The Prophet Of Amanga Read online

  Imagine if the churches were enticed

  to learn from monkeys, say...or…” he chuckled, “...manatees

  the message that we only read as Christ’s!

  Our duty then would be to fight pollution,

  deforestation, extinctions, to end the insanity

  of climate change. We’d seek out Nature’s solutions.”

  Her riposte hinted the girl was not impressed

  by Ben’s ideas: she said, “You’re sounding cranky.

  If God had meant for men to worship monkeys

  I’m sure our Father never would have blessed

  the world with Jesus as his true messiah.

  What’s up with you Ben? Why can’t you trust

  the word of the Bible? But hey...we both need rest...

  it’s getting up at five that’s made us tired.

  I’m having a shower...I need to wash some dirt off

  and you should get some sleep now, I’d suggest.”

  Imti Mentoo heard a plastic curtain

  sing on its rail, and then his lecherous power

  of hearing discerned the swish of her getting undressed

  and a hiss that conveyed she was naked and in the shower.

  The hostel rattled to rhythms of water pipes clanking

  but Imti Mentoo’s ears detected something

  in another tempo to the plumbing:

  explicitly, the beat of a young man yanking

  his lollipop, and discerned that the prophet needed

  more than the room allowed: a long unblinking

  study of the object of his hankering

  - that is to say, her cunt - as much as he did.

  Furthermore, he winced to hear his messiah

  so starved of carnal reward that he was cranking

  his handle while the belle of his desire

  soaped herself behind that plastic screening.

  He had no doubt that both of them would thank him

  for breaking down the barrier between them.

  So out of the wardrobe darkness he sent groping

  tendrils of influence that wormed around the room

  probing the hand-basin, tasting the greasy rim

  surrounding the squat-hole. He longed to stroke her soapy

  female form but his feelers lack tactility

  for any objects but those that may be broken;

  when entropy’s door is ajar he can nudge it open

  but the god was not blessed with any useful facility

  for tender touch. He writhed across a hotchpotch

  of grout-splodged tiles and found what he’d been hoping

  might be the case: the fitting was a botch-up

  and wouldn’t last a trice if he just clamped on it.

  An invisible tendril wrapped around the ropey,

  badly-mounted curtain rail and yanked on it.

  He heard the man jump up and dance a jig

  half-dressed with ankles tangled in his trousers

  and fall on his face as Teri set off shouting,

  “Get away! You beast! You dirty pig!”

  He floundered on the floor and when he grasped

  his pants to pull them up, a flailing leg

  connected with the wardrobe and the big

  unsteady piece of furniture collapsed,

  springing Imti Mentoo from his prison.

  His hope to see the girl in not a fig

  was thwarted by a towel clutched to her bosom.

  “I didn’t touch it! Jesus knows that’s true!

  It just fell down...I swear I’m not such a prig!”

  and she screamed, “What!? Your trousers fell down too??”

  Her eyes fixed on the figurine. She coughed

  in fury, snatched it up: “Don’t take the name

  of Jesus Christ the Son of God in vain!

  This is the god of pervs like you!” she scoffed.

  “I’m off to get myself a single room.”

  The fleetest glimpse of gorgeous wiry muff

  aroused the leering god as Teri doffed

  her towel, but jeans soon veiled the curly plumes.

  He swelled up, but the pleasure was short lived:

  on storming out, the girl held the carving aloft.

  With Ben still blubbering, “Teri...please...forgive...”

  she hurled it at the floor and screamed, “You’re dirt!”

  His cock sustained the shock and snapped clean off.

  Imti Mentoo gasped. Oooh fuck! That hurts!

  For several days he gave up watching them but

  returned to the sandalwood image when over his sulk,

  to find Ben asleep in a Youth Hostel dormitory bunk.

  He was slightly cheered that his prophet had fixed the member

  as best he could with first-aid sticking plasters.

  The next night Ben was eating with the bad tempered

  vixen Theresa. “I want to go back in December,

  but after Christmas I’ll come and visit your ashram.”

  She smiled at Ben. Their quarrel looked to be mended.

  The god felt warmth return as dormant embers

  of friendship re-kindled the love his meddling had ended.

  Ben beamed like he was high just on her breath.

  It’s sweet, the god reflected, but must remember

  someday to punish that girl with a hideous death.

  They’d picked the usual restaurant. A nighthawk flickered

  ghostlike above them, but they reacted to neither

  the mewl of owls in trees beyond the neon,

  nor to a backpacking crowd who snickered and bickered

  and tossed back rum like the world was soon to end.

  One of them stood up and staggered over.

  “Hey mates! Look here…it’s Ben! His dad’s my vicar!”

  Ben jumped. “Teri, meet Alec...I mentioned the friend

  I came to Amanga with?” The drunkard had started

  to pour out two more glasses. “C’mon…we got liquor!”

  and the couple were coerced to join the party.

  Alec was civil to Teri till she nipped to the loo,

  then, “Ben…you dog! Straight into some girl’s knickers

  the moment I take my watchful eye off you!”

