* * *
They took Aaron’s convertible on the short ride to the west side of Old Town, where he parked in front of a converted Victorian. The lighted wooden sign, with black letters on white, designated the establishment as the Ardi Beltza. Above the name was a graphic of a black sheep.
Over a hearty Basque-style dinner of cabbage soup, lamb chops and a carafe of table wine, Paige steered the conversation away from herself, keeping her answers to the men’s questions succinct, followed closely with questions of her own. They accepted her reticence with ease, respecting her privacy. She settled into the comfort of watching and listening, absorbing and studying the two friends as they caught up on each other’s lives and the goings-on in the valley. Most of the details were lost on her, but she took it all in as hungrily as she took in the food and wine. It was the first she had heard of the lawsuits against the Hale’s development projects, the first she had heard of the “Friends of the Valley.” Ian mentioned the increasing influx of Obadites to the valley – the hundreds more, at minimum, who would want to move to the valley permanently after visiting for Passion this week. Aaron speculated on the increasing demand for housing.
The two couldn’t have been more different, she thought, but they paired well. Ian was more reserved, laid back, deliberate. Aaron was more forward, dynamic, driving. Ian served as Aaron’s sounding board, offering feedback and leading questions as Aaron pursued and worked through his thoughts and ideas. The trust between them was evident, a given, a matter of course. Lifelong friends. How natural and right it all seemed, the trusting, the absence of want in this cozy, safe corner of civilization, the warmth of shared companionship in a solid, dependable place. When the three had come to the table, Ian pulled out the chair nearest the wall for her. He had sat closely next to her, on the outside, across from Aaron. She felt protected, accepted, wanted here, in the heart of America, in this place far from the borders, far from the less civilized tribes, protected by two men whom she barely knew yet trusted implicitly. It was so very different. She felt as though she were drifting, floating, out of body. Cradled. The sense of security was too surreal. But she allowed herself, for the moment, to drift, to float, to rest.
Aaron insisted on paying. As they were rising from the table Ian checked his phone, but if there were any messages, he didn’t respond. They were crossing through the barroom at the front of the restaurant when Ian stopped and turned to her. A jaunty old-world recording was playing on the sound system, a lilting, tilting melody from an accordion, flute and tambourine.
“May I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“Actually – ” he glanced at Aaron – “I need to show you.”
Taking her by the hand, he led her to the middle of the room, where he pushed aside several empty chairs and tables, clearing a space. An old man sitting at the end of the bar called to Ian by name, took the black beret off his head and tossed it, spinning through the air. Ian caught it, flipped it onto his head, and bowed low to Paige. Then he rose onto his toes and, in time to the music, executed a sequence of quick crossing steps and spinning hops. Pausing, he motioned with a wave of his hand to her feet, then waited expectantly. She looked at him askance, her eyes laughing. Shaking her head, she leaned away and took a step towards the door. He took her by the wrist and pulled her back, gently, firmly. The wine had left her feeling warm, light and carefree. With a repeated motion of his hand he insisted again, and again executed the sequence of steps for her. She gave it a first, faltering attempt. Ian smiled and repeated the sequence. She tried it again, getting the steps and turns right this time. He gave her a second sequence, which she quickly mastered. They performed the first and second sequences together. Another song came on, in the same rhythm, if a little quicker in tempo. She was a fast learner and soon had the full dance.
They circled and spun around each other, Ian smiling cockily, chin in the air, Paige laughing, working to match his haughty sureness of step. The old man from the bar sauntered over. They widened the circle to let him join. The circle enlarged further to make room for one of the bussers, who had left his tray on a nearby table. Aaron took a passing waitress by the elbow and guided her into the circle. The bartender turned up the volume. Paige was giddy with delight. Ian’s eyes never left hers as they spun and turned. Other customers came in from the dining room and gathered round to watch, singing and clapping, urging the dancers on until the song came to an abrupt, flinging conclusion, tossing the dancers off a cliff, leaving them to float through the air.
She leaned into Ian, laughing.
