A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Come, we that love the Lord,

  And let our joys be known;

  Join in a song with sweet accord

  And thus surround the throne.

  We’re marching to Zion,

  Beautiful, beautiful Zion;

  We’re marching upward to Zion,

  The beautiful city of God.

  The spectacle was on. The tens of thousands, gathered to be part of something larger than themselves, were absorbed into the whole, taking comfort and pleasure in becoming one with the Flock. Some consulted brochures for the words to the songs; others sang every verse by heart. Some knelt in prayer and worship as the cross passed; others stood and raised their hands to heaven. Younger children were excited to see the horses. Older children maneuvered towards the front rows, some of the boys wanting to see the Angels in their guard and cavalry uniforms, others wanting to steal glances at the girls in the procession. The girls feigned not to care about being seen, while tucking stray locks of hair beneath their head coverings and checking that their robes were tucked and creased flatteringly. For all, there was expectation and purpose in the air. It was a grand, festive holiday, on a perfect spring day.

  Yea, and before we rise

  To that immortal state,

  The thoughts of such amazing bliss

  Should constant joys create.

  The men of grace have found

  Glory begun below.

  Celestial fruits on earthly ground

  From faith and hope may grow.

  Paige had worked her way forward until she joined the rearmost rows of the cast, within a dozen paces of Mary, who trailed just behind the cross, accompanied by John and Mary Magdalene. An unusually large, tall young man, whom Paige didn’t recall having seen in the cast, was positioned a pace in front of Mary and to the side, between her and the crowd. His size alone might have ensured the way remained clear for her, but he shielded her with an easy grace, turning away those who might want to touch her or be touched by her. The nearer Skye’s presence, it seemed, the stronger her magnetism.

  The bridge over the river was lined with onlookers. By the time the procession was crossing it, the morning chill was a memory, the day was warming. Children standing along the route distributed bottles of water from woven baskets. Obadiah could drag the cross only a few hundred feet before having to pause to rest and shift the weight from one shoulder to the other, with the assistance of the disciples. The Flock’s song carried into the city ahead –

  Let those refuse to sing

  Who never knew our God;

  But favorites of the heavenly King

  May speak their joys abroad.

  The God that rules on high

  And thunders e’er He please,

  Who rides upon the stormy sky,

  And manages the seas –

  With the Church campus left behind, the composition of the spectators along the route began to shift. Locals and visitors, wearing everyday, modern clothes, intermingled with the robed Flock. The crowd, standing twenty and thirty deep in places, strained to see. Some in the front sat in folding chairs; others watched from rooftops and upper-story windows; others stood in the beds of pickup trucks or on the tops of campers. Catholics crossed themselves as the cross passed. Those of other denominations prayed or observed quietly, respectfully. Paige noticed a lone Middle Eastern couple standing in front of a small grocery store. The woman’s hijab blended in with the head coverings of the Flock women. As Paige passed, she could make out a few phrases of Islamic prayer the husband was murmuring in Arabic.

  A boy’s voice called out, carrying over the crowd’s singing.

  “Hey, Obadiah!”

  The volume of the singing lowered as the participants looked around for the source of the interruption.

  “Hey, Obadiah!”

  The procession was moving through a neighborhood west of the plaza. There were storefronts at street level, apartments above.

  “Hey, Obadiah! I know a guy with a pick-up truck who could help with that lumber. Kind of the way we do things these days. Thirty bucks and we’d have you up to West Gate in five minutes, and we could all grab some lunch.”

  There were chortles and hoots from what sounded like several other boys. The crowd murmured their disapproval and disappointment at the interruption.

  “Tell you what, Obadiah – ten bucks more and we’ll throw in a case of beer for you and your friends. You’re looking pretty warm out there in your Easter frocks.”

  One of the Flock boys walking near Paige failed to suppress a snicker and was rewarded with a cuff to the back of his head by his father. The Angels reined up and turned to search for the offender.

  “Hey, Angels! As far as uniforms go, the tunics are an improvement, but we haven’t seen legs that white since that busload of Canadian tourists took over the hotel pool. Hope you’re wearing sunblock, or you’ll be peeling like baked apples tomorrow.”

  No one’s focus remained on the cross.

  “There he is – in the tree!” someone called out, pointing.

  “Toby . . .” one of the cast members grumbled the name in consternation.

  Two of the Angels maneuvered their horses through the crowd, but by the time they reached the tree, the offender and his three friends had scampered across a limb, jumped onto a fire escape and were climbing to the building’s roof. The first boy up – to Paige he looked perhaps nine or ten – helped his friends over the top. When the others were safely away, he stood on the edge, hands on his hips, and fired a parting shot.

  “If Mary was still a virgin when she had that kid, I’m the King of Siam!”

  With that, he and his friends were gone. One of the Angels worked his way around to the rear of the building in pursuit while the other returned to the front of the procession.

