Chapter 5: Of Women, Priests and Phantom Men

‘‘Hurry up, Liziwe, we will be late!’’ exclaimed Miriam, tugging Elias alongside her as if he were a small child.

‘‘Coming, Mama,’’ Liziwe called in a sing-song voice, as she attempted to make her strides as short as possible. But no matter the size of her steps, they did inevitably bring her to the entrance of the church, where the Pastor stood in all his pompous benevolence. His presence served to hold the doors open as much as to greet the congregation, and she scrutinised him for all of a moment, attempting to extract from his manner the subject of today’s sermon. A small and sallow man, the Pastor was, with the shrewd face of a weasel and a vacant glance that seemed to nevertheless hone in on the most unwanted of aspects. The wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy as she approached, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering behind her. Dr and Mrs Matiwane had already disappeared into the depths of the church, and Liziwe hurried after, dropping a hasty, ‘‘Good morning, Pastor,’’ in the hopes that the insufferable man would not have time to strike a conversation.

But he spoke quickly, ‘‘I trust you are well, Miss Matiwane?’’ leaving her with no choice but to turn, as she glanced at him in distaste. ‘‘You do look a bit pale,’’ he remarked, his nasal voice lifting with the curl of his lip.

‘‘I am well,’’ Liziwe shot back crossly, then sighed at the Pastor’s knowing smile.

‘‘Ah, I have seen this demeanour in a young lady before, I know the signs,’’ he replied with a sly look, tapping his nose with one pallid finger. ‘‘You’ve met Mrs Mbovane’s nephew, the young Mr Skweyiya, have you not? Striking fellow. Mrs Mbovane herself has informed me of the...possibilities...’’ Liziwe stifled a groan; had the woman nothing better to do than to gossip with the Pastor?

‘‘Of course,’’ continued Pastor Magwaza, ‘‘I have yet to meet the man myself, but one knows, one knows…Oh, well, I suppose the sermon won’t deliver itself, now will it…’’ he smiled once again, and slunk off to the pulpit, leaving Liziwe fuming. She gathered her skirts to herself with more force than intended, and seated herself alongside her parents in the hard wooden pews. The audacity of the man! True, he had known her since birth, but the implications were positively outrageous. Was the entire constituency of Sarili determined to get her married?

Pastor Magwaza climbed to the pulpit labouriously, puffing a bit more than was perhaps healthy for a man of his years; but reach his goal he did and, without further ado, he fixed the congregation with a bland, magnanimous expression. ‘‘The utmost of a woman’s character,’’ he began, ‘‘is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister and, eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction and virtuous love.’’

Liziwe bit hard upon her lower lip in an effort to keep her face stoic, and glared at the little man. Every Sunday was an exercise in patience, as she could often catalogue a dozen more interesting things she could be doing with her time; but this Sunday it seemed that Pastor Magwaza had prepared his sermon explicitly for her. He looked at her pointedly as he continued,

‘‘If a woman happens to have a particular superiority- for example, an insightful mind- it is best kept a profound secret. For in a woman’s most vital role is not found the treacherous talent of learning, but the gentleness of domesticity, and simple accomplishment. This strength must be cultivated with a sweet temper...’’

The wind, that inimitable power of nature that breathes furious life into the most inanimate of things, chose this moment to hurtle itself upon the wooden edifice with primal force, leaving the parishioners breathless and uneasy. It whistled through the cracks and crannies of the old, metal roof, giving the walls ancient voice: and speak they did…

And those living in Tyoborha were familiar with the wind in all its formidable aspects, and so should not have allowed themselves to be so easily swayed- but there was something sinister in the deep groans and moans that echoed within the walls of this holy structure; something not altogether of Nature. And so the Pastor faltered in his speech, and the congregation shifted anxiously in their seats. In Liziwe it brought an agitation bordering on pain, for again it was that same chilling wind that lurked in the forest, brushing past her cheek as if it were a lover’s soft hand.

Liziwe…

She squeezed her eyes shut, moving her lips in silent prayer. For here was a house of God, and no Northern Surge would reach its spectral fingers here. The Pastor cleared his throat tentatively, and began again, his voice creaking like a tree in a gale.

Liziwe…

It whispered past her ear, and she turned, eyes blazing, to face her phantom that dared lay foot in a holy house.

The figure of a man, dark and stooped, was framed within the threshold. He had not been there only moments before, she was sure of it; yet the sinister aura that surrounded him caused her breath to catch hideously in her chest. Straightening slowly, he threw back his shoulders, creating an elegant silhouette against the edges of the church. He craned his neck methodically, popping the pockets of air free from their trapped apertures. But his head then bore itself steadily up, and he gazed upon her: and it was a dead, dark stare that gazed at her, drawing her very soul into its depths.

In that moment that was an eternity, she was transfixed: as if she had glimpsed upon a dream world where time meant nothing but dread. She could not think but to lose herself in the dark pools of his eyes- and only when her breath grew short could she recall herself at all. She drew a great gasp then, sucking in the air that had now grown thick about her, and wrenched her eyes from the man. Glancing about, it seemed to her that none other than herself had seen him; and for a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if she were going mad.

‘‘Oh!’’ The Pastor wailed, and her attention was caught once again, ‘‘But it was Woman who was the downfall of Man, and erelong the Garden, too, became withered and parched...’’

Gently, now, the cold, slithering air wafted by with delicate haste across the nape of her neck, and she swiveled around once more- but her phantom had vanished, leaving only a miasma of disquiet billowing in its wake.