A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Meanwhile, following Obadiah, the boys continued around to the side of the stage. They carried the cross up the steps and to the stage’s center, directly behind the pulpit. The head and arms of the cross were clipped into the nearly invisible wires that had descended from the ceiling. The cross was then hoisted just enough that it remained suspended upright, its foot a few feet off the floor, steadied by one of the boys who remained while the others exited stage right.

  Lundquist looked down upon the body in the casket. He closed his eyes and spread his hands wide in benediction.

  “Let us pray.”

  The congregation bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. We thank Thee, Lord, for the gift of this young man’s life, the gift that he gave back to You, and in so doing, breathed new life into our souls. May he receive the highest honors of heaven, and may he dwell in the house of the Lord forever. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  He nodded to the Angels, two of whom turned to close and buckle down the lid. On command, the Angels lifted the casket and turned towards the cathedral door. To a slow organ rendition of a Bach cantata, accompanied by lofting lyrics from the choir, the casket was carried up the aisle. Honesto’s father followed, looking as bewildered and lost as a man could be.

  When the casket had been taken away and the song ended, the senior elder came forward to stand on Lundquist’s right. The man who had played the Prophet was already on his left. Lundquist motioned for the audience to take their seats. A line of seven more Angels entered from a side door, and as the line passed each girl, the Angel on the end of the line peeled off and came to stand at attention next to her.

  “Let us now have the Calling of the Seven,” the reverend announced. “Please join me in the prayer.” The Flock repeated each line in turn.

  O Lord,

  Bless those who are about to be called:

  May they find the courage

  To empty their minds of impure thought,

  To empty their bodies of carnal desire,

  To empty their souls of prideful ego,

  That they may serve naught but Your glory,

  That they may be filled with naught but humility,

  And upon completion of their test,

  When they stand before the Elders

  At the appointed hour,

  That one of these might be chosen

  As worthy of carrying Your cross.

  Amen and Bathem.

  He stepped back and allowed the senior elder to take the pulpit. The elder adjusted the microphone to his shorter height. He cleared his throat. Though he didn’t appear entirely comfortable with having to speak publicly, he imbued his voice with gravitas apropos the occasion:

  “The Council of Elders has reviewed all applications submitted, of which, this year, there were three hundred and twenty-one. Of these, ninety-two were selected for interview. From the ninety-two, the Seven were chosen.”

  He drew an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and ran his thumb through its seal. From the envelope he drew a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and cleared his throat once more.

  “Brother Marcus David Slater,” he called.

  From a section of the audience at the left front of the auditorium, in which sat a half dozen rows of young men in their early twenties, all in dark suits, white shirts and subdued ties, a lanky young man stood eagerly and worked his way out of the row, towards the aisle. Coming forward, he walked down the line of girls and Angels until he reached the furthermost pair. Stopping, he turned to face them. Removing his jacket, tie, shoes and socks, he placed the shoes in front of the girl, folded the socks and tie into the jacket and laid the jacket atop the shoes. It looked to Paige as though he had practiced the sequence innumerable times until he could do so with no fumbling or hesitation. Standing barefoot in his shirt and trousers, hands at his sides, he stared ahead, waiting.

  “Brother Slater,” the elder intoned, “do you solemnly swear that your body and mind are free from sin, that you have emptied yourself of all pride, that you will humbly dedicate your all unto God in the trials you are about to endure, that over the coming year you will obey all orders without question or complaint, and that you will do all that is given unto you to perform, to the very best of your ability, so help you God?”

  “I do.” He bowed his head.

  The Angel reached out, took hold of the front of the young man’s shirt and tore it open, tugging and ripping until every button had come away and the shirttails were free of the trousers. Moving behind, he grasped the shirt by the back of the shoulders and, in a single motion, pulled it free and let it drop to the floor. Torso bared, the young man dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels, eyes to the floor. The girl stepped forward and draped the square of gray cloth over his head. She stepped back, smiling beneficently.

  “Brother Juan Geraldo Pace,” the elder called.

