Episode 008
Henry thinks about 'Sin-Dee' at precisely the wrong time and risks his manhood.
"Remove your clothes," said the Bostonian. "Not the blindfold." His voice sounded even more authoritative through the high wattage speakers.
Before Henry Whitmore could protest, the other voices chanted in unison, "For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen." They surrounded him, and the room was large enough to echo, so he could only estimate their number. Twenty. Thirty at most.
The verse sounded biblical, but he knew it was not. Nor was it contained within the Apocrypha, or the Kabala—not even in the portions of their own holy texts he'd so far deciphered for them. Yet he recognized God's word when he heard it spoken. Every numbered hair stood attuned to their chanting like a divining rod. So from where? Which anointed text. Whom had God used as His mouthpiece? What other anointed wisdom did The Sons of Jared have for his hungry mind to crack?
The prospect of knowing pushed him beyond his fear.
Henry fumbled out of his clothes the best he could. It was difficult with the blindfold, which was actually a silken hood, secured around his neck with duct tape. They'd left him standing this time, and he held his breath, fighting for balance. He fought the urge to reach out for some kind of support, unsure of where he stood. His sock-covered feet wanted to shoot out from underneath him on the polished hardwood floor. He couldn't tell if they'd placed him in a pit, or teetering on a pedestal. He left on his boxer shorts because they hadn't yet specified.
"For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen."
"Don't be difficult, Henry." The Englishmen this time.
Henry didn't like to be naked in front of other men. He refused to relieve himself in non-partitioned urinals, and he'd gone through elaborate measures his whole life to avoid scrutiny in locker rooms and doctors offices.
He shed his boxers and focused his mind on the texts, on the access they'd be forced to grant him once he stood in their circle. No matter what, he mustn't think of Cindy right now.
"The Lord doth not walk with wicked men; He consumes the liars, the fornicators, and the thieves with His wrath. Forever His Chosen remain pure. Amen."
Their recitation betrayed no dialects. Tonal differences and the subtleties of intonation were filtered out, while the authority of His Word was amplified-a monotone, mechanistic messiah—one that made Henry sweat despite the cold room, and brought gooseflesh to his arms, even under the heat of their appraisal.
The Texan spoke up next, also on the speaker system, like the Bostonian. "We face a difficult decision, Henry. You want to join our brotherhood, yet clearly you are not worthy of His Chosen, are you?"
Henry wasn't sure if this was a question, or if it was merely rhetorical—a test of some kind. His eyes watered and burned beneath the blindfold as the smoke of incense threatened to gag him. Worthy?...already Cindy's many blessings were intruding his thoughts. He decided to answer-question or not-to try and banish her scent and her taste and her intricate folds from his mind.
"I…I-ahem…" Salty phlegm ran down the back of his throat and clogged his speech. He swallowed repeatedly, and finally cleared away enough mucus to speak. "With all do respect, I am worthy in the eyes of the One who may judge." Then he added, quoting from Romans in the New Testament, "For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God."
Henry winced at perhaps the boldest thing he had ever said to anyone, hoping the brotherhood didn't interpret it as mocking. It was one thing to take a jab at an evangelist's Rolex. Another thing entirely to provoke the anointed.
"The sins of the flesh taint the righteous, bringing evil upon His people. He has sent His Chosen before Him to judge. Amen."
Their collective response wasn't reassuring. What he'd been told was an induction ceremony felt more like a trial. He has sent His Chosen before Him to judge. Their words provoked curiosity and fear in equal measure. From what source did they quote? The thought of them having access to a holy text that he knew nothing about, made him feel like a teenager all over again—like he'd felt in Mercy's office-longing for something his social ineptitude would long deny… But if their words also implied a direct knowledge of his indiscretions with Cindy-
Something rattled overhead and Henry ducked instinctively, bringing his hands forward to guard his manhood.
It was an air conditioning duct.
Without his clothes, it was cold. Drenched in sweat, he shivered. So much for a calm front, Henry thought. Then he heard the unit kick off. He straightened back up and counted the seconds until the artificial breeze finally reached him. Four. Definitely an auditorium of some sort, which the slight echo also confirmed.
"What is this? I was told to prepare for my acceptance into your brotherhood. What is it you want from me?"
"We'll get to that in a moment," the Bostonian said, as if a moment of life was all he could guarantee Henry. "First let's talk about Cindy."
Sin-dee.
Her name whispered across his synapses, and every morsel of her body exploded into the darkness of his mind. A hot weight started to build where moments before he'd felt shriveled and inconsequential.
No. Please.