“Thank you!” she said breathlessly. “You are Basque then. . . .”
“My mother is Basque. We grew up learning all the old dances at the club. My friends and I performed them in a troupe in the annual festival. You enjoyed it, then?”
“I loved it. I’m only wishing I’d eaten less of the lamb – ”
The front window exploded.
Shards of broken glass sprayed across the tables and floor. The waitress Aaron had been dancing with screamed. A chunk of red brick tumbled and skidded to a stop at Ian’s feet.
The couple sitting at a table nearest the window, after recovering from shock, stood and began brushing glass off of their clothes, shaking it out of their hair. Fortunately, no one appeared to be injured. Aaron had already run to the front door and dashed out.
Ian retrieved the chunk of brick, to which there was a folded piece of paper tied, wrapped with several turns of twine. He slipped the note from behind the string, shaking out the glass shards from the folds.
Aaron returned from outside. “Whoever it was is gone. They might have been on foot – I didn’t see a vehicle. What does it say?”
“Typical . . .” Ian said, and explained for Paige’s benefit: “They did the same to the pool hall about a month ago, then last week to the lingerie store in the mall. And now here, of all places. Bastards . . .”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Another Bible verse?” Aaron asked.
Ian nodded. He read the note aloud: “And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf and the dancing, and Moses' anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount.”
Paige asked, “What does it mean?”
Her extended stay in Aurum Valley had nearly achieved its intended end. She was almost back to being healthy again, almost fully functional, almost ready to go back out into the hard, violent world. The dancing and laughter that night had swept away the last fragments of fear and anxiety. The crash of breaking glass had brought it all back. Her hands were trembling. She hugged them close to her body, pressing them beneath her arms, trying to mask and suppress the fear. She felt ridiculous. It was only a brick through a window.
“The passage is from the book of Exodus,” Ian explained, “from when the prophet Moses came down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments. He found the Israelites dancing around a golden calf, a re-creation of one of their old heathen idols.”
“Well,” Aaron offered offhandedly, as the jaunty music played on in the background, “this place does serve a sinfully good roasted veal – I think the dancing is wholly warranted.”
Ian looked at him, eyes widening before he burst out laughing.
Two of the bussers were already at work cleaning up the glass. The mood in the room began to lift. Paige overheard Aaron, talking with the manager, quietly insist that the owners let him know if the restaurant’s insurance didn’t cover the damage in full.
Ten
The next morning, after a hot shower followed by cold, Paige retrieved a zipped bag from an internal pocket of her suitcase. Selecting a wig of long brown hair, she returned the curly blond and mid-length auburn wigs to the bag and returned the bag to the internal pocket. From her makeup kit, she selected a small bottle of spirit gum, a screw-capped dish of flesh-colored wax, and a vial of liquid latex. Within minutes, worki
ng at the vanity’s mirror, her ear piercings had disappeared, the shape of her nose had broadened across the middle, and the corners of her mouth were deeper and turned down. Within minutes more, her freckles were covered. Her eyebrows were thickened and lowered. To anyone other than an experienced makeup artist, her new look would appear unexceptional and wholly natural. She pinned the hair up in a bun, added a pair of mousy, round-framed accessory glasses and checked the effect in the mirror. Her own mother wouldn’t have recognized her.
She dressed in the light-gray smock and dusty-rose shoes, adding neither jewelry nor accentuating makeup. Before stepping out, she paused at the door, closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. When she opened them again, she had become someone else.
On the plaza corner, she blended in with a line of Obadites who were waiting patiently at a shuttle stop. During the ride south to the campgrounds, she borrowed a Passion Week schedule, on the back of which was a printed map.
