The Church of the Transhuman

by Joe Plus

  The babbling of the porters grew from an uneasy murmur to a loud shouting. Herman reminded me of what he had recounted the other day, that these boys believe in the tribe of women, and that these women liked to hunt for human flesh, male flesh.

  I looked down at the deformed pile of bones, skin, torn fabric, and hair. I agreed there was little doubt the remains were human. It reminded me of a lion kill I had witnessed years back in Kenya, some poor boy. I suggested to Trish she call HQ and arrange an autopsy.

  We set up a small tent over the remains and collected some blood for analysis. It was getting warm and the remains were becoming pungent and covered in ants and flies.

  After a tiring morning of examination with the guidance of a CoT+ pathologist back in HQ, and the eventual DNA match, we found the following:

  The boy, whose name was Abdul Anak Osman, was indeed the runaway. Abdul was Muslim Malay, one of the Bumiputera people from the North West state of Sarawak. He was twenty two years old, weighed barely sixty kilograms, had a height of one meter sixty eight centimeters and suffered from rickets (evidenced by his rotten teeth and bowed legs).

  An animal had eaten him, an animal with access to a sharp stabbing and cutting instrument. Guided by the pathologist it became clear from bone fragments he had not only been eaten raw, the telltale marks of biting teeth were obvious, but had been scraped and cut with a hard, sharp object. I remember the pathologist’s Ahaa! moment and his conclusion, given in the manner of an English explorer (an attempt at humor no doubt) went something like: It’s cannibals ma’am. Have you sufficient provisions for the men? Are you feeding them enough meat?

  Now, who am I to rebuke our pathologist? I am a lowly scientist, rummaging in a jungle river’s muck and filth, yet I struggle to accept the doctor’s conclusion. One cannot deny that a man has been killed, possibly murdered. But eaten by cannibals? But given the circumstances I did not appreciate the joke and assured him we were well stocked with provisions, that there were no cannibals among us and would he please just do his job.

  Once the autopsy was over we stepped out into the camp. The mist had cleared and we were about to take a coffee break when we heard another rumpus coming from the riverbank. We could see clearly now, and there he was, a naked, hairless, blue skinned man standing up on the far bank. We all saw him: the translator, the porters – all of us. When I say hairless, I mean completely bald; no hair on his genital area or anywhere else. He was powerfully built; long muscular arms and a well-developed shoulder area, a strong back, and with a strange amount of sub-cuticle fat around the mid-riff. Malcolm later said that he resembled a gray, fat frog on steroids. He was not at all what I would call fat or froglike. Perhaps it was the long limbs and long hands that brought to Malcolm’s mind a frog’s anatomy. The strange man’s feet were not immediately visible. He glanced at us, then causally took a dive - I could have sworn his fingers were webbed. I definitely saw substantial bat-wings, a little like the underarm flap some women get when they age, but solid and sturdy. Very strange. We called after him, but he swam on up river. Malcolm and I got in the dingy and took off after him. Incredibly he was too fast for our boat, so after a few kilometers we lost him and turned back. I asked if anyone recorded the event: Trish, Natalie, Johanna – and Anna, would you believe it, no one, not even a porter, had recorded a single shot?

  Chapter 22

  John peered through a slither of light between the doors, tracked two youths as they floated and bobbed outside the church grounds; to spit, whistle, call, and stare at the doors, like hyenas with x-ray vision, watching as he cowered.

  He studied the vestibule. On the wall opposite the door hung a cork billboard, on which was pinned a sheet for ‘The Adderly Street Spiritualist Church Committee’; a list of upcoming meetings. To calm his nerves he read through it:

  May 4th: Managing your familiar, part 4 - baby steps

  May 8th: Healing power - Is a recipient’s faith really required?

  May 15th: Spiritual Growth Keys Steering Committee Meeting: The price of orange juice and pecan pie.

  He checked the dates - all in the past. The verbal torrent from within ceased. He pushed gently on the doors to the street, peaked again through the gap, the boys were huddling by the gate. He could feel his pulse beat against his temple.

