Chapter Twenty-Six
The day before Martin Meek had woken up to discover two scorpions fighting over the right of possession of his vacant left shoe. Today he was taking no chances that either of the combatants had returned, thoroughly shaking out both dirty plimsols before attempting to force his feet into them.
Precisely how he had managed to return to his lodging the night before, he was unable to relate: not for the first time in his life, Martin offered up a silent prayer to the guardian Saint of Drunks, the nameless* individual who always seems to look after the well-being of the overly inebriated and guide them back to a place of sanctuary when their own physical body and mental faculties are not working sufficiently co-operatively such that they are capable of helping themselves. It was the same saint that had managed to undress Martin, to fold his clothes in a neat pile on the chair beside his bed, and to remove his grubby shoes and tuck them away safely beneath his bed, but sadly, it was apparent that the same saint’s duties did not appear to have run to preventing the drunken Martin from pissing into the waste paper basket in the corner of his bedroom, which he had mistakenly identified as the toilet bowl when he had eventually stumbled back home at four o’clock the morning before. The distasteful odour now emanating from that corner of his room and the associated energetic buzzing of a posse of bemused flies had been two factors that had contrived to stir Martin from his alcohol-induced slumber. The third factor had been a sudden new-found sense of purpose in life.
One of the first things that Martin was to see upon waking, his eyes still adjusting to the harsh daylight streaming through the open blinds at his window, his head throbbing angrily from the previous evening’s excesses, was a small printed handbill that he had picked up from a tabletop in the bar shortly after his drinking companion Ghiliba’s unorthodox departure. There had been several similar leaflets left on other tables in the saloon, and it was clear that Ghiliba had been serious when he had spoken about his intention of spreading the message of Mancala. The message of the flyer was simple, and was duplicated in several languages, in bold letters across the top of the paper: ‘Workers of Black Africa Unite’. There followed a brief paragraph outlining the history - according to Mancala - of the decades of oppression suffered by African labourers at the hands of Western global capitalists, and finished with a more optimistic ‘call to arms’ and specifically an invitation to attend a big rally of sympathetic supporters in Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo, on New Year’s Eve, 2010, when it was promised that the ultimate aims of Mancala would be revealed and ‘riches beyond imagination would be bestowed upon the congregation’. The Mancala motto was printed on the bottom of the sheet ‘Work for Power’ alongside a rather contradictory logo of a sleeping lion. Martin could not deny that he had been impressed by his companion’s zeal and charisma from the night before, but re-reading the Mancala literature he realised that Ghiliba’s fight was not his own. The encounter, though, had made him realise that he had been wasting his time somewhat, not just since his flight to Namibia, but for several years beforehand too: he had allowed his own self, his personality and more importantly his beliefs be superseded by other people’s ambitions; more specifically one man’s ambition. And where had it got him? A fugitive, scared for his life, unable to show his face in the society with which he was familiar. It was not the way he wished to live the remainder of his years, however many they should be. During his final years as Garnet’s carer, he had all but forgotten his commitments to the Church of the Higher We, indeed, it had only been on the final day of his employment - as, due to subsequent events, it turned out to be - that he had revealed to the wheelchair bound man the nature of his own beliefs. Martin had found it strangely exhilarating talking about Higher We, after having so long suppressed his faith, it had been a liberating, powerful experience, only spoilt ultimately when he had noticed Garnet’s reaction to his speech: the old man had turned purple in the face with a pent up fury, barely able to articulate himself such was his rage. Finally when he did speak, it was to say just one word: “Nonsense”. It had been a sad note on which to end their working relationship, and even despite the subsequent revelations of Garnet’s will, something for which Martin still felt a sense of disappointment.
