A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

Marching as to war,

  With the cross of Jesus,

  Going on before.

  Christ the royal Master

  Leads against the foe;

  Forward into battle,

  See his banners go.

  The crowd outside the gate had spread out a hundred yards along the fence. It wasn’t a tall fence – it was more decorative than prohibitive, constructed of two rows of white railing. A golfer could cross it easily enough to retrieve an errant ball. One of the Flock boys, impatient with the bottleneck at the gate, climbed over the fence and raced across the nearest fairway towards the road. He was followed by more boys, who were followed by men, then women with children, until the waiting crowd was crossing the fence en masse.

  Like a mighty army

  Moves the Church of God;

  Brothers, we are treading

  Where the saints have trod.

  We are not divided,

  All one body we,

  One in hope and doctrine,

  One in charity.

  A foursome of sharply dressed Asian men, who had been chipping onto the nearest green, stopped and stared in shock as the first few boys ran by, their feet leaving craters and dunes in the sand traps. Two boys dashed across the green between the players’ balls and the hole.

  A golf cart came racing across the course at full speed toward the advancing crowd. Braking to a stop, a greenskeeper jumped out, waving frantically. Undeterred, the Flock flowed around him.

  Crowns and thrones may perish,

  Kingdoms rise and wane,

  But the Church of Jesus

  Constant will remain.

  Gates of Hell can never

  ’Gainst the Church prevail;

  We have Christ’s own promise,

  And that cannot fail.

  Beyond the gatehouse, the Angels followed the road as it began climbing the side of the hill, taking the easterly fork at the intersection, passing the point where Paige and Ian, on horseback, had come up onto the road from the ravine the week before. The boys racing ahead could be seen angling up the grassy hillside from the golf course, scrambling over the mounds of bulldozed dirt around the construction sites for the new homes, jumping over the open ditches where the utility lines were being laid, dodging through the open framing of the unfinished walls.

  Onward, then, ye people,

  Join our happy throng;

  Blend with ours your voices

  In triumphant song.

  Glory, laud, and honor,

  Unto Christ the King;

  This thro’ countless ages

  Men and Angels sing.

  The sun was two hours past its zenith. There was scant shade on West Gate Road. The robes of the men carrying the cross were darkly patched with sweat. Paige wondered how Obadiah’s bare feet were holding up. She thought she might have seen more red splotches on the road – but if there was any blood, it was becoming difficult to distinguish, with the road tracked with dirt from the treads and tires of construction vehicles.

  On the golf course below, the pace of play had ground to a stop. The players were clumped in pairs and fours beside their golf bags, staring and gesturing. A second golf cart cut across the fairways towards the procession. The cavalry captain issued an order: two of the Angels turned their horses to descend on an intercepting azimuth. The cameramen were directed to stay focused on the cross and the cast.

  The procession continued marching and climbing, winding its way upwards. As it approached the destination, several Angels were dispatched to ensure that non-costumed civilians remained at a distance and put away their cameras and phones.

  Upon at last reaching the old wrought-iron gate, the captain turned his horse to face the Flock. When all within earshot had pressed forward as closely as possible and had come to a stop, he raised his hand for silence. Looking to the cameramen, he confirmed they had found their optimal positions, then he turned towards the gate, pulled his sword from the scabbard, raised it high and called out, “Open this gate in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the name of His prophet Obadiah!”

  The crowd repeated the command in a loud shout.

  Nothing happened. Paige glanced around. There was no one in the vicinity other than the Flock. The security cameras on the stone pillars flanking the gate watched dispassionately, unmoving. The stout chain looped through the gate’s center was as it had been when Paige had seen it the Friday before. The padlock through the links of the chain was still locked.

  The captain shouted, “Open this gate in the name of the Lord and let His people pass!”

  The crowd repeated it. To Paige, the tone of the command, though loud and enthusiastic, didn’t sound particularly insistent. It was more as though the procedure were simply ritual – as though the Flock didn’t really expect anything would happen in response.