  Jesus, why am I in such a panic? Images of the moment replayed – bullet holes in the seat, and the voice: Right through the nose, his mother wouldn’t know him sir. Then the knife at his stomach – some sort of roughly sharpened kitchen knife, handle wrapped in duct tape.

  He turned and exhaled. To each side of the billboard was a door leading into the sanctuary, or whatever this lot called the place with the pews. Under the billboard was a table with a plate on either side, and in the center an orderly stack of rectangular red hardbacks. John walked over to the table and picked up one of the books. It had ‘Grace Baptist Hymnal’ stamped on the cover.

  Baptists I guess.

  He edged closer to the table and noticed, hanging on the wall to his right, a framed genealogical chart. At the top of the chart was the name of King David, and at the bottom, Queen Elizabeth II. Chuckling he scanned the chart until it suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to fill in his insurance claims form. It would have been best to fill it with the car park attendant. He would have to get it done the next day. Perhaps someone could give him a lift home. He tried to message his secretary, then Mickey, but they were offline.

  A taxi? he thought.

  The voice from within the church recommenced. Again he peeked outside – the boys had gone, but the number of flashing police car lights was disconcerting. He heard a pop-pop-pop - unlikely to be fireworks. No way was he leaving the building just now.

  The strident voice of the woman recommenced: “I to say to you, I have a plan for you. I say to you, I will reveal it to you.”

  Oh god, he thought.

  Flat and monotone though the message was, John would have to sit through it. He thought he could hear the voice of youths just outside. What if they decide to enter the church? Might be safer if I join the congregation, another bird in the flock, so to speak. Anyway, it might be good for a laugh, something to discuss over a couple of beers.

  He moved to the sanctuary door on the left side of the table and, to prevent creaking, opened it slowly. He crept quietly into the hall and took a seat on the pew furthest back. He sat directly below a window ledge where stood a vase of old, rotten fynbos. Congregated in the first three pews sat a dozen or so elderly men and women. On the podium before the lectern stood a woman. She was tall and slim with thick gray hair tied up in a bun, and she was dressed in a well-fitted light blue suit. John guessed she was in her mid-forties, possibly early fifties. As she spoke the congregation sat attentively, and John could glimpse the facial expressions of a few to his far right, a mix of adoration and warm concern. An opaque, nacreous haze radiated around her. She had both her arms raised and palms down – as one might expect from a sorceress bestowing curses.

  “For I, the heavenly weaver, have brought great news to you my people. On this day we will move forward and be delivered from our earthly shackles. Now is the time of the fulfillment of the great promise, the time of the chosen one to deliver us from the followers of technology and of science. Delivered from the believers in the power of consciousness.”

  “Faark.”

  A fat man with a thick mane of white hair had managed to simultaneously sneeze, swear and shake his head wildly.

  Uh oh, they’re all bonkers. Maybe it is safer outside.

  John got up to leave when a window opened and a strong breeze violently pushed him back into his seat. The woman paused her message and the congregation turned. He smiled uncomfortably and rubbed his bruised coccyx. A gust of the same wind eddied around him, exerting a gentle twisting force as it pulled on his coat and hair. The gust moved off between pews, and progressed from person to person: the movement of a small hat on one elderly lady, the lift of the comb-over of one a
ncient man, the flip of the pages of an open book.

  A line of warm smiles interspersed by one pained grimace confronted John, each smile attached to a pair of wet, bovine eyes. After a nod or a wink, each turned back to the woman at the lectern. The breeze did not dissipate, it continued to whisk skirts, rattle the windows, and tug at the hymn board until it settled on the speaker, elevating strands of her thick, grey hair. Her voice deepened and her tempo decreased, and she continued with her equivocal message.

  “Yes, there is one here who has been chosen to be my pupil, my disciple.”

  “Brolloks!” shouted the fat man.

  John stood and, quietly as he could, walked to the door. He had just arrived, and already he had had enough. He pushed and pulled – but the door was stuck fast. He sighed defeated, sat back on his pew, and the breeze continued around the hall. It moved cobwebs, lifted a child's watercolor, collected large paint flakes and tossed them into the air so that they tumbled down like two-toned manna. The breeze reached John and he looked around to find the source. He folded his arms; indignant; angry.