The view from the window of his room was one of strange contrasts. To look at the neighbouring building, one could be forgiven for thinking that Martin had woken up and been suddenly transported to Bavaria or somewhere in the Austrian Tyrol: the construction was of several storeys, solidly built of brick and wood in an undeniably Germanic style, colourfully painted bright yellow, and with a picturesque sloping roof, which could prove anything other than functional in a climate that has probably not seen a snow flake since the end of the last Ice Age. Opposite stood another similar structure, on a road, tarmacked and refreshingly clear of pot holes, but then suddenly beyond this point the view altered startlingly. True the road continued to the far horizon, but rather than being lined by residential dwellings as was the case when journeying towards the centre of Swakopmund, in the opposite direction there was sand for as far as the eye could see; a vast, expansive desert of orange dunes. Martin watched as a large, white truck, made the transition, driving from the urban street out into the wilderness immediately beyond. The vision was something like how he imagined ancient mariners must have felt when they believed that at some point they would sail too far and their boat would simply drop off the edge of the world. The truck passed a solitary, stark tree, which marked the beginning of the desert track, sending up a great cloud of resting locusts from its dry branches. High above, the vapour trail of a passing jet was the only blemish across a deep blue African sky. For Martin the glistening plane acted as something of a reaffirmation of his earlier conviction: it was time for him to consider what was important in his life; for too long he had been a piece of flotsam drifting along upon life’s tide. It was time for a change. A wash and a shave would be a good starting point: he had almost been refused entry to the bar the night before due to his slovenly appearance. It was not the kind of behaviour that would be expected of a future missionary of the Church of the Higher We, Africa region.
••••••••••
Swakopmund is a curious hotchpotch of a community, both in terms of its architecture and its people. A significant harbour during the German colonial period, many of the town’s finest buildings date from the late nineteenth century, although having since gained importance as a pleasant, seaside resort for wealthy weekenders from the capital Windhoek, and also as the largest town serving the world’s most important open cast uranium mine, at nearby Rossing, the town has had to adapt to new influences and new visitors. Swakopmund has something of the feel of an oasis settlement about it: surrounded to the south and east by one of the world’s harshest environments, the arid Namib Desert, to the north by the beginnings of the aptly named Skeleton Coast, and with the Atlantic Ocean directly to the west no more welcoming, the cold Benguela Current flowing from the Southern Ocean around Antarctica ensuring that the offshore waters remain forever icy, the cluster of low buildings and Lutheran spires that peak above the mist-enshrouded streets appear to be the only safe refuge in an otherwise hostile wilderness stretching out to the direction of every point on the compass. Such places encourage an eclectic mix of passing travellers: artists rub shoulders with farmers and fishermen; tough mine workers mingle with statuesque Herero women in their fine, wide dresses and colourful scarves; blonde, blue-eyed and dunagareed descendants of original German settlers take their place alongside the new breed of wannabe yuppies from South Africa and further afield, enjoying the cafe society and casinos of the Damaraland Riviera.
The Martin Meek who walked down to the harbour front later that same day was a changed man to the one who had attempted to drown his past in a beer glass the night before. Gone were the dirty clothes and unwashed backpacker chic, replaced by a sparkling white safari suit - a throwback to an earlier generation of European tr
avellers and a garment purloined from Garnet’s closet - and a chin now bereft of hair, the slightest hint of resistant stubble paired down with a fanatic’s zeal, leaving only a faint ‘ghost beard’ where the pale skin previously protected from the sun’s rays was finally allowed to be exposed. There was a new swagger in Martin’s walk; a new purpose in his existence. Backpacker grunge had been a fashion statement with which he had never felt entirely comfortable; David Livingstone lookie-likie far more closely fitted his idea of how a British gentleman should conduct himself when overseas. He ordered a coffee at a beachfront cafe, and in between watching the sunbathers slowly fry on the hot, golden sand and ‘people-watching’ the passing pedestrians on the esplanade - mentally trying to guess the individual life histories of the more colourful-looking passers-by and speculating about the specific reason that had brought them to this place at this time - Martin attempted to work out a future campaign of action.
