Amesha Spenta: The nun who killed God

Chapter 1

_______________________

A tall, shaven-headed, muscular black male advanced cautiously across the arid African terrain. Over his shoulder he carried a rifle: a Finnish-made Sako. Big game deluxe model: the hunter’s choice.

The man stopped suddenly and surveyed the countryside.To his left was a high open moorland studded with giant lobelia and groundsel plants, where clumps of fragrant flat-topped mimosa grew, interspersed with occasional glossy-leaved machabells. All around was the great sea of pathless, silent bush; and in the distance a few lazy small antelope grazed.

Bigombe straightened his back. The sweet pollens of a hundred wild plants greeted him. Ahead, the way was clear. This part of the escarpment was threaded by elephant trails that followed easy gradients but Bigombe wondered whether he should veer off and go cross-country or continue onwards. Either way, he had to wait for his boys to catch up. Then something at the limit of his vision caught his attention.

On the opposite hill, just where the msasa forest gave way to giant baobab and mopani, a bull elephant stood brandishing his tusks. A hundred pounds of ivory on each side. Majestic and cunning, his bulk was screened by the trees and he blended with the grey of the rock behind him as he moved forward.

Bigombe flared his alarm back at the four teenagers ambling towards him. The two African boys had their old rubber-tubed slingshots and were delighting in showing the other two, Arab boys, how to bring down larks and warblers for eating later. They were in a different world. Relaxed. Not fussed over much, and certainly not concerned about their grubby shorts and tee shirts. The four were not far from Bigombe but as they approached a flock of Baglafecht Weaver Birds took to the air and smeared themselves across the bright blue African sky.

Bigombe shook his head slowly, sucked air through the gap in his front teeth and crouched down, simultaneously motioning the boys to lower themselves and come nearer. The bull turned, extended its ears and trunk and headed for the rocky ridge, a greyish blur.

Khiva was the first to react, followed by the Arab boys and then Umbopa. They gathered around. Bigombe presented his grim features to them and snatched at their slingshots.

What do you think you’re doing? he hissed venomously. The boys’ faces betrayed their alarm. They knew that Kenya had the strictest game laws in Africa and, more importantly, that they were rigorously enforced.

You want the muzungus here? What would happen if they come?

Khiva bit his lip. Umbopa looked as if he was about to speak, but the eldest boy, Zahid, glared him into silence.

We are stalking elephants, not becoming them, Bigombe spat out at them. Umbopa glanced at Zein, the chubby Arab boy and stifled a nervous grin. Those birds can be seen for miles. Instinctively, each of the boys looked up at the departing flock.

What should we do? whispered Zahid anxiously.

Shut up and sit. Quietly. We’ll stay here. Don’t anyone move, ordered Bigombe and the boys duly obeyed. Do not bat an eyelid, Bigombe warned, his low baritone resonant with threat.

The boys dreaded stillness. They knew Bigombe was quite capable of being motionless for hours. To demonstrate his warrior’s prowess and self-control Bigombe had on occasion got the boys to cover his body in Yao oil and then he’d lie in the sun, waiting for red termites to swarm all over him and bite deep into his exposed flesh. He’d have his ears and nostrils plugged with tissue paper, but like this he’d lie for hour upon hour without moving a muscle.

The recruits were always awed. Perhaps they would have been less awed if they knew the bits of Bigombe’s personal history that he omitted to tell. Like the fact that his mother died giving birth to him, that his father blamed him for the death, said he was cursed and had abandoned him. That he was brought up by an uncle, a witch-doctor, and that the pair were mercilessly ridiculed by their fellow villagers until Bigombe could take no more and ran away, only to be captured by a band of renegade boy soldiers who had robbed, murdered and raped their way across Uganda.

Bigombe was certainly not like some of the other characters who materialised from the bush, recruiting for armies, advocating that their followers should use oil to ward off bullets or commune with mystical spirits. Bigombe was different. Special.

The group bided their time in silence, Zein particularly glad of the chance to ease the weight of his rucksack from his back.

