The voice resonated with fundamentalist and wholly phony electronic bass reverb. A new player had entered the auditorium. The women dropped their rocks, panic-stricken. As one they raised their right arms and signed an invisible circle in the air, hands arranged with index and middle finger extended, much in the same manner as a Pope blessing the multitude. Later Semple would find out that this was the so-called Sign of the Eternal Continuation, with which the followers of the Patriarch were expected to pay tribute to their leader. In other parts, she would also learn, it was known as the Universal Sign of the Donut. This new player was close to seven feet tall, with wild white hair, flowing robes, the beard of a prophet, and a carved wooden staff in his right hand. He’d had the good grace not to make himself look exactly like Charlton Heston, but he wasn’t far off. Semple knew this had to be the Patriarch. Before she’d agreed to go on Aimee’s fool’s errand, she’d been aware that some damn silly demented Moses was on the loose in the wilds, pretending to look for the Promised Land with a bunch of retard followers. She heard he staged orgies just so he could get his kicks smiting the sinners. If this wasn’t he, it had to be another exactly like him.
The Patriarch acknowledged the women’s salute with a curt motion of the staff and repeated his demand. “I ASKED YOU, WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?”
The women avoided his eyes; not even the tall one managed to muster the courage to answer, so Semple, deciding she really had nothing to lose, placed both hands on her hips and adopted a pose of nude, if dusty, defiance. “This bunch of weary, sheep-cuckolded hags was trying to get up the nerve to stone me to death.”
The Patriarch slowly looked her up and down. Although he maintained a pose of righteous outrage, Semple saw something else in his eyes that was far from righteous and all too familiar. The son of a bitch was as horny as the next guy. Maybe hornier. As Patriarch, he was probably above seeking the comfort of sheep. Catching on, she posed like a cheap pinup. “You must be this Moses character I’ve been hearing about.”
“INDEED I AM MOSES, THE PROPHET OF THE LORD THY GOD, AND WHAT MANNER OF NAKED ABOMINATION ARE YOU?” Without waiting for an answer, Moses waved an arm in the direction of the now-silent women. “BRING LINEN TO COVER THIS THING!”
A short, fat woman hurried away and quickly returned with a rough, homespun caftan like the ones she and the others were wearing. She seemed frightened to approach Semple; only when Moses glared at her did she dare to step forward, eyes averted, to hand the garment over. Semple snatched it from her, as though impatient with all the fear and hesitation. It was probably the ugliest piece of apparel that Semple had ever been expected to wear, and before putting it on, she inspected it slowly and carefully. Although the same dun color as the desert, it seemed reasonably clean and free of lice, so finally she slipped it over her head and turned around as though modeling the thing for Moses. “Is that better? You’d rather have me clothed and shapeless?”
Moses seemed a little unnerved by Semple’s pirouette, but covered himself by roaring even louder, “I ASKED YOU WHAT YOU ARE AND WHERE YOU COME FROM!”
Semple was determined not to be intimidated by Moses’ crude bombast. She’d heard enough voice-amplification tricks in the court of Anubis not to be blown away by this fool’s bass boost and slap-back echo. She stood her ground and inspected the Patriarch with an expression that verged on insolence. “Is this how you treat an unfortunate traveler who has fallen to misfortune in the wilderness?”
Clearly Moses wasn’t accustomed to being addressed in this manner. Most of his followers were probably too dumb and brainwashed to speak unless spoken to directly. “I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT YOU ARE AND WHERE YOU COME FROM!”
“You think you might lower the volume a little? I really find it very hard to conduct any kind of conversation under these circumstances. And while we’re at it, if someone doesn’t offer me some water, I’m liable to die of thirst and dehydration before you find out anything about me at all. I always assumed the giving of water, even to a stranger, was common courtesy among all desert peoples, no matter how primitive.”
This gave Moses the easy out of barking another order. “FETCH HER WATER!”
Semple now knew she had the measure of this biblical blowhard. He didn’t want to see her stoned any more than she did. At least not until he’d had a chance to get her on her own and see if she was up for a little patriarchal bodily tribute. And yet he seemed uncertain how to pull if off with all the women, plus the men and the sheep, watching his every move. Don’t worry, Moses my boy, she thought. I’ll give you any help you need. Just get me away from these potential rock throwers.
This time a different woman waddled quickly off to do the Patriarch’s bidding. When she returned with an earthenware pitcher, she, too, shied away from eye contact. The water tasted brackish, but it was cool and wet, and just what Semple’s parched throat gasped for. She drank slowly and with care, however. She was well aware that drinking too much, too fast under these conditions could cause all manner of physical problems, and she wasn’t about to take any chances. She also suspected that, among the Moses Family, water was strictly rationed. If so, another way by which she might assert her separateness and superiority over this badland trash presented itself. When she’d finished drinking, she poured the rest of the contents of the pitcher slowly and deliberately over her head. As she’d expected, the women let out a collective gasp at her cavalier attitude to what, for them, was a precious fluid. She ignored their response and handed the container back to the woman with a satisfied sigh. “God, that was good.”
Moses immediately rounded on her with a bellow. “YOU TAKE THE LORD’S NAME IN VAIN?”
Semple looked at Moses as though she were starting to lose patience. “Will you get off it? I know exactly what you are. And I’m not impressed by all your bellowing and bluster.”
For a moment, she thought she might have overplayed her hand. Moses looked around at his followers as though he were going to give the order to let the stoning begin all over again, but instead he merely waved an angry arm. “DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE WORK TO DO? GET ABOUT YOUR ALLOTTED TASKS AND STOP STANDING AROUND GAPING. THERE’S NOTHING MORE TO SEE HERE.”
Semple nodded to herself. Good thinking, pal. Send the common herd back to their business so we can get down to ours. As the crowd of women reluctantly moved away, he turned back to Semple. “NOW WILL YOU TELL ME WHO AND WHAT YOU ARE?”
At the sound of his voice, many of the followers stopped in their tracks and stared at the exchange. Some of the sheep bleated uneasily and Semple sighed. “It really might be an idea to lower the volume a bit. It doesn’t impress me and makes it hard to retain our privacy.”
For an instant Moses looked as though he were about to strike her down with his staff. Lust and the need to maintain authority stood conflicted. Then lust won out and he lowered the staff, at the same time killing the echo and reverb. He took a deep breath. It seemed he’d been playing the Wrath of God for so long that normal conversation was hard for him. “So what are you?”
Semple half smiled, restrainedly coquettish. “All you needed to do was ask me nicely.”
His anger started to boil again. “Who are you and what are you doing in my desert?”
“I’m just an unfortunate refugee from cannibalism and fornication.”