Free The Gospel of Us by Owen Sheers Page B

‘It’s what people need sometimes, isn’t it? Like a warning, a sign. Letsthem know something’s wrong with their roof. A roof, any roof now, is only as strong as its weakest slate see? One cracked slate, one loose one, that’ll be where the water gets in. People always forget that. They’ll look at the whole roof, from a distance like, and think “nothing wrong with that. Good roof that.” But you got to get closer haven’t you? Got to look at every slate. Listen to every slate. That’s the only way to know for sure. But who does that? And no good telling them either. Usually a slate has to fall before they hear you. One has to fall, and then they’ll listen. Shame, like I said, to lose a slate, but well, if it saves the whole house, got to be worth it in the long run, hasn’t it?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    He’d got to the path now and was looking down at it, as if he’d found something.
    ‘What do you mean “you suppose so”?’ he said in the deep voice again. ‘What’s one slate to a whole roof in the end? To a whole house? Small sacrifice I’d say. Now, have you found that piece yet?’
    ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘It’s broken.’
    ‘Is it? Thought it might be,’ said the deep voice. ‘Never mind. Can you pass it up?’
    Silence. For once he didn’t answer himself, but just kept on looking down at the path.
    ‘Son?’ he said in the deep voice, soft and low. ‘You going to pick it up?’
    He looked up at the roof.
    ‘Do I have to?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ he answered himself. ‘I’m afraid you do son. Pick up the slate now. Pick it up.’
    Moving very slowly the Teacher bent down to the path, picked something up, something dark and jagged, then stood again and held it in the air.
    ‘Thank you, son,’ he said in the deep voice.
    Moving just as slow again, he dropped his arm. There was nothing in his hand.
    ‘Well,’ I heard him say in that low voice. ‘I suspect you’ll be on your way is it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Going on a journey are you?’
    ‘Yes. I think so. Going on a journey.’
    In the distance I could hear the grinding of a largelorry, the lifting whine of a siren getting closer. The Teacher turned his head towards the street, towards the gathering sound.
    ‘Well,’ he said in the voice from the roof. ‘I hope you’ve got everything you need. It’s important to be ready, remember that son.’
    ‘Yes,’ he replied, his own voice sounding small in comparison, like the voice of a child. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
    And then he walked away. Walked away towards his sleeping followers and the sound of that lorry, grinding, and the sound of that siren, whining, both of them getting closer.

Book Three: Sunday

     

     
    What I didn’t know back then was that we all have different voices, just not all of us have found them yet. Because of what the Teacher did when he was here I’ve found one of mine, and I’m going to use it now to tell you what happened next. Why? Because to describe what happened that Sunday, to really describe it, would need a whole new language, let alone a whole new voice. But until we discover that language, this’ll have to do.
     
    If I’d known what the Teacher was walking towards that night, if I’d known the terrors waiting for him, I’d have run up that close and tried to stop him. But none of us knew, not then. Except him of course, I’m sure of it. That’s why he wasn’t surprised when hereached the end of the close and he saw Joanne standing on a wall, pointing at him.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said when she lowered her arm, sending a unit of Council police running over to him.
    As they seized him, pulling his wrists behind him, gripping his shoulders, he managed to turn his head to look back. I followed his gaze to where it landed, right on the patch of grass where he’d danced with that beautiful woman of air; right where he’d danced with her, held her and lost her.
    When he turned back again Sergeant Phillips was already reading him his