For his part, Bigombe wanted to get the training over and done with quickly. He had a date with his new girlfriend and this trekking around the bush was delaying his anticipated pleasure. It was a pity that she was a Christian. Given time, though, he felt sure he could entice her away from her faith and, with a little luck, he could also entice her away from her husband. He grinned at the prospect of enjoying her.

He had chosen the woman deliberately. In a country where the only things that matter are tribal loyalties, she was his quickest route to integration. She was also a teacher and it gave him a good excuse to hang around the school and groom his apprentices. That was how he he’d acquired his first African boys, Khiva and Umbopa.

With his novices, he always started off with stories, intriguing tales of the days when he was young: the sights he’d seen, the exploits. If the sense of adventure appealed, Bigombe would first cultivate friendships based on football and then suggest hunting trips. The explanation given to the boys’ guardians was that Bigombe was a scout-master and was instructing them in bush-craft. No doubt, the adults would have approved and been proud if they had known the truth, but Bigombe had given these boys strict orders not to reveal any of what they were doing.

Mostly, Amama Bigombe was friendly towards his recruits, but if they crossed him he came down hard. If challenged in any way, he preferred to rely on his fists rather than on words. Occasionally, he would draw their tears and make them wash his feet in them. He made sure of their respect, a respect born of total fear.

Bigombe looked at Umbopa, the youngest of the group and he considered the future that had been decided for him weeks ago. The Sheikh had told Bigombe what it was to be. Umbopa was the chosen one but this did not make Bigombe happy. He had an affection for the boy that he could not explain. Perhaps it was because Umbopa was so much like Bigombe had been at the boy’s age: weak and fragile. Bigombe, though, had grown to become a man, and Umbopa would not have that opportunity. The Sheikh had ordered it, and nobody challenged an order from the Sheikh.

All the youngsters knew the story of the Sheikh: how he’d rescued the young Amama from Uganda, converted him to Islam, taught him many languages and, later, entrusted him with the two Arab boys, Zein and Zahid. At first it was to be to improve his Arabic, but then he was given the task of training them and teaching them the value of Holy War.

Each of the youths had this in common: they’d been brought up in the true faith and were now his neophytes, teenagers Bigombe was to turn into warriors for Jihad.

To that end, today he planned to spend some time with each boy, to accustom him to the guns they carried, from his high powered Sako to the hand guns they had in their rucksacks. They would not be firing live rounds today, though. This was the National Park, and if they were caught with ammunition, the wardens would take them for poachers. No, for his little troupe, the objective of today’s exercise was the practice of discretion and stealth: how to move across open terrain without being spotted, though this was an objective perhaps blown by the flight of the Weaver Birds.

Bigombe raised himself and looked across to the bush-covered ravines in the hills. Sure enough, there was a telltale glint of sun on field-glasses. The muzungu wardens were on the prowl. Bigombe sat back on his haunches.

They’re out there, he whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground, his voice sharp but hushed. Don’t move a muscle. Remember, they can spot us at any minute. We have to get back to the truck without the wardens catching us. How do we do that?

The boys looked at each other, reluctant and uncertain of how to respond. Then Zahid looked directly at Amama and ventured his opinion. Crawl? he whispered.

Bigombe nodded. Slowly. Quietly, he said, getting down on his knees and then onto his belly. The others followed suit, carefully and noiselessly. When he judged them ready, Bigombe moved off, wriggling like a snake along the earth.

The path was dusty and rocky, but clear of any vegetation. It should be no problem for them to negotiate the seven hundred meters back to the truck, Bigombe thought. No problem. Even for Zein and his sumo belly.

Zahid crawled with purpose and determination. Of all the boys, he was the most serious about his faith and his job as a Jihadi. Like the rest, he had been brought up in the true faith. He knew that Islam reserved a place in paradise for ‘he who gives his life for an Islamic cause’. For each boy, this time with Bigombe was a rite of passage, a time for which Zahid felt genuine respect.

Halfway back to the truck they came upon tall bushes by the side of the path. Bigombe stopped. In front of him was a collection of teardrop-shaped spoor and the grape-like droppings of antelope. He waited for the others to assemble around him again.