  The fuckers have lock me in. I guess the plate will be passed around just now.

  “But he is a proud and selfish man, wholly ignorant of our ways. He must humble himself, submit to my yoke; be my servant.”

  “Cunt!” shouted the fat man, and he gave himself a hard slap across the cheek.

  “My son, do not be afraid. Though there will be many days ahead where you will be afraid. I will be with you, I will comfort you, and now, I anoint you.”

  All eyes turned to John, and the breeze knocked over the vase of old fynboss and a small quantity of brown water poured over the ledge and onto John’s head and shoulders. he stood, calmly righted the vase and moved to sit one pew ahead. He took off his wet coat and sat down. The breeze settled on his head, and then the air was still.

  The woman opened her eyes and stepped off the podium and took a seat in the front pew. A man in a black suit and thin comb-over stood to take her place. He thanked the woman, a Mrs. Vos, for the fine message and reminded the congregation on the dangers of mediumship and channeling in particular.

  “Nelli, we can attest, is an experienced medium and it does take many years to get to her level, her spiritual plane so to speak.” He went on to discuss the agenda for the month and how the fund raising efforts for the last quarter had brought in eight hundred and twenty-five Rands. “Which is still not enough to fix the leaky roof but a big thank you to everyone who chipped in, especially Mrs. Wax for organizing a wonderful jumble sale and for Mr. Wax for providing the snacks and drinks.”

  He rambled on about the condition of the building, about the wonderful effort everyone had put in to have some broken windows fixed and the newly installed security system. He exhorted the members to pray for those who were sick and those who had departed.

  “And it’s so nice to see some new faces. There is tea for anyone who would like to stay,” he looked directly at John and smiled, “and we will be delighted to answer any questions you might have.” He pulled on his fingers and gave a needy smile. “Just let the spirit guide you; I’ll leave it at that.”

  The meeting closed with a further benedictionfrom the man with the comb-over, and John was relieved he had missed the collection. He didn’t see why he should give anything.

  There was an uncomfortable pause and then the members began to shuffle to their feet and pick up their things. John did not want to stay, but he was dreading the journey home. He stood and the man with the comb-over approached him and, in a camp nasal tone, greeted him warmly.

  “Jimmy Sandston, pleased to meet you,” he said

  “John,” said John.

  “Won't you stay for tea or coffee?” said Jimmy.

  John was hesitant; he was reluctant to go back into Adderly Street. Perhaps he could bum a lift.

  “That's a kind offer, but I can't stay too long,” he said.

  Jimmy led the way to wooden stairwell that descended to the right of the assembly area. Below was a surprisingly large basement with stacks of chairs folded against a wall, and in the center, bowed as if about to buckle, stood a long and cluttered white plastic table overwhelmed with stacks of small plates, saucers and cups, tea pots and coffee urns, plates of assorted cookies, and in the middle an enormous, waxy looking lime green cream cake. The room led to a small enclosure with a sign above marked For Prayer, a kitchen area to the right, and to the left a rather revealing prefab loo, its partition neither reaching the ceiling, nor touching the floor, allowing everyone present to see the feet of the occupant, and hear and smell everything expressed. The congregation bustled, men unfolded chairs for the women to sit on and women rummaged around the kitchen. John pointedly craned his neck to indicate the large number of cockroaches fearlessly meandering their way across the walls and ceiling.

  “The little cunts won't leave.” The vulgarity of the comment took John by surprise. It was the man with Tourette’s, a short, pale skinned, wet eyed creature. “They're everywhere,” said the man.

  “I see,” said John. John then noticed the poorly fitting bouffant, the green tartan kilt that hung below the man’s stumpy knees. He wore an overhanging striped shirt, from under which his large belly poured over his sporran like old custard. In elaborately cut sandals, each sock had worn through to reveal a long, nail polished, big toe.

