Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

“Come in, Brother Rudi.”

Barnard was the least sensitive of men, but he battled to hide his shock at the pastor’s decline since he had seen him last.

Johan Lombard, once master of the Army of God Church, had fallen on reduced circumstances. Five years in Pollsmoor Prison for sexually abusing street children had left him fearful and even more paranoid than when he went in. Lombard swore he was innocent, that he had only been doing his duty by introducing the children to Jesus. Why he had also introduced them to his penis he could never fully explain. Rudi Barnard believed implicitly in the innocence of Lombard, believed he had been the victim of the lies of godless half-breeds and had paid the price.

Lombard wore a pair of soiled gray flannels, carpet slippers, and a frayed shirt that had once been white.

“I haven’t woken Pastor, have I?” Barnard was at his most deferential, still convinced that Lombard’s bloodless lips were close to the ear of God.

“Who can sleep, Brother Rudi? In times like these?”

Lombard shuffled ahead into a small living room, crammed with a molting sofa, two ball-and-claw chairs, and piles of books on theology.

He pointed to one of the chairs. “Please, sit.”

Lombard’s shirtsleeves rode up to his bony elbows, and Barnard saw the needle tracks from the self-administered morphine shots. Lombard perched on the sofa, his hands on his knees. As Barnard lowered himself into one of the chairs, his stomach growled like a cement mixer. He patted it.

Lombard attempted a smile. “You are looking well, Rudi.”

Barnard nodded. “I’m okay. And you?”

The pastor shrugged. “It won’t be long before I get my eternal reward. Praise the Lord.” Cancer had eaten through most of Lombard’s liver and was nibbling at other organs in the vicinity. “And your work? Are you still fighting the good fight?”

“I’m trying, Pastor.”

“You are a brave man, Rudi. You must stay strong.”

“I do my best, Pastor.”

“Do you still ask God for his guidance?”

Barnard earnestly nodded his massive head. “Every morning and night, Pastor.”

“Good. And he listens. I see his strength in you.”

“Thank you, Pastor.”

Lombard’s clawlike hands gripped the sofa as a tremor of agony racked his body. Sweat sprang from his forehead, and his eyes pulled shut like dusty drapes.

Barnard felt uncomfortable. Expressions of sympathy did not come naturally to him. “I shouldn’t be bothering Pastor.”

Lombard fought his way through the pain, then sighed and sat back. He opened his eyes and held up a shaking hand. “No. Please.” He sucked air. “Is there something worrying you, Rudi? You look preoccupied.”

Barnard shrugged. “I don’t want to burden the Pastor.”

“Speak to me, Rudi. If I can help in some small way…” Some color had crept back into his sunken cheeks.

“I’m facing a battle. Maybe the biggest that I have fought.”

“Can you put a face to your enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Then God will give you strength, Rudi. See this as an opportunity, a chance to walk through the fire. A gift from him.”

“I am trying.”

A manic glint had come into the eye of Lombard. “Your enemies are sinners, Brother Rudi. Just as that mountain is burning tonight, so will their souls be lost in a lake of fire. Those fires of hell will melt their very bones and their lungs. A terrible stench will arise from them. And this fire is a fire that will burn for all eternity.” He gasped for breath but would not surrender the imaginary pulpit. “But you, Rudi, will walk through the fire, and you will receive the Holy Spirit! I know; I have walked that path!”

Lombard stood. “Come, my son, kneel.”

Barnard wrestled his bulk from the chair; then he folded down on bended knee before the quivering man. He closed his eyes.

Lombard lifted his face to where he believed heaven to be, somewhere beyond the stained ceiling, and squeezed his eyes shut. He placed a trembling hand on Rudi Barnard’s forehead, and a torrent of glottal, unintelligible words flowed from his lips, growing ever more powerful and louder.

Barnard kneeled like a small boy as the gift of tongues rained down upon him.

Berenice September was in her living room, the TV mumbling in the background, some politician lying about crime statistics in South Africa. Juanita sat next to her on the sofa, crying softly. Berenice put her arms around her daughter, trying to find enough strength in herself to comfort her.

The front door opened and Donovan came in from working late shift at the Goodwood McDonald’s. He still had a McD’s shirt on and carried a bag of Big Macs and fries.

He stood looking at his mother and sister. “Mommy?”

Berenice looked up at him. “I found him.”

Donovan put the bag down on top of the TV. “Tell me.”

Berenice stood and kissed Juanita on the forehead. “Stay here. I need to talk to your brother.”

Juanita reached for her, clawing at her blouse, grabbing the fabric in her fingers. Berenice gently broke the girl’s grip. “You wait here, my baby. We won’t be long.”

Donovan followed her into the kitchen, and she told him as much as she could bear to repeat. He was eighteen, a man. He deserved to know the truth. Donovan stood, his face gray. All at once he was puking; half-digested Big Macs spewed into the kitchen sink. She came up behind him and wet a dish towel, wiped his mouth off while he got his breath back.

When he could speak, he looked her in the eye. “You’re sure it’s Ronnie?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“And it was Gatsby? What did it?”

“That’s what they are saying, ja.”

Donovan nodded. Saying nothing. He was the quiet one, her oldest son. So quiet, sometimes, that it worried her.

“Donovan.”

He stared at nothing, trying to process what she had told him.

“Donovan, look at me.” His eyes found hers. “I want you to promise me that you aren’t going to do something stupid now. The police will sort this out.”

He spat into the sink. “The police. Fuck the police.” He never spoke like that. He rinsed his mouth, then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“It’s okay. You’re a good boy. I just don’t want you getting into trouble.”

He nodded. She came up to him and put her arms around him. “Promise me, Donovan.”

He stared over her shoulder. “I promise, Ma.”

Benny Mongrel huddled against a wall with Bessie, trying to escape the southeaster. The builders had left a mound of sand uncovered, and the gale flung it up against the unfinished house. The dog wheezed and moaned, disturbed by the wind. Benny Mongreers. roked her coat. He could feel the grit sticking in the matted fur. Sniper Security treated their watchmen like animals and their dogs like shit. He didn’t know when last Bessie’s coat had seen water.

That’s the first thing he was going to do when he got her to his shack, put that tin tub out in the yard and fill it with water. Then he was going to take Sunlight soap and wash her. And if the knots refused to wash out, he would cut them out with his knife.

The wind drove Benny Mongrel crazy too. He had a cloth wrapped around his ears and mouth, but still the sand got in somehow.

He squatted, watching the flames dance on the mountain above him, acrid smoke and ashes raining down on him and Bessie. The helicopters were still at work, chattering overhead and dumping water into the mouth of the inferno.

It reminded him of being in Pollsmoor, when the mountain burned, and the inmates started pacing, restless, when even the old-timers who could endure anything started trying to bend the bars open with their hands.

A year ago, during the winds, an idiot, another Mongrel who was due for parole, had lost his mind and stolen food from Benny Mongrel’s bed. He had caught the man, and the other prisoners in the cell had waited for Benny Mongrel to say goodnight.