  From somewhere in the balcony, a proud mother’s squeal and clapping erupted – and was as quickly suppressed. Red-faced, a second young man rose from the section of young men and advanced to take the next place in line. He removed his jacket, tie, shoes and socks, took the oath, had his shirt ripped away and knelt to have his head covered with the cloth.

  The process was repeated for Timothy Lee Jorgensen and Stephan Scott Shipley. The fifth selectee, Robert Eric Hartwell, Jr., was slightly overweight for his height and softly muscled, Paige thought – she couldn’t imagine him carrying the cross very far, though maybe if he had a year to get himself into shape –

  Brother Daniel Amante Lore was easily the handsomest of the lot, even beautiful, Paige thought, with his high cheekbones, pronounced jaw, sensual mouth, and mysterious light-blue eyes. If he grew his hair longer he would make a fine Jesus, she thought, at least by the standard of the popular paintings. Had the Prophet Obadiah been as good looking, he might have drawn more than a few thousand followers in his lifetime without hardly trying – even if most would have been women.

  This brought the count to six. The elder studied the final name on the list. He remained quiet for a moment. Grimacing, he turned to the reverend and pointed to the paper. The reverend, after a long moment’s consideration, indicated that the elder should resume. The elder cleared his throat and exhaled deeply.

  “The seventh and final selection is – ” he blinked, swallowed uncomfortably, and cleared his throat again – “Brother Honesto Buenaflor Tolosa.”

  A gasp went up through the auditorium.

  Simon was stunned. Honesto hadn’t once mentioned having applied for the Seven. He hadn’t said anything about having advanced to the interview level, despite how excited he must have been. But that was just the kind of humility Honesto had always demonstrated. How happy and honored Simon’s roommate would have been at this moment, he thought, and deservedly so. He glanced back at Skye in the choir. A tear was coursing down her cheek.

  Reverend Lundquist, who seemed as surprised as Simon at this turn, had reassumed the pulpit. He took the microphone from its stand. At the end of the line below him stood the one remaining girl, holding her gray cloth, with no one to kneel before her, looking as though she were about to burst into tears.

  The reverend, finding his voice, announced sadly, “This year, the Seven must be Six. Perhaps we should have Brother Honesto’s cloth mounted in a permanent plaque right there where he would have come forward and knelt, to serve as an ever-present reminder of his spirit and sacrifice – ”

  “I am the seventh.”

  Simon had heard his own voice say the words. He glanced about in wonder. He didn’t know if he’d shouted it or whispered it, but he was standing and he had been heard. Brother Lundquist had turned to stare at him in alarm.

  Simon lowered his eyes – but he remained standing. Lifting his head again, he drew enough air into his lungs to push it out and repeat the words more insistently, more confidently.

 
“I am the seventh.”

  His mouth was dry, his lips were sticking together. He ran his tongue over them.

  Brother Lundquist continued staring at him as if he had gone mad and had stripped off all of his clothes to stand before the congregation naked.

  Simon’s legs were shaking, feeling as if they would buckle at any moment. He wanted to hide. With all the courage he could muster, he looked his pastor and mentor in the eye and declared boldly and more loudly, so that all could hear: “It is God’s will, and so sayeth the Lord.”

  It was an unthinkable, an unthinking leap of faith, but he had made it, and God rewarded those with the faith even of a tiny mustard seed. Simon was ready. He was ready to sacrifice everything, to give everything, to be an example to all. At least, that’s what he wanted to do. More than anything, that’s what he wanted to do. He had no idea from where the courage had come, but he was at once overwhelmingly excited – and terrified.

  Brother Lundquist’s eyes had grown wider yet, staring at his young protégé as though attempting to fathom his motivation. His eyes narrowed. He looked to the elder questioningly, but the elder only shrugged. The matter was in the hands of the Flock’s leader.

  The microphone had almost fallen from Lundquist’s hand. He raised it to his mouth, but appeared unsure as to what he should say. He looked as shocked as a man who had just been shot with a gun, realizing he was left with no choice but to die.