The Church of the Higher We was not renowned as a proselytising religion: indeed, very much the opposite, to the extent that it was amazing that they ever received new members to their fold. Emile Durkheim’s theory of religion recognised that any group of like-minded individuals, regardless of their particular totem, irrespective of the often arbitrary and intrinsically unworthy nature of the object of their belief, formed its own moral community, and that community in turn ultimately became the object of worship, but this model could not very easily be applied to the Church of the Higher We. Not notable for being a particularly tight-knit religious community, members formed a fairly nomadic social group, relying on no one fixed house of worship or regular, formal gathering. To that extent Higher We was truly a religion for individuals. For Martin, as a prospective missionary to the cause, his decision reviewed in the bright light of day, the task ahead appeared slightly daunting. It was not lack of faith that was his problem, more a clear direction of intent. For too long he had allowed his life to be organised for him: despite appearing to the outside world as the man who had made all the arrangements for Garnet Wendelson, the reality was that Martin had been purely the mannequin, it was Garnet, as puppet-master, who had been pulling all the strings. The decision to flee to Namibia had been the first one he had made for himself for as long as he could remember, and he had needed to embolden himself with alcohol ever since, purely in order to reaffirm the original confidence he had had in taking such an action.
Martin took another experimental sip from his cup, the dark liquid still proving too hot to drink. He watched, amused, as a young, white woman, her hair unwashed and tied back in dreadlocks, her feet bare, the soles blackened from walking on the hot sidewalk, tried to persuade a couple of elderly holidaymakers to buy something from the range of multicoloured trinkets that she displayed along the length of one bronzed forearm. The irritated voice of the man, a conspicuous figure in his white panama hat, could be heard saying something in the guttural tones of an Afrikaans speaker, and the young woman with a good-natured wave, moved on in search of fresh tourist dollars. Retired South Africans, Martin decided: the man would have been a wine merchant, perhaps owning his own - small - vineyard, the woman was a professional wife and hostess, pretty in her day, before the constant sunshine had turned her skin so leathery. The young woman was a backpacker, down on her luck, trying to hawk a few baubles in order to pay for a return flight to Europe. Three teenage boys strolled past, wearing nothing but brightly coloured shorts and plastic sandals, their black skin glistening as though it were wet: the tallest boy glanced towards where Martin sat, whispering something to his companions which made them all laugh. They were followed by two local women, walking and talking, oblivious to their surroundings, both carrying bags bearing the logo of the town’s biggest food store and, trailing behind them disconsolately, was a small boy, winding a small fishing line of the kind used for catching small crabs, and aimlessly kicking out at every loose pebble in his path. A little further along the promenade was a lone Japanese tourist, a camera to his eye, photographing a small motor boat as it prepared to leave the harbour. Martin was just considering what the amateur photographer’s likely occupation would be, when he realised that the young woman with dreadlocks was standing beside him.
“Nice bracelet for a girlfriend, sir.” Seeing the puzzled expression on Martin’s face she altered her enquiry, “You speak English, do you? Afrikaans? Deutsch, ja?”
“English,” Martin finally replied, pointing at his own chest, as though the one word conveyed everything anyone could need to know about him.
The young woman smiled, “That’s good. Would you like to buy a necklace? This one is nice, all local shells. I made it myself.”
Out of politeness Martin found himself reaching out for the offered trinket, before stuttering his apologies, “It’s not really my...”
“That’s okay,” said the woman, cheerily. “No hard sell.” She smiled once again. “That is what you say, right?”
“Yes,” agreed Martin, confused. “Your English. It is very good. Where are you from?”
“Originally? Sweden. But I studied in England for three years.”
“Oh?” said Martin, “Where?”
“SOAS.” From Martin’s expression it was clear that the acronym meant nothing to him. “School of Oriental and African Studies. It is one of the colleges of University of London. Or used to be,” she added. “Before it got swallowed up by someone larger.”
“You sound sad about that.”
“No, not really. Que sera, sera. I believe in change. I think that it is a positive thing. What about you?”
“Change? I haven’t ever really thought about it.”
“Really?” The young woman, sounded genuinely surprised. “When I saw you sitting there, I thought that you looked like someone who was considering a big change.”