  The scrolled initial “H” remained squarely facing them in the middle of the road, barring passage. From each side of the gate the chain-link fence extended, topped with barbed wire, high and impassable.

  “Open this gate in the name of the Lord so that His promise and His kingdom may come to pass!”

  The Flock echoed the call. Paige wondered if they were expecting a miracle, or hoping for one. At the very least, she thought, someone with a key would have to make an appearance.

  The man playing the disciple Peter, one of the most senior members of the cast, came forward. Stepping up onto a boulder on the high side of the road, he turned to face the Flock. Lifting his hands, he led them in song.

  As the Prophet has prophesied, so shall it be,

  When His Flock is humbled and on bended knee,

  When His Cross is raised upon yon mountain high,

  The Age of Christ’s Reign upon Earth will be nigh.

  He raised his eyes and hands to heaven in prayer: “O Lord, the lambs of your Flock cry out to prostrate themselves before the majesty of your glory. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Bathem.”

  “Bathem!” answered the Flock.

  He motioned for all to kneel. All knelt, including Paige and the non-Obadites on the periphery. Obadiah and his helpers, after laying the cross flat on the road, knelt. The Angels dismounted and took a knee, bowing their heads, holding their horses’ reins. The Flock repeated each line in turn as the man in the role of Peter prayed:

  Unto Thy cross we pledge our all,

  Unto Thy hill we heed Thy call,

  On humble knee we beg Thy grace,

  And thank Thee for this holy place.

  Until Thou willest to clear the way,

  At this proud gate we kneel and pray,

  We thank Thee for the dearest price

  Of Thy son’s blood in sacrifice.

  Amen.

  Paige mouthed the words, for anyone who might be watching, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak them aloud. She didn’t like lying.

  All remained on their knees as Peter continued to speak.

  “As God has so willed and commanded, we commemorate on this day the seven years that the Prophet Obadiah carried this cross to the summit of the Hill, God’s Holy Hill, where the Prophet hung upon this cross between the earth and sky, so that all mankind might remember the Lord’s sacrifice to end all sacrifices, the sacrifice that Jesus made to take Man’s sin upon himself and into himself. Though this gate be closed to us today, we know that God will open it in His time, hallelujah and bathem, and until that day, His Flock will tarry and do His will, preparing and cleansing ourselves, to be ready for Him, as the Bride of Christ – ”

  Paige could smell blood again, distinctly.

  “ – Over the past year, our chosen and humble brother has come through the trials of purification and dedication, through the tests of tribulations and temptations. He has been found worthy to represent the Flock before God, to carry the Prophet’s cross and to be raised upon it. May the spirit of God fill you, brother, as you now do in body as we all must do in spirit, lying down in order that you may be raised up. In Jesus’
name, amen.”

  The Flock answered, “Amen!”

  With that, the man playing Obadiah laid himself down upon the cross and faced the sky, spreading his arms on the crosspiece, crossing his legs at the ankles. He laid his head back gingerly, wincing at the sharpness of the thorns in the crown.

  A soldier produced a wooden block from which protruded two pegs, which were inserted into matching holes in the cross, below Obadiah’s feet. One of the cavalry Angels – a strikingly ascetic-looking young man – had brought lengths of rope from his saddlebag and, with sure and fluid movement, looped the rope around Obadiah’s forearms and lower legs, binding him to the cross, securing the work with quick, confident knots.

  Still on their knees, the Flock sang –

  For the old rugged cross,

  We would lay down our all,

  God’s will is but ours to obey,

  His son suffered and died,

  In our place he was tried,

  With his blood for our sins he did pay.

  The soldiers, in pallbearer fashion, lifted the cross-bound Obadiah and carried him to the uphill side of the road. Atop a small barren hillock next to the gate was a short cairn of cemented stone, in the center of which was a square hole. The cross was carefully tilted upright and turned so that Obadiah would face the road. It was lowered and slid into place. Over the last few inches, the cross dropped with a slight jolt, eliciting a grunt from its passenger.

