Sermon 7

The moons and sun wheeled about Kundali as days slipped past.

"We have been walking so long," she said, wiping crusted ash from her arms.

"And we still have much distance to cover," replied the egg-image of Ayem.

"How much longer?"

Ayem used the span of her hand as a guide. "By my judgement, half a stretch of death's shadow."

And Kundali merely sighed, for she did not understand Ayem.

"I am hungry," she said.

"This is good. Remain hungry. Discontent is found in satiation."

"I cannot live on your love along."

"True, my love is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a double-edged sword."

Kundali slumped down.

"I shall not move till I have eaten my fill."

And while Ayem could have forced Kundali to walk till the flesh fell from her rotting bones, she is the Mother of Mercy. Thus, with but a thought, she shifted reality onto a different possibility.

A great table arose from the ash, groaning 'neath the weight of salted kwama eggs and suger-dusted scrib. Split pomegranates glistened like sources of life and pleasure. Ayem shaped swirling dust into musicians, who played songs so sweet ancestor sprits clawed forth from forgotten graves. The dead danced, and this paradox summoned up a red rain, which washed Kundali clean.

Clapping her hands in joy, she fell upon the feast, each new delight more wondrous than the last.

As Kundali was gnawing on a roast nix hound leg, a band of chitin-clad nomads appeared upon a rise. They looked in horror at the feast, in all its sensual splendour. Drawing jagged blades they charged, scattering the musicians, returning the dead to the dust. Kundali did not notice her predicament till swords encircled her.

"Why do you interrupt me?" she said.

A man in a horned helmet approached. "You violate the earth bones with no regard. This is sacrilege."

"God cannot shape sacrilege," said the egg-image of Ayem.

And the Apostates genuflected, and called on their ancestors.

"This woman is possessed by an unclean spirit," said one.

"We must unshackle her," said another.

"Her power is too great," the horned one said. "She will destroy us."

"Try to unshackle me," said Ayem. "And learn from it."

And the Apostates, prideful, grabbed Kundali with callused hands, bound her tight. The horned man threw her over his shoulder and led his band towards home.

They lived in the hollowed shells of dune-walkers, the pock-marked husks swarmed with women and children. They clamoured about the men, laughing and shouting. The horned one tied Kundali to a pillar carved with copulating demons. Atop it reared a statue of a spear-phallused lover.

"Sweet ancestors," said Kundali. "These ones worship in the House of Troubles. They bow to the King of Rape."

"Fear not. My love is always gentle."

But Kundali did not hear Ayem. She called to her captors, begged them for mercy. But their hearts were hard and paid her no heed.

"This woman holds an unclean spirit inside her," said the horned one.

The Apostates grew angry, they howled with rage at this affront.

"We shall draw out this poison." The horned one lit fires around Kundali, burnt incense upon them. He began to chant, calling on the King of Rape to destroy the evil in her.

"Leave this woman wicked spirit."

And Ayem said. "You can no more control me than you can control the path of love itself. You cannot reach heaven through violence."

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.