Martin looked amazed. He did not intend to admit instantly to his new companion the accuracy of her statement, but instead offered her a seat and invited her to join him.
“My name is Silvia. You know, like the queen. I do not like it.”
“No? It’s a nice name,” Martin said.
“And your name is?”
“Oh sorry, I’m not very good at introductions. Martin. I mean Michael. No, Martin.” Martin extended a hand in an awkward, formal gesture, “Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re right, you are not good at introductions. Do you often forget your own name?”
Martin shrugged, bashfully.
“From England?” asked Silvia.
“That’s right. Although I’ve been living in New York for some time.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“No? Good.” Martin’s curiosity about the young woman’s insight finally got the better of him. “What made you think that I was considering a life change?”
“Did I say life change? I don’t know,” replied Silvia, “Just something in your face. Have you decided what you are going to do? Would you like me to help you?”
Martin looked puzzled again,”How do you mean?”
Now it was Silvia’s turn to apologise, “I am sorry, I should have explained. It is what I do. These...” she held up the arm still draped with her wares, “are just a sideline. To pay the bills, right? No, I am a ... I do not know which word you will understand best ... a fortune teller, perhaps?”
“You read my palm?” asked Martin, unable to keep the note of amused scepticism from revealing itself in his voice.
“I knew I would choose the wrong word. It is a subject coloured by such preconceptions and prejudice that it is difficult to be taken seriously. Fortune teller, you are thinking of what? A gypsy perhaps, in a tent, with a crystal ball?”
“Something like that,” Martin admitted.
“What if I said that I was a diviner?”
“I probably wouldn’t entirely understand the term,” Martin replied.
“That is better then, at least.” Silvia smiled broadly, before goin
g on to explain, “At college I studied ancient African religious practices, it is very interesting, you know. Divination is a key element of many African religions, both old and new. Have you heard of sikidy or khatt ar-raml?” Martin shook his head, so Silvia continued, “It is an Arabic term, literally meaning ‘writing in sand’. It is a form of divination which was known to Muslim scholars as far back as the thirteenth century. How about Ifa? Have you heard that word?”
Martin latched on to the two syllables with enthusiasm, “Yes, I think I have heard that. I don’t know what it means, though,” he added, truthfully.
“Ifa is a practice of geomancy originating from the Yoruba people in south-western Nigeria. Adapted forms of Ifa divination are common throughout almost the whole of Africa. In some places in Europe too. The modern day divination still bears a striking resemblance to the ancient practices of khatt ar-raml.”
“Geomancy sounds rather...”
Silvia interrupted Martin before he could voice his doubts, “If you’re going to say ‘witchcraft’ or something similar, don’t. The divination is not in any way magical, or supernatural, the diviner is just someone who draws from a large body of wise and ancient texts, some of the knowledge from which he, or she, will make available to the person seeking guidance, leaving the ultimate interpretation of the divination to the seeker themselves.”
“So you are rather like the custodian of a large self-help section in a bookshop?”
“I hadn’t ever really thought of it like that,” said Silvia, “But, yes, if that helps you to understand.”
“And you are one of these diviners?” asked Martin.
“A babalawo. Yes. I can not claim to be as knowledgeable as most, but I am only a novice and, as I say, I am merely the guide, ultimately it is you who must find your own way.”
Martin rubbed his hands together, eagerly, “Okay. So how do we begin? I mean, do I have to pay you, or something?”
Silvia looked at Martin, appraisingly, attempting to judge the level of his prosperity; the mercenary momentarily replacing the spiritual; the physical necessity of feeding the belly temporarily superseding the ability to survive on the slimming crumbs of faith. He cut a discordant figure: his middle aged suit at odds with his open attitude; his clumsy manner belying a survivor’s instincts. At last, Silvia said, “Perhaps if you learn something to your benefit from my divination you can pay me what you think it is worth.”
