way down the cobbled street past the windows and doorways of Coverdale Hall, conscientiously not glancing in. When she reached the old bridge, she turned right and began to walk along the path beside the river, which led to the town centre, where she had some shopping to do. The wooded bank rose steeply, and from above the topmost branches the cathedral towers looked down. Leaves fell in ones and twos as she passed, and the air was tinged with the smell of smoke and decay.
Before long she came to the weir and stood watching the river folding over the ledge and falling into the white water below. Branches and tree trunks were caught here, carried downstream in some storm. Above the weir the water was calm, reflecting the arch of the bridge into a full circle in the river. You could almost walk on it, thought Mara. The sky and the clouds would lie under your feet as you went by. Jemima Wilkinson had claimed she could walk on water. Mara had just been reading about her. She had gathered a circle of devotees around her in the eighteenth century, and at some stage had promised to demonstrate her high calling by a miracle. One night they gathered at the lakeâs edge. âThere she goes,â the disciples would cry, watching the pale figure crossing the lake. âPraises be to the Most High! This is the One of whom the Scriptures prophesied â the woman clothed with the sun with the moon under her feet!â But it had not been like that. Jemima had brought them to the waterâs edge and asked if they believed she had the power to walk on water. âYes, yes!â they chorused. âIn that case,â she replied, âyour faith has no need of a demonstration.â Mara smiled.
A real fanatic would have plunged into the inky waters and drowned, believing to the last watery gasp that God would intervene and fulfil his promise. Such people were the Chosen Ones, raised up by God to perform mighty acts, to proclaim mysteries, to gather the one true Church before the close of the age. Reason and common sense could gain no purchase on their minds. Mara knew this from bitter experience, from hours of arguing with her sister and trying to persuade her to leave the sect. A waste of breath. No matter how strange the thing which God commanded, he was to be obeyed. Who could question his wisdom? It was unsearchable. âAs the heavens are higher than the earth, so much higher are my ways than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts,â saith the Lord. In fact, the more bizarre the command, the better, for this proved that it was God speaking.
Maybe fanaticism was like being desperately in love. The sense of being special, chosen, the moving of mountains for the beloved. By now Mara had reached the steps which led up to the next bridge. She began to climb and, as if by word association, she found herself thinking of Johnny again. He would make a highly successful prophet, drawing off a group of bewitched women. She could picture them following him through the streets of the City, squeaking with excitement, like the rats scampering after the Pied Piper. Then she shook her head, realizing that she was trying in some way to protect herself by ridiculing him. She had been aware of this before, knowing that her expression whenever she happened to pass him in the street or in a corridor was one of aloof contempt. His expression was harder to analyse, and she was not entirely satisfied with it. It seemed bland and courteous, but sometimes she suspected that he had only just removed the smile from his face.
The marketplace was busy. She passed the stalls selling fruit and flowers, cheap clothing, toys and shoes. The far end was overshadowed by a church. Young people lounged around the monument that stood in the paved area, and pigeons dabbed this way and that in the sunshine, hoping for crusts.
Mara was watching idly when her attention was caught by the sight of a girl standing alone in the middle of the square.
Before long she came to the weir and stood watching the river folding over the ledge and falling into the white water below. Branches and tree trunks were caught here, carried downstream in some storm. Above the weir the water was calm, reflecting the arch of the bridge into a full circle in the river. You could almost walk on it, thought Mara. The sky and the clouds would lie under your feet as you went by. Jemima Wilkinson had claimed she could walk on water. Mara had just been reading about her. She had gathered a circle of devotees around her in the eighteenth century, and at some stage had promised to demonstrate her high calling by a miracle. One night they gathered at the lakeâs edge. âThere she goes,â the disciples would cry, watching the pale figure crossing the lake. âPraises be to the Most High! This is the One of whom the Scriptures prophesied â the woman clothed with the sun with the moon under her feet!â But it had not been like that. Jemima had brought them to the waterâs edge and asked if they believed she had the power to walk on water. âYes, yes!â they chorused. âIn that case,â she replied, âyour faith has no need of a demonstration.â Mara smiled.
A real fanatic would have plunged into the inky waters and drowned, believing to the last watery gasp that God would intervene and fulfil his promise. Such people were the Chosen Ones, raised up by God to perform mighty acts, to proclaim mysteries, to gather the one true Church before the close of the age. Reason and common sense could gain no purchase on their minds. Mara knew this from bitter experience, from hours of arguing with her sister and trying to persuade her to leave the sect. A waste of breath. No matter how strange the thing which God commanded, he was to be obeyed. Who could question his wisdom? It was unsearchable. âAs the heavens are higher than the earth, so much higher are my ways than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts,â saith the Lord. In fact, the more bizarre the command, the better, for this proved that it was God speaking.
Maybe fanaticism was like being desperately in love. The sense of being special, chosen, the moving of mountains for the beloved. By now Mara had reached the steps which led up to the next bridge. She began to climb and, as if by word association, she found herself thinking of Johnny again. He would make a highly successful prophet, drawing off a group of bewitched women. She could picture them following him through the streets of the City, squeaking with excitement, like the rats scampering after the Pied Piper. Then she shook her head, realizing that she was trying in some way to protect herself by ridiculing him. She had been aware of this before, knowing that her expression whenever she happened to pass him in the street or in a corridor was one of aloof contempt. His expression was harder to analyse, and she was not entirely satisfied with it. It seemed bland and courteous, but sometimes she suspected that he had only just removed the smile from his face.
The marketplace was busy. She passed the stalls selling fruit and flowers, cheap clothing, toys and shoes. The far end was overshadowed by a church. Young people lounged around the monument that stood in the paved area, and pigeons dabbed this way and that in the sunshine, hoping for crusts.
Mara was watching idly when her attention was caught by the sight of a girl standing alone in the middle of the square.
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