  “Have some tea,” said Jimmy, passing a pot. John declined politely and picked up the coffee urn. He poured himself a cup and took a cookie. Once the chatter died down, Jimmy introduced John to each person in the room.

  “O.K. everybody, this is John. John, this is Mrs. Wax.” Mrs. Wax took John’s hand and clasped it tightly. Her flesh gave John the feeling of marshmallow under a taught sausage skin. John instinctively relaxed his grip lest her hand burst asunder.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “And this is Tele Scunditz, his hair looks lovely today doesn't it everyone.”

  “Yes, lovely,” said Mrs. Wax.

  Tele Scunditz was the man with Tourette’s syndrome.

  “Enchantee, you cunt!” shouted Tele, avoiding John's hand as though it were a fouled handkerchief.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said John.

  “And this is Mrs. Petronella Vos. Even though she's Afrikaans she does speak wonderful English, don't you Nelli,” said Jimmy.

  Nelli Vos beamed and put out a limp hand, fingers down. John took it and squeezed it gently. She was a tall woman with a light tan through which glowed faint blue veins. John found himself immediately attracted to her.

  She cocked her head and giggled, “Yes, I'm from Wellington actually, but my husband is from Cape Town. That's why I am here today.”

  Her voice was warm and soft, quite different from her channeling voice that John had heard during the service.

  “Pleased to meet you Mrs. Vos,” said John.

  Jimmy whispered into his ear: “Her husband passed away you know. Such a shame and such a lovely man.”

  “Oh?” said John.

  “Fucking slut,” shouted Tele.

  “Cancer,” said Jimmy, “he died in such agony. I shall never forget the screams, the suffering, the indignity.”

  Nelli’s face contorted momentarily. She wiped her eyes with a tissue, quickly regained her composure, and smiled.

  “And Mr. Wax,” continued Jimmy, “a most loyal member of the congregation.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said John.

  “You too young man,” said Mr. Wax, a tall thin figure leaning on a blackened knobkerrie. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and tie, yet had long, thickly clumped hair. He shook John's hand brusquely. John noticed Mr. Wax's large nose, and caught a whiff of alcohol.

  Jimmy moved John along to a bald thin man with small eyes and long chin. He was of medium height and a slight frame, with clear, blue eyes.

  “And Mr. Gideon Scot-Noah, our foremost psychic and a most well respected aut
hor.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said John.

  “And I am delighted to finally meet you John,” said Gideon, and he took John's hand and smiled warmly.

  “Bloody bastard shit-cock fraud,” said Tele.

  Oh, he recognizes me, thought John, thinking back to the various stories in the press where he had featured, none of which had been flattering.

  “Where you from?” said John, recognizing the accent.

  “From London, many years ago.”

  “Gideon is an academic, aren't you Gideon,” said Mrs. Wax.

  “Former academic,” said Gideon, his eyes locked on John. He smiled and stirred his tea.

  “And he wrote books, didn't you Gideon,” she said. Gideon continued to smile and stir.

  “That was some time ago Helga, a long time ago.”

  To John’s relief Jimmy turned to the group and made and announcement.

  “I forgot to mention, earlier next week a visitor from the Zionist Church would take the podium to discuss traditional techniques in connecting with ancestors.”

  The excitement within the group on interfaith dialogue meant that John was no longer the center of attention. He stepped back and moved closer to Nelli.

  “That was quite a speech you gave upstairs,” he mumbled.

  “Speech?”

  “Yes, during the meeting.”

  “Oh, the demonstration. Yes we are a bit old fashioned around here.”

  “It's the first time I have ever seen anything like it,” said John.

  “Oh, really? Well Pastor Sandston does allow a member of the congregation to give a demonstration from time-to-time, although it's usually Gideon or myself nowadays. Oh, and sometimes Tele, which can be very interesting. Perhaps you have the gift too?” she touched her hair and adjusted her bun.

  “Oh right,” John sipped his tea and noticed her clear green eyes. “Gift?” he asked.

  “Of mediumship, the ability to hear and convey the messages of spirits.”