  Ben responded coolly, then deflected

  his friend from the subject by asking after the pair

  of girls they’d previously parted company for.

  Alec went glum, confessing he’d been rejected

  by Christine and Amy, and the last he’d seen of the latter

  she’d been at the side of, “...some local guy who acted

  like he owned the beach,” he moaned, dejected.

  Imti Mentoo knows the truth of the matter.

  The load he bears is lightened when a wave

  of sadistic reminiscence swells his erection

  as he spins out his vigil in the cathedral nave,

  recalling Amy’s face as terror filled her

  when her boyfriend tied her down and injected

  sedative drugs before he raped and killed her.

  He sinks into a reverie and dreams

  of days long gone when he could watch his fill

  of sacrifice like that, when blood would spill

  like fountains in his temples. Now he deems

  that shamans of today have taken the art out

  of proper worship: beheading chickens comes

  a poor third place behind the resonant screams

  of prisoners when a High Priest cut their heart out;

  of virgins being raped atop his altars.

  He moodily views the threads of incense steam

  rising steadily up into the vault;

  a thick blue cloud is building where they’re pausing

  in their ascent beneath the wooden beams.

  He throbs at the thought of the chaos he’ll soon be causing.

>   But Alec had recently watched the beheading of chickens

  and loved it, in the woods near Chankachanga.

  Ben absorbed his travelling tales with wonder

  while Teri at his side was looking sickened.

  Nobody heeded the night-time denizens whispering.

  The crowd of drunken tourists became more jocund.

  Beyond, the marshland’s cloak of darkness thickened

  and talk progressed from gods to ghosts to mysteries,

  examining the unknown from every angle.

  Ben apprised his friend of his ambition

  to study native theology in the jungle,

  but Alec’s wit was sharper than a knife:

  he entertained his friends by merrily picking

  holes in Ben’s philosophy of life.

  Then Teri chipped in, “Alec, I know who

  you ought to meet...our friend, the researcher Doug.

  He thinks that man’s no different to cats and dogs

  ...he’d have a lot of common ground with you.”

  But Ben said, “No. Doug’s atheism’s merely defiance…

  ...you know how the Chinese find God through the practice of Tao?

  And Amangans through nature? Well, Doug sees him differently too…

  ...he looks on the works of the Lord through a lens of science.”

  Alec’s drunken hand had been absently clutching

  the rod of the graven god while the fat was chewed.

  He jerked in surprise when he noticed what he’d been touching.

  “...reminds me...” he said, “...y’know how I think all religion’s...”

  he stopped himself short, glanced at Teri, said, “...poo?..

  …well, something’s shook my disbelief a smidgen.”

  The way he told the story made it funny.

  While queued at the ticket window for Lidonga

  the evening he and Ben had their previous ding-dong,

  a big black kite had snatched his wallet of money

  in its claws, ascending the way a fountain

  shoots its water jets heavenwards, and soon he

  saw it far up, lazily circling the sunny

  cone of smoking Moshagonga Mountain.

  The bird descended, hanging, barely bothering

  to flap its wings till Alec, panicked, went running

  through the streets towards where it was hovering.

  “Y’know that lake? There’s steps surrounding it?

  …so-called sacred, but generally used as a dunny?

  ...y’can’t see the water for a crust of floating shit?”

  The company laughed, foreseeing what was coming.

  “I had to wade in to find it…up to my middle…

  ...three laundry trips to lose the smell of piddle!”

  Alec drained his glass then poured more rum in.

  “What struck me most,” he went on, “was the way

  the bird behaved...it knew what it was doing...

  …there seemed to be some force in charge of it, numbing

  it’s natural instincts in order to spoil my day!

  I mean...remember the rooftop Ben? My party tricks?

  It felt as if that big-knobbed god was drumming

  a lesson into me for taking the mick.”

  If any had curbed their laughter a little and listened

  they might have heard a weird ethereal humming:

  the Great God Imti Mentoo having kittens.

  “Hey! That bird!” said Teri. The nighthawk had flashed

  across the terrace, ambushing brightly lit

  moths that jiggled round the neon lights

  above their heads, its flight an arc of hot ash.

  “I think it’s a potoroo,” remarked a beautiful

  dark skinned girl. Another said, “That’s tosh!”

  - a teenage boy who preened a pubescent moustache -

  “It must be a nightjar. A potoroo’s a marsupial.”

  The girl looked hurt, “I’m sure our guide said that.”

  Then Ben called out, “Hey Doug! We’re having a bash

  at naming this bird?” spotting the familiar hat.

  “He says nightjar, but to me potoroo rings a bell.”

  “...pot!” slurred Alec, “…reminds me...got some hash...”

  He staggered into the street towards his hotel.

  “Great Potoo,” said Doug with barely a glance.

  “Here’s my number Ben. It can be hell

  getting a signal, but if you climb the hill

  behind the ashram, they’ve a radio there tuned to my camp.