Three distinct communities had sprouted practically overnight on the alkali flats. The community east of the highway had been named Zion. To the west of the highway was Canaan. Further west was Moriah. For each site, hardpan streets had been laid out, radiating from an inner ring. Along the streets, named after books of the Bible, divisions and plots were staked, lettered, and numbered. Tents were consigned to one section of each circle; recreational vehicles, converted buses and vans to another; larger families and groups using a mix of shelters to a third. Portable restroom and shower facilities were distributed throughout. Within each community’s central ring, arranged around a large circus-sized tent in the center, were smaller tents for classes and breakout meetings, a large dining tent, a medical clinic and a sundries store. The Angels’ security station was located in a tent together with the community’s administration and information office.
Paige stayed on the shuttle until it reached the centermost community, Canaan, where she alighted at a stop near the large central tent.
The faithful were walking about with their Bibles and Books of the Prophet tucked beneath their arms or in hand, losing no opportunity to greet fellow Obadites from around the world with a heartfelt “Bathem!” Administrative personnel and volunteers traveled about on bicycles and golf carts, dust plumes in their wake. There was not a scrap of litter to be seen anywhere.
Paige slipped into the side entrance of a smaller meeting tent and sat in a back row of folding chairs, joining a class in session.
The attendees appeared to be mostly married and engaged couples, young and old. Many were taking notes, some were holding hands. According to the placard pinned to the side entrance, the subject of the session was “The Humble Marriage.”
The speaker was keeping her audience well engaged, leading them through the bullet points, illustrations, and photos projected on the screen behind her, interlacing her talk with comedic asides, covering the topic with confidence and authority. Each point was backed by biblical Scripture and examples from Bible stories, translated as applicable to the modern Christian marriage. She regularly paused to ask questions. Those nearer the front eagerly raised their hands to offer answers and provide examples.
Paige soon gathered that the Flock’s conception of a proper marriage required the husband to subjugate and sacrifice his own personal desires for the sake of his family, and as long as the husband was following God’s will, it was the role of the Christian wife to subjugate herself to her husband’s will and authority. To love meant to obey. The proper family dynamic reflected the structure of the Church itself, with the husband’s role reflecting that of the pastor: he was to be a strong, dependable and patient leader, tending his own little flock within the greater Flock. The family’s role was to follow his guidance. God’s will, authority, and direction flowed down through the head of the church and the Elders, down to the individual Church pastors, down to the heads of household, then to the wives, and through the parents to the children. The better that all concerned fulfilled their proper roles, with obedience and humility up and down the chain, the better and healthier the Flock would be, and the more God would bestow his blessings and grace upon them. The family was likened, too, to the smallest unit of a military organization: a well-disciplined platoon within a well-disciplined, well-oiled army – God’s army.
Paige experienced a momentary, humorous vision of an army of rifle-toting sheep, until out of the corner of her eye, she noted a horse-mounted pair of watchful Angels riding by the tent’s entrance. The Angels didn’t seem very sheep-like.
At the first break, she moved along to another tent for the end of a history lecture on “Jerusalem in the Days of King Herod.” No tickets or reservations were required for classes or services here on the flats – one needed only to walk in and sit down.
To her disguise, she quietly added a Bible that someone had left on one of the chairs next to her. No one took note of her. By design and long-polished craft, she blended in, camouflaged in plain sight. She had become unobtrusive, inconspicuous, adopting the mannerisms, speech patterns, phrasings and the pace and style of those around her. Nothing about her appearance, her bearing, her actions or her demeanor drew attention in any way. She was the passive, unnoticed observer.
After the morning lectures she queued in line for lunch. No ticket or payment was required here either. Meals, it seemed, were either free or covered by fees the attendees had already paid. She mentioned to the woman stationed at the head of the buffet that she was not a camper, that she was staying in town – to which the woman only replied, kindly, “Bathem, my sister,” while handing her a tray.
With her ham-salad sandwich, potato chips and a cup of lemonade, Paige sat down at one of the long communal tables. The young couple across from her greeted her brightly, eagerly. There would be no avoiding conversation. Paige introduced herself by her middle name, Ellen. Today, she was Sister Ellen.
