The Son, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book Two (26 page)

3:1

The group of eight men, conservatively dressed in white shirts and black pants, took none of the major entrances to the Metropolitan Cathedral that dominates the Zócolo, Mexico City’s biggest public plaza. They could have passed under ornate evangelists or ecstatic angels, inspirational representatives of Faith, Hope and Charity, or even St. Peter piloting the Ship of the Church on turbulent seas of time —- all sculpted stone that was proving less eternal than the subjects they depicted. Time, unfortunately, was eroding the venerable edifice that stood for Christ’s triumph in a land previously dedicated to pagan gods.

But the eight men, indifferent to such architectural degradations, barely cast an eye upwards as they marched past the crowds and made their way to the eastern façade of the cathedral. Here the view was much less magnificent. A construction yard, closed in by an ugly fence made of dented corrugated tin panels, kept curiosity seekers at bay. The sun was setting and the lights of the Zócolo proved ineffectual. Only someone looking closely would have discerned a door in the expanse of corrugated metal and the painted injunction, “
entrada prohibida
,” would have discouraged further exploration.

Yet this was the door the eight men took after their leader, pressed a generous wad of bills in the paw of the lone guard, happy to look the other way for a few seconds. The stonemasons had quit for the day and the men walked briskly across the desolate site, dodging old stones awaiting rehabilitation and new ones yet to assume their form and place in the ancient building.

“
Cuidado con las lamparas
…Pay attention to the flashlights. They can be seen,” was all the guard cautioned, noting the men had removed flashlights from their back pockets. “Keep them focused on the ground.”

The eight men redirected their flashlights to illuminate a series of narrow spiral metal staircases that seemingly corkscrewed several hundred feet down into the bowels of the cathedral. The feeble beams were no match for the blackness that lapped at the group like the night tide and threatened at each turn to engulf the group. No one talked. Only the occasional squeaking of the metal steps and the occasional stubbed toe disrupted the silence.

“
Ya estamos
,” announced the leader, as the staircase finally wound to an end. The foundation, at least in this section of the cathedral, rested on a moist layer of clay, the bottom of the lake that had once covered the entire valley now inhabited by modern Mexico City. As time passed the lake receded, the population grew and the water tables dropped, leaving the bed of soft clay on which the colonial capital had been constructed. Which meant that the Cathedral, a mighty fortress and a weighty one, was sinking slowly into the ooze on which it had been constructed. Floors tilted as in a fun house, twin bell towers, once parallel, leaned their separate ways. Chapels risked crumbling. Attempts to shore up the edifice had only contributed to the labyrinthine underbelly of the church.

The men followed the leader cautiously - ducking under massive concrete beams, squeezing between columns that still bore symbols of the Aztec temple that occupied the spot before the Spanish conquest of Mexico and the relentless destruction of its pre-Christian past. The flashlights projected their silhouettes on the claustrophobic walls, heightening the nightmarish impression. Without their leader to guide them, it would take the men more than a map to retrace their steps; it would take the instinct of the rat or the homing pigeon.

At last the narrow passageway opened on to a room no bigger than eight feet by eight feet. A ceremonial center once in Aztec times or the mere accident of modern architectural planning, it was hard to know which. There were no explanatory markers. A small table, covered with a white cloth, sat in the center of the room. Three candles sat on the table, along with a crucifix and a red cotton runner, emblazoned with what appeared to be a large letter Y.

“Extinguish your flashlights,” instructed the leader, overweight and breathing heavily from the descent. His face was dominated by pendulous jowls that made it hard to distinguish the contours of his chin. In the mass of flesh, only his eyes stood out, small and dark and sharp, like rusty nails. The shadows on the wall took on hallucinatory proportions.

“Christ Our King,” we offer thee our labor,” he announced in a thunderous voice. “Hear our pledge. To God.” He struck the table with his massive fist.

“To God,” repeated the followers in solemn unison, and they, too, struck the table.

“To Country.” Again the leader’s fist came down heavily on the table.

“To Country,” was the collective response, followed by the assertive gesture.

“To El Yunque!”

“To El Yunque!!”

And suddenly the significance of the gesture was apparent. “El Yunque” was the word for “anvil.” The men were like modern-day smithies, striking an imaginary forge. Just as no amount of hammering could destroy the unyielding anvil, so nothing could alter the determination of their oath. The words traveled down unexplored passageways, turned faraway corners and came back as a clear call to action, “TO GOD … GOD … GOD … To COUNTRY … COUNTRY … TO EL YUNQUE … EL YUNQUE.”

When the echoes faded, the leader resumed talking, his eyes darkening even more, the voice stern with conviction. “Our God, we offer thee our work in this session with the hope that you will give us the strength to face danger, the wisdom to avoid evil, and the ability to recognize both. Sometimes your ways are mysterious and we struggle to understand thy will. But this is not such a time.”

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