Origin of the Brunists (64 page)

Miller brushed by, feeling not so very great. The carnival amounted to a handful of refreshment stands, a bingo game, and a numbers game, the latter already in operation and manned by Doris, the hotel coffeeshop waitress. She winked lewdly at him as he passed by. The Brunists had already arranged themselves on the hill, were busying themselves with their own circle, as though afraid to look down on the threat at the hill's foot. He saw now what the wooden crosses were for. Ben Wosznik digging and directing, they planted the crosses on the east slope, mounted Marcella's lawn-chair bier on them, each rounded aluminum corner resting on a rustic wooden crossbeam. A statue of the martyr Stephen—Miller recognized it as the patron of the Catholic Church here—seemed to appear from nowhere, dressed in a Brunist tunic. Sorrowful and empty-sleeved, it was placed beside Marcella on the south slope, this side of her, as though to guard her from the powers of darkness who milled about below, eating peanuts and cotton candy, drinking bottled pop. The silver candelabra were placed at her head and feet, but efforts to light them proved futile. The two banners were set in holes already dug for them and, between, an altar was put up with all its now-familiar Brunist relics.

It started then with a kind of moan, a wail, even while the crowds of spectators who had followed them out here filed still past the ticket booth, dropping their dollars. There was thunder. The wheel of the numbers game revolved with a purring flutter. Semicircling Marcella, but each with a view of the east, the Brunists knelt. The wail mounted. Popcorn
flup-flup-flupped
in the lit-up popping cage. A woman laughed. On the hill, a long dramatic prayer was commenced, led alternatively by Clara Collins and Abner Baxter and a plump man with a vibrant voice who Miller learned was a Mr. Hiram Clegg from some town nearby, the man he'd seen pulling Emilia's wagon. Everyone joined in, echoing parts, chorusing familiar responses, all of it a kind of contest of Biblical knowledge and appropriate responsive ritual. Most of the new ones, apparently, were types like those of the local Church of the Nazarene; the Nortons seemed very isolated indeed. In fact, now that he thought of it, where was Himebaugh? Poor bastard didn't have it, after all.

It was growing dark, more from the clouding over than from the approach of night, but Fisher had strung lights down along the row of booths, and now the cameramen were setting up their own lamps, electricity apparently provided by the mine. Miller wandered to the eastern edge of the carnival area, found Mickey DeMars there dispensing soft drinks.

“H'lo, Tiger!” Mick squeaked. “Say, you're looking a little peaked. You been getting enough sleep?”

“What've you got back there, Mick?”

“Jim Beam or Canadian.”

“Either one.”

“Say, you seen Lou?”

“No.”

“Well, you never believe it, but the bastard's out here!”

“I believe it, Mick.” He tossed the drink down, looked up at the soles of Marcella's blue feet. Then, suddenly remembering, he reached in his trenchcoat pocket; his fingers closed around a small cotton sock. Beyond the Brunists, over the far edge of the hill, he could see the tops of trees, then the upper flight of the tipple and the watertower with its
DEEPWATER
banner, thrust fatly up like a carburetor advertisement. Beyond that, a motion in the skies of mixed grays, like a photograph taking shape: photograph of a young brown-eyed girl in a shawl, the shawl slipping to her shoulders … and he saw then that he was one with the Brunists: that he, too, had been brought full circle to stand upon this place….

He saw some of the clutch approaching, Cavanaugh, Whimple, Elliott and others, so he paid Mick and left. He had to pass by them, but they either missed him or intentionally ignored him. On the hill, the prayer meeting was getting louder, and Clara and Baxter were whipping the crowd up with challenges.

“Do you believe?”

“Yes! Oh Lord! Yes, we believe!”

“Does He come?”

“He comes! Yes! Now!”

“Are you ready?”

“Ready, Lord! Amen! God save us! Come!”

Severe rumbles in the sky now. Clara Collins gazed upward, lifted her fist and cried out, and they all mimed her. What power that woman had! Miller noticed she was wearing Ellie Norton's gold medallion: a mysterious occult talisman on Eleanor, it became a flashing badge of hegemony on Clara. Could he go directly to her? Probably not. Not today. He looked for Betty Wilson, spied her on her knees between a woman even fatter than herself and the man named Clegg. Down here, the crowds were multiplying by the minute, now packed the tents and booths, and swarmed densely at the base of the hill. Though amused, often giggling pointlessly, chewing gum and popcorn with exaggerated jaw motions, getting into friendly scuffles, they nevertheless seemed disinclined to aim taunts directly at the Brunists. Maybe they were afraid to. There were close to four hundred excited people up on that hill. Or maybe it was just the way they'd been brought up. This was a religious service, after all, screwball or not, and what derision could one properly hurl at a man who prayed to the Christian God? They, too, had prayed, sung, confessed. Yet, they yearned to storm that hill, Miller could feel it, they ached to obliterate that white fungus, they were hate hungry and here was something to hit out at. They waited for: the outrage.

