Free The Shifting Fog by Kate Morton Page B

and David—draped with togas—entered stage left. They brought with them three long timber poles and a sheet, which were quickly arranged to form a serviceable—though lopsided—tent. They knelt beneath, holding their positions as a hush fell over the audience.
    A voice came from beyond: ‘Ladies and gentlemen. A scene from the Book of Numbers.’
    A murmur of approval.
    The voice: ‘Imagine if you will, in ancient times, a family camped on a mountainside. A sister and brother gather in private to discuss the recent marriage of their brother.’
    A round of light applause.
    Then Emmeline spoke, voice buzzing with self-importance. ‘But brother, what has Moses done?’
    ‘He has taken a wife,’ said David, rather drolly.
    ‘But she is not one of us,’ said Emmeline, eyeing the audience.
    ‘No,’ said David. ‘You are right, sister. For she is an Ethiopian.’
    Emmeline shook her head; adopted an expression of exaggerated concern. ‘He has married outside the clan. Whatever will become of him?’
    Suddenly a loud, clear voice from behind the curtain, amplified as if travelling through space (more likely a rolled-up piece of cardboard), ‘Aaron! Miriam!’
    Emmeline gave her best performance of fearful attention.
    ‘This is God. Your father. Come out ye two unto the tabernacle of the congregation.’
    Emmeline and David did as they were told, shuffling from beneath the teepee to the front of stage. Flickering limelights threw an army of shadows onto the sheet behind.
    My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I was able to identify certain members of the audience by their familiar shapes. In the front row of finely dressed ladies, Lady Clementine’s tumbling jowls and Lady Violet’s feathered hat. A couple of rows behind, the Major and his wife. Closer to me, Mr Frederick, head high, legs crossed, eyes focused sharply ahead. I studied his profile. He looked different somehow. The flickering half-light gave his high cheekbones a cadaverous appearance and his eyes the look of glass. His eyes. He wasn’t wearing glasses. I had never seen him without.
    The Lord began to deliver his judgement, and I returned my attention to the stage. ‘Miriam and Aaron. Wherefore were ye not afraid to speak against my servant Moses?’
    ‘We’re sorry, Father,’ said Emmeline. ‘We were just—’
    ‘Enough! My anger is kindled against thee!’
    There was a burst of thunder (a drum, I think) and the audience jumped. A cloud of smoke plumed from behind the curtain, spilling over onto the stage.
    Lady Violet exclaimed and David said, in a stage whisper, ‘It’s all right, Grandmamma, it’s part of the show.’
    A ripple of amused laughter.
    ‘My anger is kindled against thee!’ Hannah’s voice was fierce, bringing the audience to silence. ‘Daughter,’ she said, and Emmeline turned away from the audience to gaze into the dissipating cloud. ‘Thou! Art! Leprous!’
    Emmeline’s hands flew to her face. ‘No!’ she cried. She held a dramatic pose before turning to the audience to reveal her condition.
    A collective gasp; they had decided against a mask in the end, opting instead for a handful of strawberry jam and cream, smeared to gruesome effect.
    ‘Those imps,’ came Mrs Townsend’s aggrieved whisper. ‘They told me they was needing jam for their scones!’
    ‘Son,’ said Hannah after a suitably dramatic pause, ‘thou art guilty of the same sin, and yet I cannot bring myself to anger at you.’
    ‘Thank you, Father,’ said David.
    ‘Wilt thou remember not to discuss your brother’s wife again?’
    ‘Yes, my Lord.’
    ‘Then you may go.’
    ‘Alas, my lord,’ said David, hiding a smile as he extended his arm toward Emmeline. ‘I beseech thee, heal my sister now.’
    The audience was silent, awaiting the Lord’s response. ‘No,’ it came, ‘I don’t think I will. She will be shut out from camp for seven days. Only then will she be received again.’ As Emmeline sank to her knees and David laid his