Tim and Lisa Ray, from Texas, had been Obadites for seven and five years respectively, married for two. They completed each other’s sentences. They didn’t have children yet but were praying for God’s blessing. He would grace them with children should it be His will, and in His own time, of course. They were praying for it nonetheless. They, too, were on their first pilgrimage to Aurum Valley, having foregone their honeymoon to save for the trip. Tickets to attend the Passion Play live in the cathedral had been expensive, but they were fortunate and blessed that their names had come up in the lottery for ticket availability on their first try – they could hardly wait to visit the cathedral itself, tomorrow evening, finally. They could barely contain their enthusiasm. Had Ellen, too, made her own costume for Friday’s Procession? She was able to answer honestly that she had not, that she didn’t yet have a costume. Lisa proceeded to explain that it was a simple matter of folding over a large rectangle of good plain cloth, cutting a hole at the fold for the head, then stitching the sides together, leaving openings for the arms, and adding sleeves if desired. She recommended the addition of a simple cloak, a headpiece and, of course, a belt, which was really the easiest part to make. They invited their new friend back to their tent after lunch to see their costumes. Paige demurred and, changing the subject, mentioned how impressive the Angels’ horses were, asking if there were Angels in Tim and Lisa’s church back home, and if so, if the Angels rode horses there. They had Angels at home but were amused at the thought of them riding horses: given the size of their city, getting around on horseback would be impractical. They didn’t know about the practice of churches outside their own general region, but in Texas, the Angels drove SUVs. There was at least one pair of Angels assigned to all but the smallest of congregations, serving staggered two-year missions, with a new Angel rotated in yearly after Passion. The Angels were provided room and board in the local congregants’ homes.
At the end of the meal, Tim volunteered their tent location, inviting Ellen to visit anytime for socializing, praying, or reading Scripture. Lisa wrote their street and number on a napkin. The couple couldn’t have been more friendly and
polite, but within minutes of Sister Ellen having politely excused herself from the table, neither of them could have sufficiently described her; they had learned nothing more of her than what they assumed to be her first name.
On the afternoon schedule were softball and volleyball games, organized by the Youth Ministry, and in the main tent, a Christian rock concert for the teenagers. The adults had until two p.m. to rest before the slate of afternoon activities and classes began. Paige used the time to browse the books and pamphlets in the sundries store, which also carried, conveniently, several racks of Passion costumes and accessories. She purchased an undyed wool tunic with a matching belt and head covering.
The early worship service – forty-five minutes of guided singing, prayer and announcements – was followed by an early dinner. After another half-hour break, the entire community gathered in the main tent for the evening service, conducted via a live video feed from the Flock cathedral. The projection screen at the back of the tent’s stage was as large as a movie theater screen, with a sound system to match.
The campground congregants sang and worshiped and responded along with the choir and the congregants in the cathedral proper. The camerawork and production were as professional and polished as Paige recalled from the Sunday service. Sister Shelling led the worship-singing again and made announcements. Skye was easily visible in the first row of the choir, but she didn’t solo on this particular evening, and a young man other than Simon Paulson delivered the pre-sermon.
Brother Lundquist’s theme for the evening was humility – an extension of the theme of meekness delivered in the Sunday service. He provided examples and lessons from the Bible and from modern life, while initiating the skillful seduction of his audience again, mesmerizing and drawing them in, lifting and carrying them, molding the mood, enjoining trust, building expectation – Paige was all the more impressed with the artfulness with which he practiced his craft. As he brought the sermon to its climax, he continued with the story of Jesus’ last days in Jerusalem. The audience was reminded of how Jesus’ followers had been awaiting their redeemer, their savior, their prophesied King of Kings, how they were surprised and taken aback at his arriving on a donkey. Still, they gave him a king’s greeting, waving palm fronds before him, laying their coats in his path to honor him. Jesus, the only Son of God, remained humble through it all. On the evening of the Jewish Passover, he insisted on washing the feet of all twelve of his disciples before sitting down with them to Passover supper – the last meal, he knew, that he would share with them. Jesus was humility incarnate, the arch example for all time, for all people, for all the world.
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