Martin agreed with alacrity: he had always been a relier upon - if not always a believer in - the power of random objects to decide his fate, and to a greater degree this was his mindset as regards the nature of the divination ritual which had been explained to him. It was with some surprise then, that he saw Silvia produce what he thought he recognised as a board for playing mancala on, from the shoulder bag she carried, and which she clearly intended to use as part of the ensuing ‘performance’. Repeating the sentiments he had heard expressed by Ghiliba the previous evening, although purely as a means to sound knowledgeable in front of the young diviner, upon a subject of which he had, in all truth, given no serious consideration, Martin said, “I understand the mancala is a form of social repression.”
Silvia looked up from her preparations, a quizzical look on her face. This man continued to surprise her: she could not decide whether he was an intellectual or an idiot. “So some think,” she said, cautiously, continuing as though quoting from a paragraph of her degree dissertation, “In this world where the individual is increasingly isolated, to the extent that over a million Japanese teenagers are unable to leave their bedrooms for fear of the reality outside, and prefer instead to bury themselves in a make-believe of computer games and virtual worlds...”
“Hikikomori Syndrome,” interrupted Martin, attempting to show that he was ‘up to speed’ with the direction of the discourse. He went on to add, slightly unnecessarily and with a gesture of his hands which, when he later looked back on the conversation, made him blush with embarrassment, “Like a turtle drawing back into its shell.”
Silvia looked amused, “If you say so.”
Martin signalled for her to carry on speaking, “I’m sorry, I interrupted you. You were saying...”
“Divination and mancala, and not just mancala, but many other board games, they are very similar in many respects. Virtual reality games too. Chess, you name it. Let me explain. The mancala board, or the divination rite, they create their own new microcosmos, you know what I mean? Like a shrunken world.” Martin nodded. He knew precisely what Silvia meant: at that moment, such was his concentration focused on the words of the young woman, he felt as though his own exterior world had shrunk; the cool sea lapping at the beach; the blue sky; the desert sands beyond; all distant horizons had been sucked in and distorted, like the convex reflection on the back of a shiny spoon, such that his current universe did not extend to any point beyond the extremities of Silvia’s face. He continued to listen to the flow of words. “Both produce their own miniature model of the actual physical world, but in a reduced scale which is a more accessible platform for the human mind to dissimulate information, or plan strategies, or whatever. Through playing a game, or via the diviner, the... I use the word ‘traveller’, but you know, basically I am talking about you...”
“Capital ‘Y’?” interjected Martin.
“Whatever. Anyway, the traveller is allowed to enter this miniature world, where they can act out scenarios, be apprised of information, effectively do everything that they would in the real world except in a greatly condensed environment in terms of time and space.”
“You make it sound like a Tardis*.”
Silvia did not understand the allusion, continuing her train of thought as if Martin had not spoken. “It can be an intense experience. Then when the game or the divination is over the traveller returns to their own world, taking with them the knowledge they have gained, hopefully to benefit them in some way in the future.”
“And so how does this lead to social control?” asked Martin, “It all sounds like a very good thing.”
“On the whole it is,” agreed Silvia, “Remember this is my livelihood. I believe in it strongly as a positive force.”
“But...”
“But. Okay, let me give you a scenario. You are an eighteen year old youth, you know all the answers, you are a rebel, spending hours alone in your bedroom, a little microcosmos all of its own, yes?”
“Yes, okay.”
“You don’t have many friends, few outside influences, you don’t agree with the political system of the day, you don’t want to work. You spend your day lost in a virtual reality of arcade-style computer games and violent real-time adventures. You think that you can not be touched by the corporate manipulators that you see in the real world outside of your safe bubble. You are immune from the evils of globalisation; your views are purely your own, you are not biased by the propaganda on the TV or the opinions fed to you by the syndicated national media networks. You have no religion. All you need is your PC, a joystick, and a range of CD-ROMs to fire your imagination. You are an individual. Right?”
“I guess so. You have probably described what an average Western teenage boy feels at some time in his life.”