  Obadiah, exhausted, appeared to be relieved at having come to this resting position of sorts. With his feet on the block, the rope around his arms and ankles taking his weight, he sagged. Raising his eyes to heaven, he called out so that all would hear:

  “Not my will, Lord, but Thine be done!”

  The Flock answered with the most fervent prayer and worship of the day, and here, at the climax of their journey, the volume did not abate.

  The characters of Mary, John and Mary Magdalene approached the cross. Mary knelt at its foot, leaning against it for support, her fingers reaching up to touch the side of one of Obadiah’s feet. John knelt next to her, his head bowed in prayer, his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Mary Magdalene knelt opposite, gazing up at the object of her passion, tears streaming down her cheeks. A guard with a spear posted to each side of the hillock. It was another perfectly staged composition.

  The cavalry captain’s hand was to the side of his helmet again. He directed one of the cameras to approach for a closer angle on the cross. An Angel was sent to intercept an unrobed civilian who had been working his way around the perimeter with a video camera, at risk of coming within range of the Flock’s cameras.

  From the kneeling rows of the cast, a young man struggled to his feet and stared at the cross. He was rocking unsteadily. To Paige he seemed confused, disoriented.

  “Where is the blood?” he cried out, his hands spread wide.

  He looked around – at the Angels, at all those kneeling – as though searching, uncomprehending.

  “Where is the blood?” he cried out again, his tone demanding an answer.

  A girl near him gasped and pointed at his feet. Paige looked. The hem of his robe was stained a dark red.

  “Without blood,” he cried, “there is no redemption! Without blood there is no salvation!” He lurched forward, pushing through those kneeling in front of him. Before he could reach the cross, he stumbled and fell, face down.

  Simon had risen hurriedly from the foot of the cross, trying to stop the young man’s fall.

  “Honesto!” He looked in horror at the blood. “Honesto, what have you done?”

  Honesto moaned. “Simon, what are we playing at? Are we not serious? Is it any wonder the gate has not been opened?”

  Skye had joined Simon at Honesto’s side. She rolled Honesto onto his back, taking his head in her arms. He looked wildly about him. She held her hand to his forehead. It was dry and hot. His face was pale, his breathing rapid and shallow.

  “Bring water – ” she called out – “quickly!”

  “There must be nails,” Honesto cried. “Nails! There must be blood, Simon. Blood!”

  The Flock gathered closely around the three and began to pray with urgent concern. The Angels’ captain motioned for the cameras to stay focused on the cross, though the attention of no one else remained there. Obadiah himself strained, leaning forward to see what he could through those hovering over the young man on the ground.

  Skye tilted a bottle of water to Honesto’s lips. He choked on it, sputtering.

  “I’m hungry, Sister Skye. Not thirsty. Hungry . . . Oh, you are so beautiful. . . . Ask Simon, he will tell you. . . .”

  “How long has it been since he’s eaten, Simon?”

  “This morning he said he’s been fasting all week.”

  She motioned for the box Jonathon was still carrying. Opening it and breaking off a piece of scone, she put it between his lips. His tongue poked at it but only to push it away. She tried giving him more water, but he wouldn’t swallow. She took off her cloak, poured water over a corner of it and began wiping his forehead and cheeks.

  “Spread your cloaks above us,” she ordered several of the closest women. “He needs shade.”

  Two others began tending to his feet, soaking up the blood with their shawls and head coverings. When one tried to remove his sandals, he flinched in pain.

  “Ah! No! There must be blood for the prophecy!”

  “Honesto, what are you talking about?” Simon asked.

  “Until there is blood on the summit of the Hill, Brother Simon, the prophecy cannot come to pass! The world must see blood before they will believe, before He will come again. The fourth verse . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “The fourth verse? What fourth verse, Honesto?”