It was hardly likely that the wardens would have given chase over a flock of birds that had suddenly taken to the air, but the idea gave the training an edge of danger and he felt the boys should become accustomed to this. After all, the Sheikh’s plan was that these kids would be experts by the time they were fifteen, just as he had been, back in Uganda as a boy soldier.

Remember, he said solemnly, all over the world Muslims are dying for their faith. We all have to be ready. In Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, our brothers have been driven to violence and acts that the West call terrorism. Bigombe smiled and hissed the final word.

Zahid, the eldest and thinnest, was the most attentive, the most enthusiastic. If he started nodding and supporting Bigombe’s tirades with squeals of assent, the rest of the group would follow, growing progressively more eager to accept the rightfulness of force. For now, though, the group waited and listened intently.

There’s enough cover back to the truck, Bigombe whispered, staring fiercely at his disciples. It’s downhill, but make sure you keep lower than the bush. I don’t want any more startled wildlife, you hear? The boys nodded in respectful silence. Crouching as directed, they quickly completed the remaining few hundred metres.

Bigombe had left the scruffy, battered Nissan dump-truck in a dry riverbed, near a place where there were still pools of crystal water, trodden round by the hoof-prints of game. As they reached the truck, the boys relaxed into smiles, even Zein, who was puffing and sweating from the exercise.

Bigombe looked the group over: Umbopa, with his matted coils of dreadlocks; Khiva, the boy with the short hair, the quiet one, the cool one, always thinking, taking everything in; then Zein, the clown of the group, always looking for something funny to comment on.

Bigombe smiled and held up his rifle. The ultimate in high performance. Power. Bigombe’s sonorous baritone purred. He looked at each boy in turn to note their individual appreciation and awe. He was not disappointed.

The rookies took this declaration and the smile as a cue to relax. Here. Umbopa. Take it.

The boy stepped forward hesitantly. Bigombe held out the weapon, nodded encouragingly, and Umbopa reached out for it.

The boys' eyes widened. Their collective heart pumped. It was new! They gasped in admiration and crowded more closely together.

I have something else for you, Bigombe added, reaching into the cab of the truck and producing a plastic shopping-bag. It’s a gift. From the Sheikh.

Umbopa was astonished. Reluctantly, he passed the rifle to Zahid and then took the bag from Bigombe. Inside, he found a brand new pair of Reeboks: white with royal trim, a gift from the Sheikh. His eyes bulged.

Umbopa was the least successful of the group, but this afternoon he seemed to be attracting an unusual amount of affection from Bigombe, in spite of his inadequacies. Normally, Zahid was the favourite in Bigombe’s eyes, but today their leader had been full of surprises.

You have done well. Go. Put them on. The Sheikh was very pleased when I told him about you. Bigombe smiled. He was very pleased with you all. Now, get ready and I’ll take you back.

With their anxiety about the wardens suddenly lifted, the boys smiled broadly and Umbopa overcame his incredulity enough to get the Reeboks onto his feet. The rest dumped their gear into the back of the truck and clambered over the tailgate.

Bigombe got into the driver’s cab and started up the engine as Umbopa leaped hastily into the back of the truck. The road was dry and deserted. The sun was setting on a fateful day and Bigombe drove off.

Khiva dug a handful of ganja sticks out of his backpack, lit up and passed them among the boys. They looked an incongruous crew, languishing in the back of the truck, smoking their ganja. They laughed and listened to Bigombe’s soporific intonations about Muslim heroes. Then he shouted that he’d prepare a simple meal of beef and sweet potatoes once they’d laid out their prayer mats, faced Mecca and completed the evening’s prayers.

The moon began slowly to rise, higher and higher. Any observer would have noted how much the group always seemed to be smiling, but an insider would know that the smiles hid minds always alert to the menace they were being trained to deliver.

Now, though, they were all at peace. They started singing, in Arabic:

I met a fair-haired girl on a bus, who hobbled about on one leg, shouted one of the African boys, his short grizzled hair sticking up and his white teeth flashing.

Forgive me, Forgive me, the others mocked in chorus, twisting, gesticulating and exaggerating the high pitches of their voices.

I bought candy from a blind boy.

Forgive me, Forgive me, the backing group continued.

