Origin of the Brunists

by Robert Coover

  And there was given them to each one a white robe; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little time…

  Mr. Himebaugh also designed a secret cross, utilizing the new secret name suggested to the group by their scribe and secretary Mr. Justin Miller, the “Brunists,” in which the T of the name was the cross itself, with BRUNI across the top of the crossarm and an S on each side of the post under the arm. The U, being the middle letter of the five on top, had the effect by enlargement of turning the cross or T into a trident, suggesting the Trinity and other significant trichotomies, as well as the horns of the Ram, with BR to the left and NI to the right. Giving these letters their alphabet value in numbers, the number of the cross itself became 20; across the top, the numbers read 2—18—21—14—9, with two 19’s below, on each side of the cross. The U’s number of 21 on top and in the middle was identified not only as three sevens, with all that meant, but also as 21 March, the first day of the sign of rebirth and the night Mrs. Collins’ house burned, marking mystically the commencement of this their final trial; similarly, the 19’s, repeated as though for emphasis, were quickly accepted as heralds of the 19th of April, the last day of the sign of Aries and the night the end of the world—“the ultimate transformation”—would come. Mrs. Collins, it was true, still clung to the notion this could happen, as her husband’s note implied, on the 8th of April, but even she was admittedly prepared to accept Mrs. Norton’s date fully if nothing did happen on the 8th. The most important number, of course, was the initial 2, which symbolized everything from the cosmic combat between the sons of light and the powers of darkness, to the two figureheads of the movement, Ely Collins and Giovanni Bruno. The number 18 was generally accepted as representing the first month and the eighth day, the day of the mine disaster, but some, including Mrs. Wilson Hall, feared it omened a significant event for 18 April. The 14 and 9 of N and I also possessed a hierarchy of meanings, but the approved ones were those originally proposed by Mr. Himebaugh: the 14 stood for the number of weeks between Bruno’s rescue and the end of the world (a “week of Sundays” plus a “circle of evenings”), while the 9 represented the number of the coalmine, and thus the Mount of Redemption where they would gather for the end. But Mr. Himebaugh also added and subtracted all these numbers, introduced 7 in different and intriguing ways, gave the letters Greek and Hebrew alphabet values, superimposed elements on his own graphs and vice versa, and even integrated the birthdates of each of the members for personal interpretations. With so much to learn, there was little time left for making foolish quixotic charges upon the hostile and ultimately damned world, and in their prayers they asked only for the peace which would permit them to remain together unto the end.

  And then, on the evening of Palm Sunday, the fifth of April, a surprising message was received from Domiron in the presence of all members:

  Heark ye to the message from the tomb! Light comes upon the eighth! Let no evil heart block its passage! Domiron bids you!

  All were stunned. Mrs. Norton, as though in disbelief, looked up from what her hand had written at Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Collins turned pale. Mrs. Wilson began to tremble. “Oh, Clara!” she wept. “That’s just three days!” said Carl Dean Palmers. “Friends,” said Mrs. Collins, standing tall now in her white tunic: “Prepare!”

  4

  Idly, contentedly, Marcella stitches his white tunic. Dust, like a microscopic Imitation of the universe, floats and revolves in the shafts of sunlight that penetrate the room through the south windows. Hanging up the phone this morning, she felt the gray unnamable anxiety that has shadowed her these last weeks let go its grip, lift, fade like a bad dream. A paradox has apparently resolved itself, and now, with her discovery of its resolution, comes a great calm. The discovery encloses a decision, yet it is so easy a decision to make—in fact, it is already made.

  Miller knew he had it in his hands to heave old Water Closet around and set her on a crisis course, and on April 8th, Wednesday of Holy Week, partly because he had no choice, he did it. Eight-page special on the Brunists, with photos, a 1,500-word release to the wireservices, and longer articles, previously accepted in précis, wired to three newspapers in large cities. The wireservices couldn’t get enough, offered special rates for another 1,500 words the next day, plus continued coverage. He airmailed wirecopy to the weekly news and photo magazines, suggesting unique angles for each and offering complete picture coverage; similarly to the television companies, tendering his services as “consultant.” Later, they’d get airmail copies of tonight’s edition.