  A disciple offered Obadiah water, which he accepted. One of the cast offered to help carry the cross, which he refused. Hefting his burden onto his shoulder again, he leaned forward and pressed on, grunting when the cross’s foot dropped into a pothole.

  A block further, the voice rang out again.

  “Hey, Obadiah, for someone who is supposed to be able to move mountains with a little faith, how little faith do you have to have to be having such a hard time moving a couple of sticks up the street?”

  Obadiah sagged and lowered the cross to the ground, the crown of thorns toppling off his head. A child from the audience rushed forward, retrieved it and handed it back to him. The Angels spun into action. There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd, but the boy and his friends were already making their escape.

  After pausing for more water, Obadiah attempted to lift the cross again but faltered. One of the stronger-looking men from the cast moved under the cross’s front end. Another two lifted from behind. This time, Obadiah didn’t resist.

  As the crowd continued to grow and press in, the Angels became more vocal and more forceful in their instructions to clear the path ahead and to stay clear on the sides. The frequency and fervency of the captain of the guard’s whip-cracking increased. A mother darted out to retrieve a toddler who nearly ran under the hooves of one of the horses.

  Paige felt a stickiness beneath one of her sandals. Thinking that someone perhaps had spilled a drink or dropped some food in the street, she glanced down and narrowly avoided a second splotch. The wetness was dark and reddish. She knew what it was, she knew the smell. She had a keen sense for it, having been in places where the streets had run thick with the most precious liquid.

  Looking ahead, she tried to discern if Obadiah was bleeding. Perhaps he had cut himself on a rough edge of the cross, or perhaps the tip of the guard’s whip had inadvertently found flesh. The splotches continued, not heavily but regularly, alternating left and right. She wondered if one of the women in the cast had unexpectedly started her period. How embarrassing, particularly if her robe were light colored. The crowd was singing –

  This fearsome God is ours,

  Our Father and our Love;
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  He will send down His heav’nly powers,

  To carry us above.

  There, we shall see His face,

  And never, never sin,

  From the rivers of His grace,

  Drink endless pleasures in.

  The four-lane street intersecting the city north of the plaza, south of Old Town, was the only thoroughfare along the route that hadn’t been barricaded in advance for the procession. It was the first juncture at which Paige noticed the presence of local law enforcement. An Aurum County squad car idled on one side of the intersection, a deputy’s motorcycle on the other. As the officers moved out to stop and hold the vehicular traffic, Angels rode forward to the near corners to hold back pedestrians. The Angel posting to the westerly corner, distracted by a group of children trying to pet his horse, failed to notice a stooped elderly woman amble out into the crosswalk. She was carrying a shopping bag with the same pink-and-white-stripes design as the awning of the bakery on the corner. From the top of the bag protruded a French baguette.

  The nearest Angel in the approaching formation reined up and alerted the others. He said something impatiently to the woman and pointed her back to the corner. Whether she failed to notice or chose to ignore him, she kept walking, reaching up to pat his horse’s nose as she walked practically beneath it.

  Paige recognized her sculptress.

  Eileen Vasari was not moving quickly. Upon reaching the next horse in the line, she paused, pinched off a bit of the baguette and fed it to him before moving along. The Angels couldn’t very well proceed, and they couldn’t be overtly rude to an elderly woman crossing the street, regardless how much of an imposition she was causing. So they waited. The cavalry captain adjusted the knob on the side of his helmet and spoke into the microphone. Covering the ear hole with his hand to listen, he sighed and shook his head in exasperation at the response. Paige thought that one of the Angels might have had the courtesy to dismount and escort Mrs. Vasari across.

  When she reached the middle of the street, she paused and turned in toward the procession. Before anyone could stop her, she shuffled past the captain’s horse and made her way back toward the cross. She passed Obadiah and his helpers without giving them a second glance. When she reached Skye, she dug deeply into her bag and produced a pink paperboard box, its lid taped shut.

  “When you were little, Biloba, we used to get fresh scones every Friday for tea, remember?”

  “Of course I remember, Amuma.”

  “There’s a blueberry one for you here, your favorite. You’ll be hungry later.”

  “Thank you, Amuma.”

  “There’s one there for Jonathon too.” Smiling, she handed the box to the large young man next to Skye. “You carry it, Jonathon.” She turned to Simon. “There’s one there for you too, Simon. You should come by again soon. We haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, flustered, seemingly embarrassed at the recognition. He ducked his head and looked away.

  An Angel sent back to retrieve her prepared to interrupt – Eileen raised a hand to him, giving herself a moment more. She looked around, surveying the multitude of robed Obadites. Her attention lingered on the cross.

  She reached out and patted Skye’s arm. “Such a nice day for a walk, dear,” she said.