“What you actually are is the most easily influenced pawn in the big corporate game. Business, politics, religion, choose whichever power you wish, they are all pouring their influences into you, bending you to their opinion. The very game you are playing has been manufactured by a global corporation, its hidden agenda already implanted into every byte; you are actually directly downloading the thoughts they want you to think. By cutting yourself off from direct experience of the real world, you are opening yourself up to having your personal microcosmos be contaminated. It would be like growing up in a hyperbaric chamber and then not developing any natural immunities to the diseases of the real world. Well divination and mancala are similar.”
“How?”
“They are both
gateways, if you like, to this alternative microcosmos. Once you are inside this new world you are more susceptible to external influences. Benevolent or malignant.”
“And what are you?” asked Martin. “Good or evil? After all, as diviner, I presume you are the person who manipulates my susceptibility?”
“I am neither,” replied Silvia, “Perhaps it is the question you wish to ask of yourself during the divination.”
“What?”
“Good or evil,” said Silvia, “Which one are you, Martin?”
••••••••••
Silvia sat cross-legged on the sand and had placed the wooden tray, which Martin had initially mistaken for a mancala board on the ground in front of her. Martin had paid for his coffee, vacated his seat at the cafe, and was sitting next to the young woman on the pleasant, uncrowded beach, half paying attention to Silvia’s preparations, half lost in a daydream of his own as he listened to the sound of the ocean.
“In an authentic Ifa divination,” Silvia explained, “the diviner invokes the spirit of the Yoruba god of wisdom, Orunmila. With my own divination, I don’t like to put any specific names on the medium through which the divination works. They key is your own interpretation of my words.”
Privately, Martin felt slightly sceptical about the whole process. Despite the obvious sincerity of the young Swedish woman, he was inclined to dismiss so much of what he had heard as New Age spiritual nonsense: a typical synthesis of ancient beliefs and practices to fit conveniently into a modern consumer-driven world. Nevertheless, he recognised that he was currently travelling directionless in a strange land, and he was happy to be guided by any outside authority, no matter how unlikely the source.
Silvia had filled the wooden tray with a thin layer of sand from the beach and now proceeded to strike the ornamental board with an equally elaborately carved stick, which she had already informed Martin was known as the tapper. She continued to tap rhythmically for several minutes, before finally laying down the wooden stick beside the tray, and then slowly and deliberately delving into the colourful hide bag which had initially held all of her divination paraphernalia, and drawing out from its depths, one at a time, an array of small, wooden beads, each marked with a different symbol. She laid the beads, in the order they had emerged, on top of the sand in the tray, at the same time making a quick mark in the fine sand with her finger. As she slowly continued with this practice of drawing lots, she began to relate a strange story in a low, monotone voice, markedly different from her previously animated tones. At first Martin found that he was not listening to her words, still slightly bemused by the whole procedure - it reminded him of watching the draw for the FA Cup in his youth, when balls, representing the names of the football teams still in the competition, were manually drawn from an old cloth sack, partly it had the suspenseful nature of a seance - but as the one note of Silvia’s voice took on a more insistent, mesmerising quality, Martin allowed himself to be carried along by her incantations.
“A false prophet, travels from the south to a great gathering in a place of lakes and volcanoes. He says that he brings unification, but his motives are self-centred and unclear. Death follows him wherever he goes.”
Martin tried to interrupt, his voice excited as he began to see a parallel between Silvia’s story and his own situation. “Are you talking about Ghiliba? Is he a false prophet?”
Silvia continued speaking as though she had not heard him, at the same time continuing to draw beads from her bag. “Only one man can stop the false prophet from delivering his message. A simple man, from peasant stock.” Martin frowned slightly, not quite sure if he agreed with this description of a character that he had decided must refer to him, but once again the young woman continued speaking as though she had noticed nothing. “He must journey in the false prophet’s footsteps. It will be a long path that he must take, overland, involving great discomfort.” Martin’s frown increased. Another bead was withdrawn and placed on the sand. “He will confront the false prophet at the place of lakes and volcanoes and...” Silvia stopped speaking abruptly. Now it was her turn to frown, first from annoyance and then surprise. She thrust her hand back inside the hide bag, her fingers dancing around energetically at the bottom, searching frantically. Then in her normal voice she said, “It’s not here.”