  “Brother Simon David Paulson,” he announced finally, “if God has spoken to you, if this is God’s will – then may God’s will be done. Go then, and be worthy of His hand upon you.”

  Simon, hardly believing the words he had just heard, took a step forward. Then another. Concentrating on the act of walking, he reached out as he passed the cross, touching it for balance and reassurance. Hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t fall flat on his face, with all eyes and cameras upon him, he passed Brother Lundquist and the elder without looking at them and proceeded carefully down the center steps. He passed through the flowers framing the space where Honesto’s body had lain. With relief, after what seemed a short eternity, he found himself at the end of the row, standing before the girl. His fingers fumbling, hands shaking, he removed his jacket and tie. He had to reach out for the Angel’s support when he bent to remove his shoes and socks.

  “Brother Paulson,” the elder said, having taken the pulpit and microphone once more, “do you solemnly swear that your body and mind are free from sin, that you have emptied yourself of all pride, that you will humbly dedicate your all unto God in the trials you are about to endure, that over the coming year you will obey all orders without question or complaint, and that you will do all that is given unto you to perform, to the very best of your ability, so help you God?”

  “I do.” Simon bowed his head.

  Fear gripped him as he felt the Angel’s hands on his chest. His shirt was ripped open, exposing his white torso. The Angel moved behind him and roughly pulled the shirt off and away, dropping it to the floor. Simon could feel ten thousand pairs of eyes on his bare skin. The air was cold. Surely the world could see his heart pounding through the back of his chest. He knelt. When the cloth was draped over his head, he knew that he was deeply unworthy. He was ashamed to have dared to take Honesto’s rightful place. How could God ever forgive him?

  “These are the Seven,” the elder declared. “May God’s hand be upon them through their tests and trials. May their imperfections be forgiven and burned away, and may the purest among them return to us to carry the Prophet’s cross, with the Lord’s blessing. Amen and bathem.”

  The organ played. The reverend retrieved a vial of oil from a shelf in the pulpit and, with the elder and the outgoing prophet, descended from the stage. Starting with the first selectee, they stopped before each in turn. The reverend and the elder anointed each young man’s head with oil; the outgoing prophet held the crown of thorns over the anointed’s head while the reverend gave a short prayer of blessing. When they came before Simon, he kept his eyes lowered, hoping that he appeared sufficiently humble, while panic-stricken that he was about to be exposed as a fraud – though just why or how or for what, he didn’t know. Rightly for everything, he thought. The muscles of his mouth were quivering. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He thought he felt a trembling in the reverend’s hand, too, as the reverend anointed his protégé’s head with oil and prayed over him.

  Returning to the pulpit, the reverend led the congregation in a final hymn, during which the cross was lowered enough that the outgoing prophet could return the crown of thorns to the nail at the cross’s head. The wires then raised the cross back up to its place on the wall above the organ pipes. The Flock’s cathedral had been made whole again.

  After a brief closing prayer, he commanded the Seven: “Stand now and go with the Angels. Obey them in everything without question or hesitation, to the best of your ability and beyond, and may the fear and love of God be with you. Bathem.”

  “Bathem!” the audience echoed.

  As Simon stood, with the assistance of his Angel, he stole a glance in Skye’s direction, realizing in a panic that it would be the last time he would see her for a full year. He hadn’t thought about that part of it when he did what he did. He hoped and feared it would be the full year – if he could outlast the others. He caught her eye momentarily but could discern only concern in her expression.

  His Angel at his side, Simon was the last to walk up the aisle. The choir had begun singing. He tried to hear Skye behind him, to make out her voice from among the multitude. He feared, then, that he might forget how the moment had happened, and he knew that he would need to remember – the memory might be the only thing that could pull him through what was ahead. He tried hard, concentrating.

