Red Jacket by Pamela; Mordecai

mostly books folded into his clothes. He has one priest’s outfit, a suit in black wool.
    The black costume unsettles Jimmy, who is detailed to help the man discover the state of his belongings and arrange for his clothes to be washed, if need be. In an odd way, when he pictures the priest in the suit, he is reminded of the cranes. He sees the priest all in black, cheeks red, untidy thatch of mostly orange hair standing on end like the cranes’ golden cockscombs — a sad parody.
    â€œBut you will be hot in this, won’t you, Father? From the rest you packed, you clearly bore the heat in mind.”
    â€œThe nuncio might ask me to dine or the bishop.”
    â€œYou’re joking, Father?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. Father Azikiwe warned that either man might pay us a visit, and then I would need to seem imposing, serpentine, albeit I am harmless as a dove. You get my drift?” His smile is complicit.
    Jimmy has no idea whither he is drifting.
    â€œFor sure it’s near twelve, but we can have most of these laundered today, and you’ll have them for tomorrow, or perhaps later this afternoon, if you wish, Father.”
    â€œBut I’ve done so well in my kiloli, ” John Kelly displays his upper body proudly. His face, shoulders and arms begin by peeling, but he and the sun have come to terms. “I knew I’d get a tan,” he boasts. “The Irish are from Africa, you know. They came by boat to the fair green isle three thousand years ago.”
    â€œI’ve never heard that.”
    â€œMy sainted Mum maintained it. Said it explains why both sets of people are loud, quarrelsome, superstitious, drink like fish, fight like fury, and have dark skins, curly hair, and lots of children.”
    This seems to Jimmy at best bizarre and at worst insulting. He gives the priest an appraising look, but holds his peace.
    â€œNaw, don’t puzzle, Brother. She was a mad woman, to be sure. We’re all children of Eve, you know, fruit of the same womb, the one bleeding placenta. They’ll find out soon enough. We Irish aren’t so bad. If Africans have to resemble any white folks, we’re their best bet.”
    Jimmy lets this pass as well. “I’ll take the clothes to the laundry, Father. And I’ll show the suitcase to Philip. Perhaps he can figure out how to mend it.”
    â€œIt’s hardly worth bothering about, though I’d thank you for arranging for the clothes to see some soap. I’ll put a bunch of these books in the library and the rest in the chapel. I want you to have them right off. Perhaps Father Erasmus could tell the others that they’re here?”
    As they start in different directions, a flock of starlings takes off from under some date palms near the cobblestone path, as if pelted by six or seven shrill wails from across the courtyard. Jimmy and the priest halt and look in the direction from which the sounds came, but they stop as abruptly as they begin and there is no sign of movement or any indication of what has caused them. Indeed, nothing any longer stirs or sounds. Bird calls, insect cheeps, animal noises have ceased.
    Erasmus Azikiwe does not reveal what caused the midday screams, although he can’t hide the fact that something bad has transpired. That evening the novices watch as staff leave the premises, baskets and bundles in hand, crowding about Elise and Lili, twins, young women in their early twenties who are part of the kitchen crew. The others surge round them, a huddle of dark figures, taking turns talking to them, putting an arm around their shoulders, squeezing their hands.
    They hear the dreadful news during vespers, when Father Kelly asks them to pray for the twins’ father. He was attacked the day before in their village, his skull concussed by a ferocious blow. He is a marabout, famous as a healer, and his sanctuary room has been ransacked, his medicines stolen, many of his ritual objects broken.