In the center of a stage that ran the length of the cafeteria, a large clock ticked away the passing seconds. Norah pointed to the sweeping arm. “When the red hand gets to the top of the minute, start counting.”
Pushing their chairs from the table, they all faced the stage and concentrated on the dial, and at the moment she had instructed, they whispered the chant in unison. Five seconds in, Dori and Mark stopped counting and were afraid. Sharon and Lucas checked their own stilled wristwatches and did not get past ten. Only Sean counted off the full minute as the pointed hands remained frozen in position. Most of the children in the cafeteria took no notice, but three or four souls nearby, curious at their schoolmates’ rapt attention, were caught up in the failure of the clock. Nothing else happened. All around continued the din of slurping and chewing, the clink of silverware, bursts of laughter and shouts of recrimination. At sixty-Mississippi, the second hand jerked to a start and time began again.
THERE WERE SIX further signs that week.
After school that Monday, they were joined by two more witnesses. Norah led them to the path through the woods, and there on the causeway between the street and the trees, she huddled the children around her and asked them to close their eyes. On her command, they looked and beheld her outstretched hand. Atop each splayed fingertip glowed a small white flame. She folded her fingers into a fist, extinguishing the fires as quickly as windblown candles. The children were astounded and burst into spontaneous applause. When the others headed home, Mark said to Sean that he hadn't seen such a cool trick since the time on The Tonight Show when a magician made a whole cage of doves disappear.
On Tuesday morning before they awoke, she appeared to the seven in their separate dreams, perched at the foot of their beds and passed judgment on the seven sins of their respective parents. When comparing stories at school throughout the day, each nine-year-old affirmed the details of the dream, and they were struck dumb by the similarities and the accuracy of her knowledge. Even those who only suspected their parents of greed or adultery acknowledged that their worst fears and most secret thoughts had been mined, that she somehow knew the struggles of their souls.
Three more children heard the rumors and joined the group for lunch on Wednesday and then followed her on the road that afternoon, listening to her stories of faith and foreboding. She led them on the path through the woods, and a plague of summertime midges rose up and swarmed around the group, a cloud so thick and sudden that the insects fouled the children's mouths and noses and sent them speeding home, hands flailing against their faces.
Thursday, she and now twelve followers snuck into St. Anne's Church, and in the dark and hushed nave, Norah raised a pencil, declaiming like Moses with the rod, and cracked it against the finial of a pew. Statues all around were seen to move: Saint Joseph flexed his fingers holding the crosier, a plaster angel blinked, baby Jesus squirmed in his mother's lap, and half the children fled frightened and in disbelief, not trusting their own witness. The others stayed to see Mary weep, the wounded Christ appear to bleed, and other visions of inexplicable terror and wonder.