Miller slipped into the bingo tent, arranging himself with a view out at the hill. Crowds in front of him, but the hill rose above them. He looked for Jones. Preferred to settle that business first. People pushed into the tent in fear of rain, people pushed out to take another look, jostling him. Finally, he moved back into one empty corner, took a folding chair, and cut away a flap of canvas for a window. “Under the I: 28!” Up on the hill, Bruno paced silently among his followers, stopping once or twice to kiss the withered forehead of his old mother, she still heaped in a sickly little mound in the wagon. The man seemed suddenly this afternoon to have acquired tremendous energy, moved with assurance and even a kind of ferocity. “Under the O: 69!” Ripple of giggles. Outside, they were giggling at a couple who had stripped off their streetclothes to stand with the Brunists in their white underwear. And, just in front of him through the flap, he saw a fat lady giggle when someone handed her a bag of buttered popcorn. “Under the B: 9!” Bruno, he noticed, repeated a peculiar gesture several times: the raising of his hand in a kind of benediction and the placing of it on a person's shoulder. At first, Miller supposed it was a way of giving encouragement, but then he observed that those least in need of it, received it: Eleanor, Baxter, Clara, Wosznik. “Under the B: 12!”

And then it began to rain. A cloudburst. The crowds shrieked, laughed like children at a party, pressed back against the small booths and tents, pushing for shelter. Up on the hill, the Brunists seemed to take cheer. They smiled down condescendingly upon the turmoil below them, then lifted their eyes and hands to the exploding heavens. The harder it rained, the more ecstatic they became, the more violent became the crowds at the base. Distantly, he heard the emcee calling out the bingo numbers, but could no longer distinguish them. Half-consciously he'd been waiting for 7 or 14, and knew now he'd never hear it. Behind the downpour, bullish thunder stampeded and trumpeted. Amateur photographers added their Brownies and Polaroids to the one-eyed host that encircled the worshipers, conspiring to nail them forever to this time and place, and Miller noticed that the one thing that drew the crowd's attention from the hill were the instant copies of the Polaroid cameras, exciting them even more than watching the real thing.

The rain roared on the tent, thunder crashed, the crowds screamed and shouted, now laughing less. A fight broke out in front of him, a nose was bloodied, a face pushed in the mud. Up on the Mount, people leaped up in the air as though trying to fly, ran about, rolled in the mud. Streetclothes were shed and so, in some cases, was underwear. Some of the spectators caught out in the rain screamed at that, some laughed, some only shouted meaninglessly. People pushed up against the tent, buckling its sides inward and blocking Miller's view, showing him nothing but dark wet bodies, hands feeling haunches, elbows swinging.

He stood on his chair, cut another hole higher up. The Brunists were in a frenzy. Their thin white tunics clung to their bodies, wimpling white, otherwise showing a pale flesh color, except where underclothing protected. Hair streamed over faces, hands reached upward as though clawing, naked bodies milled with tunicked ones. Lights went out, came on again, tremendous clap of thunder, everybody started, gasped en masse, cried out, laughed excitedly. Some cried. Rain blew in through his window, spraying his face. One hand gripped the speedgraphic, the other kneaded the sock in his pocket. The emcee no longer called out numbers, seemed to be pleading for calm. Some people on the outer, wettest, fringe, frightened by the storm and lashed by the frantic press of the mass, lost their heads and ran hysterically up the hill to join the Brunists. Near the entrance to the bingo tent a woman went down, a froth on her mouth, and others, losing balance, trampled and fell over her. Women prayed and shrieked, and there were cries, some mocking, some terrifyingly real, that the end was coming. Miller's chair went out from under him, and he dropped leadenly on two men who, slugging at him, ended up at each other's throats. At the corner on the side there seemed to be no body pressed, so he slashed a full-length slit and pushed out. As he pushed out, others pushed in, kicking, bucking. He saw new holes opening up. Couldn't see the hill.