  It had happened after Honesto’s name was called as the seventh, and Simon had turned to see Skye’s reaction. A tear had fallen down her cheek. The tear for Honesto. Then Simon had felt it again, the stickiness of the blood on his hands and the smell of metallic, sickly sweetness mixed with sweat and tears. He had heard Honesto crying out, “Where is the blood? There must be blood!” Then came the vision, the vision as clear as anything he had ever experienced – more clear, more sharp, the colors more vibrant and saturated, the lines more distinct, the textures more tangible – and it was he, Simon Paulson, looking down from the cross, with nails driven through his hands and his feet, and the crown of thorns wedged down hard into his scalp, piercing the skin to the bone. Blood dripped from his brow. Real blood. His blood. Between the drops that fell before his eyes, there was Skye below, at the foot of the cross, gazing up with longing and grief. In slow motion, a drop of red fell, and fell, to splash on her outstretched fingers. She pressed his blood to her lips. She was crying, and the tears were for him.

  Fifteen

  Sophia’s white-gloved hands were lying in her lap, holding the Easter lilies she had taken from the arrangement next to where the casket had been.

  “Keep driving please, Sam.”

  Sam kept driving, passing the turnoff to the garage, continuing at a measured pace down the narrow lane, over the rolling grassy hills and through the shaded woody vales, all the way to the back of the estate, to where on the crest of the last hill stood the majestic red oak, where from the oak’s high branch hung the swing.

  Sophia could still hear the squeals of delight as Roger or Aaron would push Julie. “Higher! Higher!” Julie would demand, her bare legs and feet reaching for the sky, her head thrown back in abandon as she arced out and up, over the falling slope beyond, over the easterly flatland, finding weightlessness in the open sky.

  “Momma, I’m flying. . . .”

  As had become their custom, Sam stopped the car fifty yards short. Sophia walked alone the rest of the way. She stood now before the swing, staring blankly at the empty wooden seat as it creaked and rocked gently in a passing lullaby of a breeze. Standing here, she would always be able to hear her daughter’s floating, soaring laughter. Th
e memory, a mother’s sacred blessing, was now her burden forever to bear. Next to the swing was the granite stone, flush in the ground. On the stone’s polished face, unmossed and unweathered, the engraved letters and dates were too fresh, too young, too new. They always would be.

  Almost from the moment Julie became a teenager, the laughing had ceased and the struggle had begun. Her driving desire for independence pushed against all restraints – reason and sensibility be damned. Missed curfews, angry arguments, stony silences, hurled accusations, slammed doors. Sophia wasn’t terribly surprised – her daughter had always been willful and independent, as Hales tended to be – yet she was disappointed. She had hoped to be spared. Aaron, through his teens, had never caused the slightest problem or concern. Julie lashing out was wounding, to be sure, but Sophia endured, knowing they would get through it somehow, as countless mothers and daughters through the ages had gotten through such phases. With all the sympathy and empathy she could muster, she kept the relationship tacked and pinned and stitched together through the strains, impasses, bitterness and tears, knowing that the two of them would survive and overcome, eventually. They were strong. They loved. They trusted each other. They were honest. Sophia would be there, waiting on the other side for her healthy, happy daughter to re-emerge. It would only be a matter of time, of perseverance. . . . But it required more patience than Sophia ever imagined she would have to find.

  Then, in the middle of Julie’s fifteenth year – sooner than Sophia had hoped or expected – Julie’s demeanor changed. Indeed, her entire personality changed, practically overnight.

  She had met a boy from the Church who convinced her to attend a youth service with him. Within a week, she declared herself a Christian, a redeemed Lamb of the Flock – saved. At meals she effused about Jesus’ fathomless love and God’s grace, which was not only her own personal salvation but the salvation of the whole world. Her black jeans, her formless, dark sweatshirts and her ragged sneakers were replaced by conservative knee-length dresses and low-heeled shoes and sandals. Her black hair with the rebellious red streak was dyed back to the original brunette. Her pixie cut was left to grow back out. Her makeup and jewelry were discarded – Sophia quietly rescued a set of diamond studs and a string of pearls from the garbage.