  The Angel, taking her by the elbow, escorted her to the front and then along to the far corner. After they had passed the last horse but before they reached the curb, the Angel’s captain spurred his mount and led the procession forward.

  The hill of Zion yields

  A thousand sacred sweets,

  Before we reach the heav’nly fields,

  Or walk the golden streets.

  Then let our songs abound,

  And every tear be dry;

  We’re marching through Immanuel’s ground,

  To fairer worlds on high.

  The stately trees of Old Town provided a brief respite of shade before the procession arrived at the westerly side of the resort property, where the sun glinted brightly off the edges of the white rail fencing. Around the new gatehouse, on its island between the entry and exit lanes, the landscaping of black mulch, blue creeping phlox, and box hedges all looked as though it had been laid in, edged, and trimmed that very morning. The crossing gates were down across both lanes. From the gatehouse stepped a young man in a crisp blue uniform, armed with a clipboard. The cavalry captain addressed him brusquely, “Let’s get these gates up, son. Didn’t you see us coming?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but – ” he checked his clipboard – “Do you have a reservation, sir, or – ?”

  The captain nearly laughed – but didn’t. After the delays caused by Toby and Mrs. Vasari, he wasn’t in a pleasant mood. The cameras were still filming. The captain motioned for them to turn away. Paige worked her way closer.

  “Maybe you’re new in town, son,” she heard him say. He took a moment to settle his fidgeting mount. He continued, lowering the register of his voice with gravitas. “What you see before you, young man, is the Passion Procession of the Church of the Flock of the Prophet Obadiah. Every year we follow this road up to the West Gate, and we’ll do so again today. Now, open these gates in the names of the Prophet and the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  The guard checked his clipboard again. The crowd began to spread out along the low fence bordering the golf course like flood waters backing up at a bridge that had been blocked by debris. Obadiah and his assistants took the opportunity to lower the cross to the road for another rest.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the gate guard finally replied, “but unless you’re a member here or have a reserved tee time, I can’t permit you to pass. There’s already a large group on the course today, some of whom are still teeing off. I could check with the starter or the club manager. . . .”

  The captain swung his leg off his horse, dismounted, and approached, his short tunic and fitted armor accentuating his bared, muscled limbs. Looming a full five inches taller than the young man, he put his hands on his hips, lowered his voice further and said, through clenched teeth, “Son, you call whoever you need to call and do it immediately. Someone apparently forgot to inform you that this is Good Friday. Are you not even a Christian?”

  The gate guard raised himself to full height, which was still a good four inches shorter than the captain’s.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, I am not a Christian: every Friday is a good Friday for me. Now, if you’ll kindly step back to your horse, sir, I’ll be happy to call my superior concerning your situation.”

  “My – situation?” The captain looked down to the ground, collecting himself. He looked up to the sky. He took a half step back. “Make your call, son. And make it quick.”

  The guard went back inside the gatehouse. The captain covered his earpiece and spoke with whoever was on the other end. Paige wondered if it might be Reverend Lundquist himself, managing the production from the control room.

  The guard reemerged. “May I see your paperwork, sir?”

  “My paperwork?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m told that you would need to have a document signed by an officer of the Hale Company authorizing passage for your group.”

  The captain cocked his head disbelievingly. He listened again to instructions from his earpiece.

  “We do not have paperwork this year, nor do we need it. This is God’s Holy Hill, son, and we are His Flock.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you’re not really old enough to be my father – and please take that as a compliment, sir. But if you don’t have a pass or any paperwork, I’ll need to ask you to have your people clear away from the gate and off the street. We’ll have other members of the club needing to come through this entrance soon, and blockage of the street could be a hazard in the event of emergency vehicles needing access.”

  A vein had begun throbbing in the captain’s temple.

  “Let me speak to your ‘superior’ immediately. Would that be your head of security, Mr. Kelly?”

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nbsp; “That would be Mr. Kelly, sir. But his instructions were clear. I understand that the golf course is new this year, and I gather that your group has been given permission to go further than this point previously, but this is private property, sir, and – ”

  “This is God’s property, and God’s Flock will not be delayed further.” He motioned the Angels forward as he remounted.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I must forbid this.” The guard stepped squarely in front of the captain’s horse, hands firmly on his hips.

  The captain’s horse pawed. The short sword within the captain’s scabbard, on his left side, may or may not have been real – the guard had no way of knowing – but when the captain appeared to be reaching for it, his purpose was only to slide his cloak aside just enough to reveal the butt of a holstered pistol – which appeared real enough. The guard’s eyes widened. He took a moment to weigh the situation. Being unarmed himself, he shook his head and retreated into the gatehouse.

  At the captain’s direction, two of the Angels dismounted and manually lifted the entrance gate, then the exit gate. The procession surged forward past the gatehouse. The guard, trapped inside by the flow, spoke urgently on the phone, as the Flock raised a new song.

  Onward, Christian soldiers,