The journalist, a woman, had paedophilic tendencies, so far expressed only through the consumption of illegal pornography. Ber Lusim’s Summoner was considering using this fact to silence her, but Ber Lusim took a more direct approach. He presented himself to the woman — a fresh-faced boy, apparently willing; an impossible combination of innocence and wantonness. He was welcomed into her house, into her bedroom, where he killed her in a way that posthumously destroyed her reputation and drew all media attention far, far away from her professional researches.
It was a triumph. But possibly it left the boy damaged, an unacknowledged victim of his own elegant plan. Or perhaps it woke something inside him. The demon that had always slumbered there, biding its time.
Ber Lusim went from strength to strength; from his Berlin apprenticeship to South Africa, and from there to the Federal Republic of Germany. There he proved adept at forestalling potential enemies by stepping in ruthlessly and decisively as soon as a possible threat was identified or even suspected. He did not trouble, as many Messengers did, to lay a smokescreen of suicide notes or decoy suspects: but neither did he leave any trail leading to the People, so his brutal methods were never questioned.
In his twentieth year, he was made a Summoner of Elohim. It was a popular choice. The Messengers with whom he’d served admired him and were loyal to him. His star continued to rise. Was he too fond of proceeding to extreme sanctions? Was the kill count for his station higher than it should have been? Perhaps. And was it only coincidence that male Elohim thrived and were rewarded under Ber Lusim’s dispensation, while women were assessed harshly and passed on quickly to other assignments? Perhaps not. But it’s always easy to see these things in the spotlight glare of hindsight.
As Summoner, Ber Lusim was chiefly responsible for guarding and shepherding the Kelim who were in Germany at that time. He was good at this, by his lights. At least, he was good at making sure the women returned, with their families, when the appointed time came. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a task that exposed the cracks in Ber Lusim’s personality, and drove a crowbar into them.
Ber Lusim disliked the Kelim and the continued business of their sending out. He had spoken, in Council, in favour of suspending the practice, and although he had lost that argument …
Another interruption, this time from Ben Rush. ‘This is what you were telling me about?’ he asked Kennedy. ‘The sacred whores? The women who leave the secret city to get themselves pregnant?’
Tense, Kennedy nodded. ‘Let’s just listen,’ she said.
As Diema spoke, Kennedy could see how tightly Tillman’s fists were clenched and how white his knuckles were. This subject was far from abstract and theoretical for him. His wife had been one of these women and although he knew she’d been dead for many years, his feelings for her had never adjusted to that reality.
‘Go on,’ Tillman said to Diema. For a moment, his gaze locked with hers. She knows what she’s doing to him, Kennedy thought, amazed and unsettled. Maybe it’s even part of why she’s here.
Diema continued. Ber Lusim disliked the Kelim, very strongly. Or perhaps he disliked what they implied, which was that the vigour and virtue of the Judas People were not sufficient in themselves — that they needed to be fortified, from time to time, with graftings from other stock.
Or perhaps it was because his own mother had been one of that number, and he felt tainted by the association. Whatever his motivations may have been, Ber Lusim’s position allowed him to act on his feelings. The women who came out of Ginat’Dania to lie with Adamite men and then to return home freighted with their DNA passed through his hands on both the outward and the return journeys.
Oh, he took his duties seriously. Nobody could say he slacked, or failed to exercise due diligence. No sheep went astray on his watch. No holy Vessels returned empty, or failed to return at all.
Some, however, returned damaged. Specifically, they had been beaten. When questioned about this, they said that they’d been punished for disobedience. For taking too long to arrange their Adamite affairs, for weeping at the loss of their Adamite husbands, for taking too much with them or leaving too much behind.
Representations were made in Council. Ber Lusim was not reprimanded — there was a minority point of view that saw his zeal as admirable — but he was requested to put a moratorium on the beatings. In some cases, returning Kelim might be pregnant; too harsh a punishment might harm the unborn babies, who of course were the very point and pith of the whole enterprise.
Even that was a divisive judgement. The case of Ber Lusim leaned hard upon the paradoxes that propped up the People’s society, and the paradoxes threatened to give. The Kelim were necessary, and in theory they were respected. The women who went out were chosen by lot, so the unwelcome mission could fall to anyone. It was a sacrifice, as important to the survival of the Judas People as the eternal vigilance of the Messengers, and the sacrifice was honoured.
In theory.
The reality was more complicated. When a young woman of good family was chosen to be a vessel, it was common (though officially deplored) for her parents to say the service for the dead over her. When she returned, it was often impossible for her to find a husband among the People. There were even some — religious conservatives or just unvarnished misogynists — who would refuse to allow her shadow to fall on them.
Ber Lusim was one of those — and he converted many of the Messengers who served with him to his extreme opinions. But he accepted the judgement of the Council and stopped inflicting physical punishments on the returning vessels.
Until Orim Beit Himah.
Orim Beit Himah failed to present herself and her children to be returned to Ginat’Dania when the time came for her to do so. Ber Lusim had to send out a team of Messengers to retrieve her. He decided to lead the team himself.
He found Orim still with her Adamite husband. It was rumoured that she had explained everything to this man and that he tried to kill the Messengers when they arrived. Then again, and to the contrary, it was said that the husband had found Orim about to leave and had imprisoned her, convinced that she was running away with another man. And one account said that she had missed her appointed date because she was ill and couldn’t rise from her bed.
Ber Lusim killed the husband.
And Orim.
And the children.
For the first time in the telling, Diema seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. She had to break off for a few moments and go to the window as if she was checking for traffic on the road below — but they could all hear that the low engine sound she was responding to was that of a plane flying overhead, probably on its way into Gatwick.
The three of them watched the girl in silence as she squatted in the hayloft door, still and silent, staring down at the empty road. Though her agitation showed that she had human feelings, the pose reminded Kennedy of what Diema was. It was the pose of a raptor, scanning for prey with its tele scope eyes.
When she came back, she’d recovered some of her composure.
Ber Lusim claimed that the deaths were accidental. There had been a fight with the husband, and he had been armed. The woman and the children had found themselves in the crossfire and had been killed by stray bullets before anyone registered their presence.
Ber Lusim’s men backed up his story, in every detail. But curiously, they used almost identical language in their descriptions, as though they had been coached or at least had discussed the matter between themselves in a great deal of circumstantial detail.