Daddys Caliban | Page 3

her
voice a whisper burred by tears.
She wasn't angry no more.
"Hey," I said, trying to push her away, but Mother Arleigh grabbed on
to me harder, until the other kids laughed at that.
Instead of blushing into her scratchy old wimple, I concentrated on the
Seven Secondary Virtues -- evenhandedness, punctuality, orderliness,
patriotism, thrift, industry and cleanliness. Their first letters made a
little word that helped me remember them in order. "I am epoptic," I
whispered, as Mother Arleigh's dry old lips smothered me with kisses
and she wept like I was her own baby lost.
*
Later, we had services. Daddy wasn't there, and of course Cameron
never came, but Mommy smiled up at me in the men's gallery from her
seat in the front row.
Sometimes, at services, and once in a while at home, I would catch her
in the corner of my eye and see someone else. It was like Mommy was
bigger than she was, something huge and substantial that had set a
fingertip down into this world.
Then she'd laugh, or roll her eyes at some monkey-clowning of mine,
and she was just Mommy again.
That day at church, she was big every time I looked away from her. It
was like having an invisible mammoth in the room, huge and hairy and
warm, with tusks longer that an automobile and breath like a dying
swamp, but you never could quite see it, even when you had to step
around it.
Maybe it was Mother Arleigh's homily. She had her vestments on now,
white robes trimmed with gold, her silver athame and her golden sickle
dangling from her belt. Her pinched little face glowed with the light of

the Lady as she talked about the Lands of Promise and the fate of the
Lady's people.
"When we left the Garden Beneath, we were wrong." Her voice was
sweet and smooth, like honey on bone china at solstice feast. She
paused, staring out over the women of the congregation on their
crowded benches, all dressed in their Saturday best, then up at us in the
men's gallery.
Though 'us' was just the few boys from Saturday School and a pair of
truckers in from their long-haul sheep run looking for their Saturday
prayers. Local men didn't like the services much. There weren't enough
local boys for me to get away with skipping.
"Not many are left of us who can recall the Bright Days, let alone the
Garden Beneath. There are few enough who have even heard the stories
first hand. Our people did only one thing right." She banged her fist
against the pulpit, which boomed like a drum.
"We asked the Lady for a promise. In Her wisdom, She heeded our
prayers. Even though..." Another round of staring. "Even though we
were fools!"
"Fools!" shouted some of the women below. Mommy just wore her
little smile.
Mother Arleigh raised her hands in burgeoning ecstasy. "Who
remembers the brilliant banners, the horses running like wind before a
storm?"
"I do," called old Mrs. Grimsby, who most days couldn't remember to
wear her underthings on the inside of her clothes.
"Who remembers the days of our power, when the swords of our men
and the words of our women were the writ unto the uttermost corners of
the sea?"
"Yes!" screamed one of the women. "I do! I have dreamed on it!"

I didn't know her, but I was fascinated when she jumped up out of her
pew and began rolling in the aisle.
"We were there. We were all there. Na ba lo ka ti ko na! Hai ba la ba ko
na!" She commenced to shrieking and crying.
"Miss Blackthorn has been touched by the spirit of the Lady," said
Mother Arleigh, settling her hands back to the pulpit. Her voice was
almost normal. I realized she didn't want to compete. I'd never
considered services that way before, and it made me uncomfortable.
We all watched Miss Blackthorn writhe around shouting for a while.
She slipped almost out of her clothes, which I thought was the most
interesting part, then two of the other ladies finally led her away.
Mother Arleigh looked around. Her fingers drummed on her pulpit like
a death march. Mommy still had her little smile though most of the
women were downcast now. I kept seeing my mother's flickering
hugeness in the corner of my eye. Was it the homily? Or was
something wrong with me?
"We all know the promise. We all know what was given to us, to our
ancestors, to you, Mrs. Grimsby."
"Praise the Lady!" shouted Mrs. Grimsby.
"Praise the Lady," echoed Mother Arleigh. "We were given what?"
"The Lands of Promise," all the women shouted, even Mommy. Some
of the boys around me started