  I’d like to see you both again in Amanga

  but if I don’t, you’ve been much help, so thanks!”

  Alec then reappeared and asked if perchance

  they’d care for some weed he’d scored in Chankachanga.

  A joint did the rounds but when it came to Doug

  the older man regarded it askance.

  “Oh no,” he said, “I never mess with drugs.”

  Teri was tired so Ben saw her safe to her room.

  The others got stoned but Doug stayed true to his stance

  sipping his beer on the terrace ignoring their fumes.

  “What an offensive man he is, your chum!”

  Teri complained to Ben the following morning.

  They sat on a bus seat, cramped, and Ben kept moaning,

  sick of face, habitual smile gone glum.

  “Don’t be hard on Alec...he’s had a rough year,”

  he whimpered, “ooh...shouldn’t’ve had that lamb...”

  “I don’t think the food’s to blame…I think it’s the rum,”

  she snapped. “Before the rum you’d had two beers.”

  They’d picked a double seat but got shoehorned

  against the window by the invasive bum

  of an indigenous lady of generous form

  who’d commandeered one end by native stealth.

  “I’m feeling sick, my legs are going numb

  and if we don’t stop soon I’ll shit myself!”

  “Too much information,” said Teri primly.

  “You know you only have yourself to blame.”

  “Oh come on Teri! It’s not my fault the lamb

  was undercooked!” She parried, “That’s a flimsy

  excuse if ever I heard one...you’re hung-over!”

  “The drink didn’t help,” Ben admitted glumly.

  “I’m going veggie right now!” he added grimly.

  The god was a dangling plastic toy, strung over

  the driver’s head, enjoying the judder and clatter,

  spinning round and round and hearing dimly

  the bickering couple amid the ambient chatter.

  At length they stopped in a town and Ben with green

  and bilious complexion squeezed past the woman and nimbly

  raced from the bus towards a public latrine.

  Worst luck, that day the driver was in a hurry

  and couldn’t wait for tourists with weak stomachs.

  He revved up, parped the horn and Teri got flummoxed

  at what was keeping Ben, becoming more worried

  as the bus moved off. Her remonstrations

  earned no more than laconic shrugs of “Sorry!”

  Right at the last - relief: she saw Ben scurry

  across the concourse and leap with determination.

  Slumped in the seat he moaned, “That wasn’t funny.

  Shittiest toilet ever. The floor was a slurry

  and the cow wouldn’t let me out ‘cause I had no money.”

  The road ascended a hill overlooking the sea.

  “What a price to pay for a simple curry!”

  Teri piously piped, “It’s not hurt me!”

  But two hours later she was green as well.

  The tortuous coastal highway twisted and plummeted

&nbsp
; and a boy in the opposite row repeatedly vomited

  lending the stuffy vehicle a nauseous smell.

  He’d sealed his first few pukes in a plastic bag

  that blobbled along the aisle at each steep hill,

  flobbering like a medusa with flesh of gel.

  Looking at it made them want to gag

  but it was hard to tear their eyes away.

  Teri was bilious and Ben was writhing in Hell.

  “I hate this land,” he said, “the filth and decay.

  Even these rural roadsides are fouled with junk.”

  “You said how you loved it last night at my hotel...”

  Ben capitulated: “I was drunk.”

  All the while the plastic god was wheeling

  round and round and round and round and round,

  successively looking at the arid brown

  Western Amangan Desert, the rivetted ceiling

  of the bus, and out at the rock-collared ocean.

  The judders, the jives, the dives, the gut-twisting, rolling

  movements which had human passengers reeling

  filled the god with wild exhilaration,

  this bus a wild stallion galloping a prairie of rust,

  the bumps a boon to a being whose everyday feelings

  bounce between vanity, vengeance and lust,

  immune to the squalid slums around Rankoor City

  as he was immune to the prayers of millions kneeling

  at his shrines; immune to love, to pity.

  Separate rooms again in Old Rankoor,

  an arrangement Imti Mentoo reckoned pitiful.

  Colonial power had never subdued this citadel

  deep in the desert. This meant he could be sure

  of tracking their movements: it maintains its pagan culture

  and Rankoorians hold the phallic divinity dear:

  his form is graven on turrets, bossed onto doors

  and peers down from the rampart walls like vultures.

  They met for breakfast but neither had much to eat.

  He tracked them all the morning. They explored

  the labyrinth of mediaeval streets.

  Lunch was a Jinju vegetarian buffet

  and they frittered the afternoon on humdrum chores:

  laundry, pharmacy, a bank, an internet cafe.

  “She’s emailed to say the orphanage needs me urgently,”

  said Teri at sunset, ambling the walls of the town.

  “Two of the new volunteers have let her down.”

  Away to the west, the sun’s last flames were emerging

  behind a cloud the colour of a bruise.

  “Email? Emotional blackmail! It’s just like Rosemary...

  …I’m sure she’s coped alone through greater emergencies,”

  Ben expostulated at this news.

  “You’ve done enough to earn this holiday.