His clenched his eyes shut as tight as he could, and grasped for an annoyance, an irritation—a puzzle, a theorem-anything that would throw a monkey-wrench of logic into the click-whir machinery of his animal brain. He tried to picture tennis…golf…crochet; but she was behind every volley, every stroke-beneath every blanket.
"For The Lord our God exposes all sin; before Him we tremble as naked babes. Amen."
The Bostonian continued. "I thought we'd made clear the sacrifices necessary for His Chosen. But you seem unwilling to part with temptation."
Henry bit at the sides of his tongue until the pain was too much. And then he bit harder. Hoping to trade the two sensations. It was no use. His growing erection barred any chance for denial—though in truth—it was his prolonged abstinence which made his arousal so uncontrollable. He hadn't slept with Cindy, he'd only fondled her-a rare slip—though he'd steadfastly refused her offers to reciprocate. He'd even stopped masturbating in allegiance to their codes of conduct. Why couldn't they recognize his commitment to them? And to chastise him over his relationship with Cindy?—the one woman he'd been able to spare from his admittedly warped sexual impulses long enough to earn her love. They had no idea the sacrifices he made for them.
Henry turned away from them, embarrassed. He wanted to tear off the hood and sprint away from his accusers.
And why don't I? he wondered. Would they try and stop me? Kill me?
He couldn't identify them. So why bother? Why disobey one of God's commandments?
"Don't turn your back on us!" A French Canadian.
Henry didn't run. He'd continue to suffer through their mind games and their humiliations because he wanted to know the secrets of their most guarded texts just as much as they did. More than they did.
Let them laugh, he thought. Let them judge. They needed him. After all, they'd approached him, had they not? after one of his sermons, with the same humble glint of awe and respect for his knowledge that Cindy had shown him not one month prior at a similar event.
He faced them. Boldly. The French Canadian betrayed more than just his origin when he'd spoke; his authoritative tone couldn't quite hide the desperation underlying it. He imagined them sitting there, encircling him like wealthy Roman spectators. Hooded, dressed in robes, holding candles…
Or maybe it was all bullshit.
They were manipulating him, he was sure of it. Access to their most secret texts was their carrot. Intimidation their stick. He smirked. This whole ordeal reminded him of pledge hazing at a fraternity. They sought his loyalty. They wanted to induce in him the same rationalizations a million college freshman wanting to ‘go Greek' endure: Gee, if I'm willing to serenade the campus while dressed in a diaper, chug pitchers of raw eggs and vinegar mixed with beer—or even pleasure a goat-then I must really want to be in this fraternity. Basic Cognitive Dissonance Theory. Psychology 101. Not that Henry had ever been in a fraternity; he'd long since accepted the vapidity of earthly affiliations, and he took comfort in knowing God had on reserve for him a most exalted position in heaven—once his celestial purpose had been fulfilled (a purpose which, Henry reminded himself, this latest trial was surely a part).
Clearly God, in his unfathomable wisdom, had kept hidden his most powerful revelations in the possession of this odd sect, doubly shrouded in a language no one knows but Him. And now He'd placed his faithful servant at the doorstep of His mysteries, to reveal His Word at the perfect, predestined time. Henry relished the chance to fully engage the miraculous gifts of translation His Holiness had bestowed upon him.
Let them play their games, it'll be over soon enough.
Then he heard the singing friction of an unsheathed sword. The blade hummed unseen, close enough to kill, and the sound sliced cleanly through the tremulous reserve of confidence he'd managed to build only seconds before. It did for his erection what his feeble head tricks of distraction could not.
"We've decided you're not fit to walk among His Chosen, Henry." This from the speaker-distorted voice of the Texan.
"He welcomes no blemish; let him who is pure walk with our Lord. Let no stain taint His robes. For He gathers the righteous among him, and casts the sinners into the pit of everlasting fire. Glory be to Him who is Pure. Amen."
Henry cringed at their damning chant, expecting death at any moment, and unable to reconcile this apparent end with the stark contrast of God's plan for him.
But now the Bostonian spoke up again. "And yet, you remain useful to us…"
"Though only to the extent you're loyal to our cause," the Texan added as he trailed off.
His invisible executioner returned the sword to its scabbard. A reprieve. God intervening on my behalf. Like Daniel in the lion's den, Henry thought.
"You have my loyalty. I swear!"
"Of course we do," said the Bostonian. "We have Cindy."
"And it's your loyalty, Henry," the Englishman added, "that keeps her alive."
Author: Jeremy James
Shelved In: Episodes
Main Topic: induction
Keywords: Apocrypha • Bostonian • brotherhood • Chapter 6 • Cindy • God • Henry • Kabala • Lord • Mercy • New Testament • Texan • Whitmore •
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