“What?” asked Martin, concerned, registering the sudden expression of consternation on his companion’s face.
“One of the beads. It is missing. There are only fifteen here. There is one missing.”
“What does that mean?” asked Martin, anxious to hear the conclusion of the divination story.
“Mean?” Silvia looked puzzled. “I am not sure. It has never happened before. In physical terms it means that the interpretation lays somewhere beyond the parameters of the divining tray, which, as I explained, is an allegory for the real world.”
“So, what are you saying? What lies outside of the real world?”
Silvia looked Martin directly in the eye, before answering, “God.”
••••••••••
If it had been a confident Martin that had strutted down to the beach that morning, the one that returned to his hostel that afternoon was practically walking on air. Despite continually reminding himself of Silvia’s words of caution - “the truth lies in the interpretation” - he could not help but see a direct connection between the words of her story and his own recent history. It seemed clear that he must follow the man Ghiliba and expose his lies. It seemed as good an activity as any in a life otherwise void of direction. And as for the final conclusion of the divination? Was it he who was ultimately destined to be a God? Was that what the missing divination lot foretold? Martin realised that this was perhaps himself adding a little too much positive ‘spin’ on his interpretation of the young diviner’s words, but hey! he might as well aim high.
As Martin walked back across the beach, lost in his own thoughts, he did not notice as he stepped directly on top of a small, carved, wooden bead lying on top of the sands, succeeding in pressing the tiny object deep into the surrounding ground, where the fine, white grains quickly closed in above it, permanently concealing it from sight.
Interlude
The registered offices of the Church of the Higher We - for purposes of charitable status, events organisation and information - are run out of two small rooms, situated within the general complex of O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. The office manager is Mrs. Dorothy Good, who, aided by a staff of three volunteers, presides over all aspects of Higher We administration, for an officially recorded, global network of over 112,000 Church members. Unofficial estimates of the number of actual Higher We believers puts the figure considerably higher than this, but, since for many followers, the very aspect of the faith that most appeals is the emphasis on the individual, and the distancing from any kind of organised religion, it is very hard to know the exact number.
It is here in the offices at O’Hare that the most holy book of the Church of the Higher We is kept, in a locked safe, fitted into the wall behind Mrs. Good’s desk. This is the so called ‘Flight Manual’ , both a description of the technical procedures involved in the piloting of a Hawker Siddeley (D.H. 121) Trident 2E, and the motivational marginalia and inspirational foot notes of the then aspiring pilot, Aaron Kerr, later Captain Kerr, as he is now more commonly referred to by Higher We acolytes. Captain Kerr’s first recorded commercial Trident flight was flying for British European Airways in May 1969, a company he remained with until 1972 when they merged with British Overseas Airways Corporation to form the giant British Airways. Captain Kerr’s present-day whereabouts have long been a matter of feverish speculation amongst a particular faction of Higher We members: the last, authenticated report of his continued earthly existence took the form of a short letter sent to the O’Hare offices, postmarked Worthing, England, and dated 5th June 2004. The letter states that Captain (retired) Aaron Kerr wishes to make c
lear that as far as he is concerned he has no connection with, or any interest in, the Church of the Higher We, and he would be greatly obliged if property that once belonged to him, which he has recently come to understand has since fallen into the hands of the aforementioned religious organisation, is returned to him immediately. The letter was placed alongside the “Flight Manual’ in Mrs. Good’s safe, and has since achieved the status of an iconic relic. As for Captain Kerr it is understood that he has since changed his name and lives in fear of recognition. Letters and e-mails are received at the O’Hare offices daily giving details of unauthenticated sightings of the revered aviator, from as far afield as the Caribbean, the Greek island of Samos, Phnom Penh in Cambodia, and once, bizarrely, from a climber claiming to be at Base Camp Two on Everest.
No one said it was easy to be an earth bound God.
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