasoline from canisters.
O weeping angel, do you cry?
Euchrid strains his dripping chin upward.
Will they sound the trumpets? Roll the drum?
The empty canisters crash about him.
Ah, here they are! Death’s lights!
EPILOGUE
Dark was the night and the township of Ukulore cringed beneath a merciless rain.
Doc Morrow battled to save a life, while a group of five women waited anxiously in his office for reports of his progress.
The door opened and an ashen-faced Philo Holfe entered, his tired eyes cast downward.
‘Well?’ demanded Wilma Eldridge.
‘He may have to choose,’ replied Philo Holfe.
‘He has had his instructions,’ said the cripple, turning toward the window to contemplate the downpour outside. ‘There is no choice.’
Inside the surgery the doctor battled to save a life – to save two lives. It was Beth’s life for which the doctor so earnestly fought – her life, and another’s.
‘She is a strong child,’ said Hilda Baxter. ‘Look at what she has already survived.’
‘But she has never really recovered from the accident,’ said Widow Roth.
‘Accident! By God, it was no accident,’ barked Wilma Eldridge.
‘Just like her father was no accident – or have you convinced yourself that he fell into the swamp?’
‘Can you blame Sardus for that, Wilma? He thought that Beth had died.’
‘We each have our cross to bear. Our lives are a test,’ replied Wilma Eldridge without mercy.
But the doctor could not save both lives, nor was there any choice. Emerging from his surgery, a man at low ebb, wan and grey and barely able to support the weight of the bundle that he cradled in his arms, he entered the office.
‘The child lives. It is a boy.’ And holding out the bundle he added blankly, ‘The mother died in labour.’
‘He is born,’ said Wilma Eldridge, her arms outstretched to receive the infant, ‘As the prophet predicted, He is born.’
And with the babe in her arms and the rest of the women huddling around, the cripple folded back the swaddling rug with one finger. A thunderbolt leapt from the teeming night sky and the craning sisters ruckled and clucked at the tiny infant face that stared up at them with shivering, pale blue eyes.