  “It’s right there, Brother Simon, can’t you see it?”

  “What fourth verse? What are you talking about?”

  “Let him be, Simon,” Skye urged. “Honesto, try to relax now. Please. Everything’s going to be okay. But you need to drink some water. Please.” Squeezing a small stream from a corner of the shawl between his lips, she looked up and ordered one of the men, “Tell the captain to call an ambulance.” He hesitated, seemingly dazed. “Do it now!” she said. He snapped into focus and complied.

  Honesto’s eyes were wandering, struggling to focus. “Such a beautiful place . . . Everyone is so beautiful. All the angels. No worries. No more worries . . .” He studied Skye’s face with confusion. “Ah, there you are! I told you I would come, mama. I promised you I would be good, and I’ve been good. . . .”

  Skye shushed him. “Drink, Honesto, please.”

  She opened the front of his robe, exposing his torso. His chest was hot and dry, rising and falling in quick, bird-like flutters.

  “There’s not enough blood, Sister Skye. Not enough blood in all the world to atone for us. But there must be blood, there must be blood. Not here. Up there, on top!” His head shifted around as he looked for the summit. With a burst of energy he sat up and pushed Skye aside, trying to stand. He had risen to a knee before he lost balance and fell again. Simon held him down by his shoulders.

  “You need to rest, Honesto. Easy now, we’ve got you.”

  Honesto’s breathing was still shallow and quick.

  “Sing it for me, Simon. Sing the verse.”

  “I wish I could, Honesto, but I don’t know which song you’re talking about. Tell me which song.”

  “Everyone knows it.”

  Skye was taking as many water bottles as she could from those nearby, pouring the water over her patient’s forehead and scalp, directing others to do the same over his chest, legs and arms. “He’s too hot,” she said worriedly. His breathing was becoming more ragged. His eyes were rolling up in his head.

  “Why don’t you sing the verse for us, Honesto?” she asked him.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Honesto, come on. Let’s sing it together, okay? I’ll sing it with you.”

  His eyes fluttered
open, working to focus. “You know it, Sister Skye? You know the song? Oh, how perfect you are, of all God’s angels. My mother would have wanted me to marry you, but I think that would have made Brother Simon angry. I wouldn’t want to make Brother Simon angry. I think he might kill me if I tried to marry you.” He laughed with merriment. “But I love Simon too.”

  “It’s okay, Honesto. Let’s sing the fourth verse. You start.”

  He smiled a little smile, squinting against a ray of sun that had found its way through the tenting shawls. “Sing to me, Mama,” he pleaded. “Oh, Nanay, sing to me, the way you used to. . . .”

  Skye, shaking her head, glanced at Simon. She poured more water on her cloak and sponged it over Honesto’s forehead.

  One of the women finally managed to remove his blood-soaked sandals. She sat back and gasped. A girl behind her stifled a scream. At the commotion, Honesto tried to rise, but Skye shushed him. Simon held him down.

  Paige rose on her toes, peering around the shoulder of the man in front of her to see.

  Embedded in the soles of the sandals were shards of glass.

  Honesto began to wretch in dry heaves. Skye tried to calm him.

  “Honesto, there was a lullaby we learned when the choir came to your country a couple of summers ago. Would you like to hear it? You must know it.”

  He nodded.

  She cradled his head, rocking him, wiping him down as she sang:

  Ili-ili tulog anay.

  Wala diri imong nanay.

  Kadto tienda bakal papay.

  Ili-ili tulog anay. . . .

  There was a smile on his lips. His eyes had closed. Skye glanced despairingly at Simon. She sang it again, in English:

  Little one, sleep for a while.

  Your mother is not here.

  She went to market to buy some bread.

  Little one, sleep for a while. . . .

  “Honesto?” She shook him gently. She sighed, despairing. “Oh, Honesto . . .”