The Beating of His Wings by Paul Hoffman Page A

you be reassured if I told you it has nothing to do with our business together?’
    ‘No. Nobody likes a coffin and me less than most. I’ll have to insist.’
    ‘Don’t tell that nosy boy anything,’ said Poll.
    ‘Go and look for yourself.’
    Cale had more or less been expecting her to refuse to tell him anything although he had no idea what he’d have done if she had. He stood up and walked over to the far door and considered what he might be letting himself in for. Was it a trap? Unlikely. Was there something horrible inside? Possibly. What if it wasn’t a coffin and he was mistaken and would look foolish? The door was shut tight so he couldn’t just push it open. He could kick it open but that would look bad if there weren’t a couple of villains waiting on the other side.
Would you rather
, he thought,
be dead or look stupid
? He snatched at the handle, pushed it open, then quickly glanced around the room and dodged back again.
    ‘Cowardy cowardy custard,’ sang Poll. ‘Your shoes are made of mustard.’
    There was no question it was a coffin and the room was empty. Empty except for whatever was inside the coffin. He turned into the bedroom, leant his head back and his arm forward and flipped the lid off then jumped back, windy as you like. He stared at the contents for a few seconds. It was plain wood, no lining. There were even a few wood shavings in the corner. For a moment he felt a surge of pure terror in his chest and thought he was going to throw up. Then he shut it away. He stepped back into the main room, closed the door behind him and went back to his chair.
    ‘Happy now, you big sissy?’ said Poll.
    ‘Why do you have an empty coffin in your bedroom?’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sister Wray. ‘It’s not for you.’
    ‘I do worry. Who’s it for?’
    ‘Me.’
    ‘Worried about cheesed off patients?’
    She laughed at the idea –
a lovely sound
, thought Cale.
Is she beautiful
?
    ‘I belong to the order of Hieronymite nuns.’
    ‘Never heard of them.’
    ‘Also called the Women of the Grave.’
    ‘Never heard of them either. Don’t like the sound of them much.’
    ‘No?’ He had the sense that she was smiling. Poll moved her head forward and raised her floppy right arm in a way that managed to indicate loathing and contempt.
    ‘The Hieronymites are an Antagonist order.’ She stopped, knowing this would be a disclosure of some significance.
    ‘I never talked to an Antagonist before. Do you wear that thing on your head because you’ve got green teeth?’
    ‘No. I mean I don’t have green teeth and I’m not hiding anything, though I suppose that would be a good enough reason. Did the Redeemers really tell you that Antagonists have green teeth?’
    ‘I don’t remember them actually telling us. Not Bosco anyway. It was just sort of generally known.’
    ‘Well, it’s not true. The Antagonist Hegemony, a kind of religious committee, declared the Hieronymites to be an extreme error and dissolved the order. They ordered us, death being the alternative, to carry a coffin with us for a hundred miles so that everyone would know not to give us water or food or shelter. We carry the coffin and an ounce of salt.’
    ‘Because?’
    ‘Salt of repentance.’
    ‘And did you? Repent, I mean.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So we’ve something in common.’
    ‘We don’t,’ said Poll, ‘have anything in common with you, you godless killing swashbuckler.’
    ‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ said Sister Wray.
    Cale expected her to continue but Sister Wray could see he was interested and wanted him to be at a disadvantage.
    ‘So what did you do wrong?’ he asked at last.
    ‘We pointed out that in the Testament of the Hanged Redeemer, although he doesn’t actually say that heresy should be forgiven, he does say that we should love those that hate us and forgive their trespasses not once or twice but seventy times seven. St Augustine says that if a person falls into heresy for a second time they