At the church near its children’s home just outside Kyiv…
The mouth widens in a smile of thin red lips around square white teeth. The black hole in that face grows at the expense of the other grotesque features, save the eyes, which appear to be struggling to peek over the top of the now overstretched orifice. A shout ushers forth.
“I had a nightmare.”
The front row of the congregation, an upright community of Nigerians with pitch-black hands and heads sticking out of starched white shirts, bears the first wave of oratory shock with an austere dignity so rare in our day.
“There was a Ferret, a weasel really and not much more. Tired of the wiles and deceit of this world, he lay upon the earth to rest his weary head.”
“Testify, Mr. Davies,” shouts a white man with a red face from the back. “Tell it as it is!” The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, and his arms are freckled.
“But up came a serpent from a hole in that earth and began to tempt The Ferret and his faith.”
“Save us from the evil one – Oh, save us, won’t you PLEASE!” shouts an elderly Negro woman, sagging breasts cupped in bony hands as she almost collapses back into the pew.
A Korean and his wife – you can barely see their eyes – say nothing and stand alone. The contours of their bodies are un-delineated in cotton trousers, white sneakers and air-filled plastic jackets – cabbage-patch kids in a garden of mongooses and wildflowers.
“But there was no mercy for The Ferret,” continues Davies, who is dressed like a 17th century Quaker in striking resemblance to the old man on the oatmeal box. “First the serpent asked him: ‘What is your trade? How do you make a living?’ And The Ferret replies: ‘I dig and play but don’t make hay, at least while the sun is shining. For work is long, and life is short, too short for tears and pining.’”
“Sweet son of Mercy!” shouts someone else. Near an icon, a babushka in full headscarf crosses herself mechanically, mumbling prayers or curses into her chin.
“I had a nightmare!”
Davies continues, never taking his eyes off the congregation, and leaning on the pulpit like an angry boss over his desk. “And so the serpent said: ‘How do you reckon the passing of time? Who were your forbearers and where are your kin?’ But The Ferret grew suspicious and determined to trick the serpent: ‘I am who I am but a drop in the pan on a stove with many dishes. If you look in the pot, which I advise you not, you might not find what you wishes – heh, heh.’”
A fat man and his fat wife, undoubtedly from middle America, as where else could they have bought their oversized clothes, look on, smiling ahead, and then at each other with faces of full carnal thoughts and unfulfilled fat pleasures.
“But the serpent was sly and knew The Ferret’s heart, so he bade him go home and begin preparing many dishes in preparation for a great feast, but to invite no one. In good time, the serpent said, he himself would appear with many guests to taste what The Ferret had cooked. And if he were pleased, he would shower good fortune, wealth and fame upon The Ferret.”
The congregation grows silent as a large tinsel-haired man dressed as a Roman Catholic altar boy begins moving up the central aisle, stiff-arming a collection plate into the rows of the faithful with the precision of a pool shark. The folds of his altar robe are stuck in the crack of his ass.
“I had a nightmare,” Davies continues.
“After seven days and seven nights, The Ferret is still busy in his kitchen, cooking pot after pot of various dishes in order to please the serpent and his host of feast goers. There are soups and stews, meats and sweets, baked bread and crumbly cakes. The Ferret is pleased with his efforts and expects to be handsomely rewarded.
“The serpent arrives with the guests and after knocking three times is invited into the house by The Ferret, still dressed in an apron with a bunny on it. After tasting from each of the dishes presented to him and allowing his companions to do the same, the serpent tells The Ferret that there is still one more dish that he would like to try and asks him if he would be kind enough to prepare it that very evening. The Ferret, his heart still filed with avarice and self-interest, readily agrees, after which the guests set upon him, strip him naked and cast him into a large dark caldron set in the middle of the room, now aflame from the floor. The guests reveal themselves to be all manner of beasts and demons and dance around The Ferret as he stews in his own juices.”
The Korean man gulps down hard, not caring to look at his wife, who he knows wants to look up at him for assurance. The babushka is still crossing herself, wide-armed, only faster, apparently as fast as she can.
Davies’s head is now bowed over the pulpit, with that dark broad-brimmed Quaker hat covering his face…
“He had a nightmare,” resounds among the congregation.
The freckled-armed man strides up the central aisle wielding a snake about his head with outstretched arms. Some sing, others drop to their knees in sweaty prayer. A few, including the Korean couple, stand rigid in fear thinly disguised as reverence.
John Smith, a paperback copy of “Pilgrim’s Progress” sticking out of his back pocket, is still perched at a side window, espying the scene in secret. Two orphans from the children’s home huddle behind him clearly afraid of being discovered. Soon the group is off across the yard and into a waiting wood across the way, a ways off.
To be continued
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, September 30, 2013