Bigombe yelled his contribution from the open window of the front cab, his deep Ugandan accent resonating above the roar of the engine: We are on the road to power, young wives and fat cattle! Insha'Allah.

Forgive me, Forgive me, the boys shouted, and then collapsed in cackles of derision.

Chapter 2

_______________________

The medieval convent was like a fortress: a vast, imposing structure protected by dark walls. The thick stone walls resonated with permanence and indestructibility.

The front of the convent, giving onto the public square, was a massive rampart, blackened with age. It offered no opening except for the outer gate and one small window through which the occupants could glimpse what went on in the world.

In the land beyond the ramparts it was dawn and the weather there was gloomy and foul.

Not that Lizzie McMahon was aware of it. Her slight form was curled up in bed, tumbling its way through an agitated sleep. A plump woman a little over fifty, with short-cut grey hair, her sleep had been kidnapped by her anxieties. Her parents, for one. Who would look after them, now they were getting very old?

Back in Eire there were plenty of family, but she felt guilty for living in France and leaving all the responsibilities to her sister and brother. Still, as Sister Mary Gerald, her life was not her own. Every decision was guided by God’s will – and by that of the Church.

When she was growing up, in the fifties and sixties, Ireland was very much a totalitarian, Catholic and fundamentalist community. There was widespread abuse, religious dictatorship and political upheaval. Stories abounded of altar boys habitually buggered and beaten by frustrated clergy, and of wayward daughters disowned by their parents and entrusted to specialist communities of nuns and Catholic lay people in the Magdalene convents, where they faced a future of privation and slavery in the steam and heat of the convent laundries.

Unaware at the time of these realities, the prospect of becoming a Bride of Christ had been an attractive option for Lizzie. Then, she had thought her calling to be a wonderful thing: a real adventure full of unexpected twists and turns. She did not know to what high wonders the Spirit would lead, and neither did she discover that priests could be capable of such base abuse. She was never subjected to what passed for life within the cloister of a Magdalene laundry. Lizzie, as Sister Mary Gerald, had been blessed.

She was lucky to escape from Ireland and find herself a place with a French order, in a progressive convent where visitors were always surprised by its modernity. The architecture may have been tenth century, but the philosophy within was certainly not. It was the ideal place for Lizzie both to dedicate her life of faith to Christ and to devote her intellect to an academic career.

However, it was none of the subliminal reminiscences of her previous life that were the real cause of her perturbed sleep. The reasons for her disquiet lay in her meditations.

On the surface, they were going very well. She could maintain a transcendental state for nigh-on three hours. Three hours. Without wandering off track once! It was a sign of her progression, of her inner peace.

The sleep wasn’t, though. It used to be a friend. Now it was like a spider in waiting, her unconscious mind ready to pounce and inject its poison the moment she let it take over.

It had started with that book. The writings of Saint Paul Aurelius. On Transubstantiation. On levitation. That, and the paper she’d submitted on abortion.

Perhaps she’d taken it all too far. It was all a bit of a mess, really, and she could no longer face it. Her nerves were being stretched taut, day after day, and this was the cause of all her fitful sleeping.

The clock radio beside her bed hummed a five am alarm. Her sheets were wrapped around her feet. The few hours she'd had since the Matin Laud prayers had hardly been restful.

Morning Muguette, she murmured, stretching out an arm to stroke the convent cat who was purring on top of her. Then she rolled out of bed, washed quickly and dressed in her brown tunic and brown scapular, relieved to escape from sleep to consciousness. She slipped on her sandals, donned her spectacles, sat down at her desk and opened her laptop to check the e-mails and her blog.

So many of the Catholic community supported her point of view. It reassured her to have so much response and interest on her blog; there were times she felt addicted to it, spending hours reading and responding to the comments from far and wide.

You know Muguette, she said, I love my life. The cat was ensconced on the bed, peering at the computer in a detached fashion. It did not register the irony in the nun’s voice. I don’t know what I'd do if I didn’t have the support and love of the others here. She turned and smiled sadly at the cat.