Miller bulled forward, not caring who or what he hit—what are social niceties in a stampede? Rain beat on his face and his feet slipped and skidded in the mud. People bitched. He got knocked up against the wall of a booth. But, more and more, the crowds were turning to face the Brunists. And it was a sight to see. Naked or near-naked, they leapt and groveled and embraced and rolled around in the mud. A large group danced wildly around Marcella, screaming at her, kissing her dead mouth, clearly expecting her to rise up off her litter. Women embraced the statue of Stephen and kissed its mouth. Men tore branches off the little tree until it was stripped nearly bare, and whipped themselves and each other. It was a scene to delight a Lou Jones and now Miller saw him, moving impassively up the hill, photographing them as he went, kneeling for angles, apparently steering a course toward the dead girl. Jones, in drooping fedora and glistening raincoat, shaped like a big dark bag, made an odd contrast to the frenetic worshipers who performed for his lens. There was something almost contemplative, devotional, almost statuesque about him as he crouched to peer into the instrument in his lap.

Miller, breaking free of the crowd at last, paused just a moment, long enough to spot the white helmets and black uniforms of the state troopers, just arrived and in an anxious huddle with Whimple, Cavanaugh, and Romano, then ran for the hill, ran for Jones. Other newsmen, following Jones' lead, had ventured forward into that belt of space that had till now separated the redeemed from the dead. Miller slammed past them in his heavyfooted slog up the hill, anger mounting, but a peculiar joy, too: he was here! it was on! And an hysterical fat woman, her tunic up under her armpits, rolled under his feet, bowled him over, and he felt his face slap into the mud. Tried to stand, but found himself in a swirl of wet bodies. A man sat beating his own face with his fists, and a woman staggering backwards fell on him, their legs twining as they rolled. Miller couldn't see Jones. Someone laid into him with a switch and he felt a tug at his clothes. He escaped, half running, half crawling, back downhill, then, seeing he was cut off from retreat by an advancing singing bloc of new and naked converts, swung around toward where Jones now knelt, his back to the eastern sky, focusing on the soles of Marcella's feet, his sullen face veiled by the drip of rain off his hat-brim, plastic sack over his camera, soggy cigar in his mouth. Charging Jones, Miller caught a glimpse of Marcella's cadaver, the tunic pasted down against her livid flesh, pools standing here and there, her mouth and eyes filling with water that the rain splashed in. Jones glanced up just as Miller leaped, a grin there, and he turned his shoulder— It was like hitting a goddam ox. It pitched him right on over and, in midair, he realized for the first time he was still carrying his own speedgraphic—Miller felt something go, a sharp hot pain in his left arm or shoulder, and he saw the camera just as his own ass came crashing down on it. Hurt, but angry, hating someone whether it was Jones or not, he stood to face the man, who now squatted, deadpan as always, cigar still in place, hat knocked a bit askew, gazing up at him.

Suddenly he heard a shrill mad shriek that carried over all the roar up there:
“That's him! He murdered her!”
It was Eleanor Norton, gray hair wild with the rain, tunic limp on her aging body, eyes fixed on him through wet lenses, arms outspread and fingers bent like claws—
“Killer! Killer! Killer!”

It was a signal for them. All the aimless fury of the moment before suddenly discovered its object. He turned to run. They cut him off, swarmed down upon him. He dodged, spun, rolled, straight-armed, warded off blindly flung blows, but there were millions of them, and ducking one only put him in line for another. He watched feet trampling his camera as branches whaled his body, saw Jones, slyly amused, in modest retreat partway down the hill, photographing it all. He pushed downhill for Jones, but, letting down his guard, got a foot in his gut that doubled him over. He struggled to his feet, but they piled onto him. He swung at them, kicked, butted, but nothing slowed them. They covered him and their heaped flesh choked him. A fat man, that Clegg guy, an erection distorting the front of his wet tunic, leaped, came down like a mountain on Miller's head. They fought for his trenchcoat and, releasing it, he somehow wriggled free. Wall of their bodies below him, so he switched strategy, bowled straight up the hill, seemed to have lost his shoes, but it helped him gain speed, dove headfirst into a cluster of bodies, felt something flatten his nose in, hit somebody hard as wood. Chorus of screams of horror—something cold struck his face—and as by the hundreds they jumped him, he saw what it was he had knocked over and he lost heart. They dragged him away from her, kicking and punching and whipping him with branches. Distantly, he felt their blows, felt them leap and dance on him, knew he was vomiting, knew he was bleeding, but as though someone were explaining this to him. They are killing you, he said, and though it caused wonderment in him, it could not lift an arm to stop them. He felt them shred the clothes off him, saw the ax, knew, though he couldn't feel it, that his legs had been splayed and hands had been laid on him. Amazingly, just at that moment, he saw, or thought he saw, a woman giving birth: her enormous thighs were spread, drawn up in agony, and, staring up them, he saw blood burst out. “No!” he pleaded, but it sounded more like a gurgle. “Please!” and a whip lashed his mouth. Where the fuck were the troopers?