Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

“Relax,” Miller whispered. “Watch and see.” He nodded toward Eleanor Norton.

Mrs. Norton now lifted her slender arms slowly before her, a kind of benediction, as it were. He understood well enough her task: she had called this thing and was under pressure to produce; if she didn’t, she’d likely lose the mace. “Hark ye to the White Bird!” she commanded, shattering the silence and causing some to start. Himebaugh caught his breath sharply. “Giovanni Bruno! The One to Come!” The widows and Mrs. Hall whispered mewing amens. “We look to the east! We look to the west! The feet tug downward, but the spirit soars!” She had a fine voice, strong and clear. “A firmness is forthcoming! A cosmic repose! Hark ye! We avoid the illusory to seek wisdom with love! For a time, we know, is to come, and the soul will swim in the vast and empty sea of enlightenment!” Betty Wilson had begun to whimper softly. Elaine and Carl Dean had joined the group at the bed. Slowly, Himebaugh edged away from Miller’s side toward the others. “So hark ye, hark ye to the White Bird of wisdom and grace!” At this familiar angelus all the Nazarenes, in Pavlovian response, amenned. “From out of the abyss of darkness, lead us to light!”

Colin Meredith caught his breath. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, it was Clara Collins who cried out, “Hear us, oh God!”

“In the name of Christ Jesus!” added Willie Hall as though reciting, apparently emboldened by Clara’s cry. “As it says—”

“Hark ye to the White Bird!” Eleanor demanded, her voice pitched up a notch.

Clara, undaunted, or maybe ignorant of the other woman’s meaning, opened her mouth to speak again, but just then Giovanni Bruno lifted one hand and brought a sudden hush down on all of them. They waited. “The tomb …” he said, and it was weird how the sound emerged as though forged in some inner and deeply resonant cavity, then heaved whole through his open but utterly passive mouth, “… is its message!” Hand down.

Message, tomb: all eyes turned on Clara Collins. “Oh God!” she screamed, thrusting high her husband’s note. “The Day of the Lord is at hand!”

Betty Wilson bubbled into tears, plumped to her waddy knees, commenced to pray wildly. Eleanor Norton had paled, seemed confused, unbelieving: betrayed. Wylie watched her. Himebaugh, beside himself with panic, shrank back, found Miller’s side.

“I say, the day of salvation is upon us!”

“Yes, Lord!” chorused Willie Hall. His wife sank apprehensively to Betty Wilson’s side, and Elaine Collins knelt dutifully behind them. They chanted amens and their voices rose, and now the boys joined in.

“We must walk with God and believe!” cried Clara. “We must listen always to the white bird in our hearts! Abide in grace! The Son of God, He is comin’! We will stand—”

“Caution!” cried Eleanor Norton with tremendous power.

Even though he’d been expecting it, having realized that Clara was quoting her husband’s message and was now nearing the controversial phrase about the eighth of the month, nevertheless, like everyone else, Miller started. Clara stood transfixed before the other woman’s intensity. Betty Wilson began to whimper again, and Clara shushed her. Silence, troubled and fearful, settled, out of which the heavy breathing emerged like an invisible animal. Miller, seeking concealment, too tall to stand alone in the room without notice, found a corner chair and edged back into it. Himebaugh stood marooned in the room’s middle. The poor sonuvabitch, Miller knew how he felt and supposed he could rescue him, but was having too goddamned good a time to want to break the spell. Jesus! Lou Jones should be here! He’d love it!

“Mrs. Norton,” said Clara submissively, almost tenderly, “lead us to light!”

Eleanor turned stiffly to the chair at the foot of the bed, slowly sat down upon it. Wylie watched, frowning worriedly. No one talked. All looked on. Mrs. Norton stretched her arms forward. She placed her hands on the table, palms down, thumbs touching, fingers spread apart. She stared, breathless, at the opposite wall, and for several tense minutes nothing happened. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, her lips began to move. There was no sound except for a little hissing noise that came from them. Then it stopped. Her lips closed. Her eyes widened as though focusing on some extreme distance. The candlelight beamed off her gold medallion like a tiny sun trembling there on her dark dress. Her mouth fell open and a strange almost masculine voice emerged. Her lips closed down around the sound, almost a gargling, and produced:

“Hark ye to the new voice among ye!”

The invisible animal gasped. Eyes turned. Himebaugh came into focus. Miller leaned forward in his chair, pressing his cheeks into the palms of his hands, his hands in a kind of prayer position. A laugh leaped in his diaphragm, but he was now Ralph’s backdrop, the eyes on Ralph saw him, so he managed to keep his face poker-stiff. Himebaugh, the poor fucker, literally shook. His body seemed to shrink, his clothes to bag. His cup tinkled in its saucer. Eleanor Norton collapsed on the tabletop. A great act, but — Miller glanced quickly at the other faces — was he the only one who knew she had failed? Wylie stepped over, patted his wife’s hands. He knelt beside her, looked back over his shoulder at Himebaugh. Marcella stood, pressed against the wall at the head of her brother’s bed. Now, for the first time, she saw Miller again, and as though in imitation of him, she brought her hands together before her face. Her eyes sparkled … goddamn it, were there tears?

“I came,” said Himebaugh suddenly, his precisely mannered voice now half growl, half squeak, “if you must know”—he swallowed—“in fear of … of the destroyer!”

“Oh dear Jesus!” wailed Clara Collins, and dropped like a brick to her knobby knees: kawhump! Again the Nazarenes took over. Christ, they were irrepressible! Miller had to admit, though, that Himebaugh had, under the circumstances, performed well.

Eleanor Norton came around, opened her eyes, appeared lost. “Mrs. Collins!” she appealed, stumbling over to her. “Come! Tell me what happened!” She led the widow to the dining room, apparently eager to learn, but effectively — at last — breaking up the revival meeting. The two boys began to argue quietly, Wylie engaged Willie Hall in talk, and with these distractions the rest of the Nazarenes lost their zeal. Soon the room was full of chatter and motion again, and Miller felt free to leave his lair.

He slipped quietly from group to group. Everyone had his own opinion about the meaning of events. Wylie Norton seemed upset, but Miller couldn’t pin him down on anything. Norton was a heavy sad-eyed fellow with glasses on the end of his nose, so suppressed and polite a voice one had to lean far forward to understand him. Willie Hall quoted the Bible irrelevantly, seemed to have seen nothing that happened, proved to be little more than a desensitized loudspeaker, emitting endless textual nonsense from his self-enclosed inner world. Miller guessed that nothing in the world would really surprise the man.

Mrs. Norton returned, sought written explication from Domiron, but finally gave it up when few attended her. Himebaugh shrank to a corner and stared at Bruno. Miller wondered at the message, socalled, with which Bruno had so dramatically torched the meeting. The tomb is its message. Meaningless, yet loaded. He remembered that tomb was probably the word that rhymed with womb in Bruno’s lost poem, Bonali had finally remembered that much. Had Bruno really had Ely Collins’ deathnote in mind, though, as everyone assumed? Miller doubted the guy even understood there was such a note, wondered if he even grasped the brute fact of Collins’ death. Then, what was he getting at? If the guy were rational, he might have been responding to the night’s question: What is the meaning of “the coming of light?” with the answer: Death; or: Christ’s resurrection. But was Giovanni Bruno in any sense rational? Miller frankly thought not, not from what he’d seen so far. No, the more likely explanation was that he had heard something more or less like that from Mrs. Norton, or from others here tonight, and had produced his own abbreviated paraphrase. Miller decided he would spend some time with Mrs. Norton’s logs as soon as possible.