In becoming a nun she had given up her virginity to the Lord. She had never known the pleasures of the flesh. As a young woman there’d been times when she’d wistfully regretted the decision, but now it was little more than a passing, whimsical notion. Sometimes – just sometimes – she did yearn for a partner, for someone male to confide in.

Then, mustering her determination, she whispered, Basta! a playful gleam in her eye. I'm going to sort this out, she told the cat with enthusiasm and she spun around to tap rigorously on the keyboard. But they won't debate with me! No-one in the Vatican will debate it with me. She turned playfully to the cat again, wide eyed, And me. A Doctor of Theology at that. What are they worried about? And then, Holy Mother, is that the time?

Her charade of optimism was short-lived. Deep down she was gloomy, full of foreboding: today was the day the Mother Superior would have her say. She finished off her e-mail and rushed to the Chapter House, her thoughts full of dread.

Entering the Chapter House, she greeted the other nuns and novices in a perfunctory manner and then perused the face of the Mother Superior for clues as she read aloud her chosen chapter from the Bible: Revelations 12, the woman and the dragon. At the end of the reading, the congregation bowed its head in silent prayer.

Sister Mary Gerald prayed for all of her sisters, the other Carmelite communities, and her family, especially her parents and siblings and their families back in Eire. Then she prayed for all those people who had asked her to keep them in her prayers; and she finished Prime by praying for all those who do not have someone to pray for them.

When the praying was finished, she hurried to keep her one joyful rendezvous – with Sister Therese in the convent garden.

God be with you, Sister Mary. The young Sister Therese greeted her as she opened the glass door into the greenhouse.

It was now the Tierce, the third service of the day, after nine and before noon, when all the nuns were expected to work within the convent. This followed the conventions laid down by previous generations. Nuns would work in the fields, the kitchen, the washroom or workshops. In Sister Therese’s case it was in the convent garden and orchards.

And with you, smiled Sister Mary in response. Do you have them?

I certainly do, Sister. White Carnations, rust coloured Leucospermum and…..

Arum lilies! gasped Sister Mary. They’re wonderful!

Magnificent, grinned Sister Therese, putting down the pots she’d been filling with compost. Yours are by the orchard door.

Sister Mary turned to look. Where did you get them? You couldn't have grown them here.

I did a trade with the local florist’s. They were quite happy to take our organic carrots and some of the tomatoes. Praise be to the Lord.

Indeed. Well done, Sister. Come and see me in the chapel later, won't you? You can admire my handiwork.

Oh! So modest it is! and the two nuns laughed. I won’t have time this morning, though. Maybe I’ll have a look later. What have you got there?

Oh – this? said Sister Mary passing over the book she was carrying. Secret text. I got it from the Vatican library.

The Vatican? They talking to you now? said the gardener, taking off her gloves and leafing through the book carefully. It’s in Latin. The meditations of Saint Paul Aurelius? Who’s he?

Some ninth century Welsh monk. Disciple of Saint Iltud, one of King Arthur’s court. Hailed from somewhere called Llantwit Major in Wales. But who he was isn’t the important thing. What’s interesting is his powers. Be careful with that, will you. I know it’s only a copy, but I’m in enough trouble with the Vatican as it is, Sister Mary remarked ruefully.

Go on.

Well, he’s one of the monks that claimed he could levitate.

You mean float? Fly?

Not fly, but raise his body, just through the power of his mind. The Vatican didn’t believe it. The early days of the Church were full of charlatans.

Never! mocked Sister Therese.

They said his claims were far-fetched. He started this book to explain how he did it.

So why are you reading it? Planning to fly off somewhere?

No, frowned Sister Mary, taking back the book. Saint Paul’s meditations brought him closer to God. What was really driving him was Transubstantiation.

Why? Surely every priest can consecrate the bread and wine.

They can. He said turning the Host into the Body and Blood of Christ was an aid to his meditation. He said there was a link between Transubstantiation and levitation.

Never!

It’s what he said. Sister Mary paused, examining Sister Therese’s reaction. I’m going to give it a try. Want to help?

We can’t. We’re nuns. We’re not allowed to celebrate the Mass. We’d get into awful trouble.

I’m getting used to trouble.

I’m not.

"But surely we need to try? Don’t we owe it to our faith? How long have we