The congregants glanced surreptitiously at one another, this being the first time their leader had departed from the oath they all knew so well.
“We are called here this evening by your voice, telling us that there are no more important tasks than those which you set before us now - the tasks of restoring credence in your church and fortifying your kingdom on earth. Never before has your call sounded with such clarity, because never before has the challenge been so grave.
“In the bowels of this cathedral, your home, where once the blood of idolaters and sinners flowed copiously, we are reminded how easily man may slip from grace. Once again, blood must be shed, as a way of rededicating ourselves and our lives to you and your presence amongst us.”
He paused and slipped from the sheaf suspended from his belt a ritual hunting knife and held it above his head. The polished blade glinted in the candlelight. To demonstrate its sharpness, he ran the tip across his forehead, leaving a thin red line.
“In the name of all present, the hundreds you represent, and the hundreds of hundreds beyond them – in the name of all who belong to this ever-widening circle of ours - I swear that my blood serves only to glorify God,” he said. Then with alarming alacrity, he drew a second line, this one vertical, bisecting the horizontal line in half. The cuts immediately filled with blood, thick and reddish-purple, revealing what the leader had carved into his own flesh: the crucifix itself. Splotches of blood ran down his face and spotted his white shirt. A kind of stupefaction seized the other men, while the leader gazed with glazed exaltation from one to the next.
“In the future, you will be asked to give of your blood, as I have just given mine. In the meantime, accept this act as an expression of our deepest brotherhood.”
Turning to the man to his left, he kissed him on both cheeks and then pressed their foreheads together, as might two lovers on the verge of parting and not wanting anything to come between them. There was a horrible intimacy to the gesture, tender to the sight, until the leader stepped back and revealed the vicious smear of purple his bleeding had left behind. One by one, he went from man to man, repeating the gesture, until all of them bore the vivid mark of his devotion. The ceremony had taken on undertones of revulsion and sexuality hitherto unknown. No one was sure what accounted for the shift.
“Now join hands,” the leader instructed, raising his arms above his head, and intertwining his fingers with those of his neighbor, so that a crown of hands encircled the table with its candles and crucifix. The unbreakable bond had been cemented anew.
The leader’s voice was grave with pain, “One body, one heart, one goal. You have called us to be your soldiers and we shall confront all that opposes you and your church. Die if we must, destroy if duty so calls, live only if it is to advance thy will.” Perspiration beaded the blood-stained foreheads of the men. Their entangled fingers grew taut, as if the bond could never be severed. Their collective breathing was heavy.
There would never be another night a night like this – a night in which the trivialities of the day receded, and something hard and determined and eternal filled the crevices of their hearts. The world above ground seemed light years, not several rickety spiral staircases, away. From now on, duty would rule their lives and they awaited their commands. Some of the raised hands trembled with anticipation. The candles flickered and the silence was overwhelming.
The moment was right.
The leader slowly lowered his hands to his sides and the others followed suit. He blinked the blood from his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Then, turning to the man on his right again, he ordered: “Bring forth the initiate.”
The others turned and stared into the darkness, detecting the slightest stirring among the shadows. So there had been nine of them, not eight, all along, the ninth following in their wake, just beyond the light cast by their flashlights. As the initiate stepped forward and faced the leader, a collective gasp of surprise drew the air, already thin and warm, out of the small room.
There had been dozens of initiations before, but none like this. A few furtive glances were exchanged, when the person emerged into the halo of candlelight. Everyone wondered what lay ahead, but no one dared ask. Secrecy was a cardinal rule of El Yunque. They would be told in time what they needed to know to fulfill their holy obligations. Nothing more. So they waited. Obediently.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
LEONARD FOGLIA is a theater and opera director, as well as librettist. His work has been seen on Broadway, across the country and internationally.
DAVID RICHARDS a former theater critic for The New York Times and The Washington Post is the author of PLAYED OUT: The Jean Seberg Story.
www.thesudarium.com
The Son, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book Two Page 25