Colour of Dawn by Yanick Lahens Page A

a voice she is trying to make seem firmer than necessary, ‘If Fignolé still isn’t back by the time you get home you should go and tell the police.’
    Mother’s words leave my mind blank for a moment, as if I have lost the true meaning of things. I recover myself by thinking of the word of God, which I repeat, eyes closed:
    God is powerful
The horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea
God has become my salvation.
    Gabriel goes with me to the Pentecostal church every Sunday, sometimes on the Tuesday fast days. There, I meet the faithful, crowded together on the narrow pews. Between the four walls of the church, we delight in the words that Pastor Jeantilus rains down on us from his pulpits. The beauty and poetic extravagance of all these tales enter our hearts, surprising us every time: Lazarus rising from the tomb, Jonah emerging from the belly of the whale, the walls of Jericho collapsing at the sound of the trumpets, the abundant fishing of Jesus, Jesus himself walking on water! Pastor Jeantilus croons and is enchanted by the resonance of his own voice. He moves us and wrings us out every Sunday like the purple seaweed riding the foam. Pastor Jeantilus, a real magician!
    I have brought Gabriel up to fear God. To be horrified by sin. A far cry from the lightness of Joyeuse, the mischief of Fignolé. From the superstitions of Mother. Nourished from birth on the word of the prophets and the psalms of David, in this little church where men, women and children gather, hands joined, mouths open, singing and chanting. Sometimes Brother Derrick, a big American evangelist, comes from his native Kansas to preach to us with zeal. In his dark three-piece suit, Pastor Jeantilus gets so agitated behind his lectern that he works up large beads of sweat. Sister Yvette, his wife, follows him, a towel in her hand, and wipes his face. Pastor Jeantilus, his eyes closed, his whole body trembling, always finishes by summoning in his cavernous voice the angels of Heaven and the demons of Hell who in their turn take possession of the faithful or depart their bodies. A finger pointed to Heaven, he fixes us with his eyes and petrifies us. From his pulpit, like from a mountaintop, he breathes out the word of God from the depths of his lungs. He is like the wind rushing through the depths of a forest, moving the tops of the trees and shaking the crazy branches. Eyes closed, spirit reaching out, he imposes his voice and his force on this vale of humanity. And as he speaks we cry out ‘Amen’ and ‘Your name be blessed, Lord Jesus’. And we wave our arms from side to side. ‘Alleluia! Alleluia!’
    Only last Sunday a man who was there, battered, visibly exhausted, shouted out while waving his arms that he was waiting for the firm touch of God’s work. Her body shaken by convulsions, her eyes rolling, a woman wept the tears of Niobe. Through her tears she cited all the want, the deprivation, the hunger of her world. Manette, a frail young girl recently come to live in our neighbourhood, confessed her acquaintance with the devil and cried out at the top of her voice her desire to renounce Satan, his pomp and his works. She told of what she alone had seen, things capable of appalling people and driving them away from her for good. That great shadow of a hairy, horned figure stood before her, face gleaming, broad chest heaving and panting. Her eyes rolled up, she lifted the sleeve of her blouse and revealed the scar that this creature of darkness had scored onto her shoulder with the fine point of a knife. This testimony caused the faithful, squeezed tightly together, to cry out their faith at the tops of their voices until the walls of the building shook. Other miracles are produced before our eyes, day after day. Pastor Jeantilus has built up the church and has recently begun to arrive to bring us the message of God in a brand-new car. God indeed moves in mysterious ways!
    Standing at my side, Gabriel