The Descent

The  words  crowded  through  Ali's  frustration.  Over  the  past  year,  she  had  dipped hard  into  the  stew  of  languages  spoken   in  South  Africa,   especially   Nguni,  which included Zulu. Parts  of Kokie's song opened to her: Lord bless us children/Come spirit, come holy spirit/Lord bless us children.

'O feditse dintwa/Le matswenyecho....'  Do away  with wars and troubles....

Ali sighed. All  these  people  wanted  was  peace  and  a  little  happiness.  When  she  first showed  up,  they  had  looked  like  the  morning  after  a  hurricane,  sleeping  in  the  open, drinking  fouled  water,  waiting  to  die.  With  her  help,  they   now  had  rudimentary shelter  and  a  well  for  water  and  the  start  of  a  cottage  industry  that  used  towering anthills  as  forges  for  making  simple  farm  tools  like  hoes  and  shovels.  They  had  not welcomed her coming; that  had  taken  some  time.  But  her  departure  was  causing  real anguish,  for  she  had  brought  a  little  light  into  their  darkness,  or  at  least  a  little medicine and diversion.

It  wasn't  fair.  Her  coming  had  meant  good  things  for  them.  And  now  they  were being  punished  for  her  sins.  There  was  no  possible  way  to  explain  that.  They  would not have  understood that this was the Church's way  of breaking her down.

It  made  her  mad.  Maybe  she  was  a  bit  too  proud.  And  profane  at  times.  With  a temper,  yes.  And  indiscreet,  certainly.  She'd  made  a  few  mistakes.  Who  hadn't?  She was  sure  her  transfer  out  of  Africa   had  to  do  with  some  problem   she'd  caused somebody somewhere. Or maybe  her past was catching up with her again.

Fingers   trembling,   Ali  smoothed   out  a  pair  of  khaki   bush  shorts   and   the   old monologue  rolled  around  in  her  head.  It  was  like  a  broken  record,  her  mea  culpas. The  fact  was,  when  she  dove,  she  dove  deep.  Controversy  be  damned.  She  was forever  running ahead of the pack.

Maybe  she should have  thought twice before  writing  that  op-ed  piece  for  the  Times suggesting the Pope recuse  himself from all matters  relating to  abortion,  birth  control, and the female body. Or writing her essay  on Agatha of Aragon, the  mystic  virgin  who wrote  love  poems  and  preached  tolerance:  never  a  popular  subject  among  the  good old boys. And it had been  sheer  folly  to  get  caught  practicing  Mass  in  the  Taos  chapel four years  ago. Even empty,  even  at  three  in  the  morning,  church  walls  had  eyes  and ears. She'd been more foolish still, once caught, to defy  her Mother  Superior  –  in  front of  the  archbishop  –  by  insisting  women  had  a  liturgical  right  to  consecrate  the  Host. To  serve  as  priests.  Bishops.  Cardinals.  And  she  would  have  gone  on  to  include  the Pope in her litany, too, but the archbishop had frozen her with a word.

Ali  had  come  within  a  hair  of  official  censure.  But  close  calls  seemed  a  perpetual state  for  her.  Controversy  followed  her  like  a  starving  dog.  After  the  Taos  incident, she'd tried to 'go orthodox.' But that was before the Manhattans. Sometimes a  girl  just lost control.

It  had been just a little over  a year  ago, a grand cocktail  gathering  with  generals  and diplomats  from  a  dozen  nations  in  the  historic  part  of  The  Hague.  The  occasion  was the signing of some  obscure  NATO  document,  and  the  Papal  nuncio  was  there.  There was no forgetting the place, a wing of the thirteenth-century  Binnerhoef Palace  known as  the  Hall  of  Knights,  a  room  loaded  with  delicious  Renaissance  goodies,  even  a Rembrandt.  Just  as  vividly  she  recalled  the  Manhattans  that  a  handsome  colonel, urged on by  her wicked mentor January, kept  bringing to her.

Ali had never  tasted  such a concoction, and it had been years  since such chivalry  had laid  siege  to  her.  The  net  effect  had  been  a  loose  tongue.  She'd  strayed  badly  in  a discussion about Spinoza and somehow ended up sermonizing passionately about  glass ceilings in patriarchal institutions  and  the  ballistic  throw-weight  of  a  humble  chunk  of rock.  Ali  blushed  at  the  memory,  the  dead  silence  through  the  entire  room.  Luckily January had been there  to rescue  her, laughing that deep  laugh,  sweeping  her  off  first to the ladies' room, then to the hotel  and  a  cold  shower.  Maybe  God  had  forgiven  her, but  the  Vatican  had  not.  Within  days,  Ali  had  been  delivered  a  one-way  air  ticket  to Pretoria and the bush.

'They  coming,  look,  Mother,  see.'  With  a  lack  of  self-consciousness   that   was   a miracle in itself, Kokie was pointing out the window with the remains of her hand.