  He’d been considering all along popping it on Good Friday, had thought it might be a more destructive moment. But Eleanor Norton, obviously convinced he was an infiltrator sent by the powers of darkness—and indeed, she was right, he was—had been out to get him for some time now, and he’d suddenly realized she’d set him up for the ax tonight. It was the only way to account for Domiron’s sudden capitulation to the Collins faction last Sunday night: after announcing the “coming of the light”, on the eighth he had warned them to “let no evil heart block its passage.” And, of course, when it didn’t come, the heretic-hunt would have begun. Anyway, today wasn’t bad: not only was it Clara Collins’ celebrated “eighth of the month” and right in the middle of Easter Week, but it was also the Buddha’s birthday, a day to “beat the drum of the Immortal in the darkness of the world.”

  The scene was ripe. The Brunists sat in hiding, intent only upon reaching the 19th without further harassment; Baxter and the loyal Nazarenes, furious as ever, had been effectively suppressed since the Collins fire by the Common Sense Committee and Whimple’s police; and Cavanaugh’s bund of Common Sensers itself had been using this time of silence to proselyte amongst belligerents and potential converts. As a result, Baxter’s forces had been reduced and the Brunists were down to the hardcore members, having got no new ones since Ben Wosznik: the Bruno family, the Nortons, the two boys, Himebaugh, Clara Collins and her daughter, the Halls, Wosznik, and the widows Wilson, Cravens, and Harlowe, with eight small children among them. Not that the cult was disheartened: this paucity of believers only made them more convinced than ever of their uniqueness, their special status as God’s select, and their group zeal and devotion couldn’t be greater. All they needed, Miller felt, was to be thrown upon the world scene, and they’d have no choice but to “prove” themselves right by finding more people to agree with them. Baxter, too, was probably waiting for that moment, for what he needed most right now was a visible enemy. And, surely, the Common Sensers realized that, for they’d been to see Miller several times already to urge him to continue suppressing this story, and most of them had even begun to get the idea he was on their side.

  His main worry was Marcella. He’d thought to have her safely out of it by now. Originally, discovering Eleanor’s hostility toward him and her maternal sway over Marcella, he had thought it best to affect conviction and then tunnel out from within, share a carefully structured doubt, and then: conversion. Didn’t work. Marcella’s mind was complex and delicate, contained sweeping world-views that made cosmic events out of a casual gesture or a cloud’s idle passage, and, in such a mind, the commonplaces he liked to use were not common at all and refuted nothing. He had even hinted at marriage and she had laughed, supposing he must be joking. Now, he was bringing it to a head. He had called, asked her to meet him here at the plant this evening, and she had agreed. He’d insisted on the urgency of it: yes, regardless of what anybody might say to the contrary, she’d be there … she understood, she said. And maybe, at last, she did. He hoped so. He would show her the night’s edition, ask her to leave with him. He had no ring to offer, but he did have the brass collar still. He recognized that it might not be easy, but he believed, once the choice was clear to her, that her commitment to him would outweigh any other—Miller had that much faith in the gonads’ clutch upon what folks called reason.

  Eleanor calls with the news. Marcella tells her she is sorry. Eleanor believes it is really
a blessing, a further sign. Marcella agrees. She says nothing of her discovery, of her resolution. It was Eleanor, after all, who first confused her with all her divisions of love. But now the confusion has passed, the fear has passed, for perfect love, it is true, casts out fear. Love, she instructs her needle, never ends. Prophecy? it will pass away. Tongues? they will cease. Knowledge? it will pass away. But he who loves … abides in the light.

  A beautiful spread! Goddamn, he had too much good stuff! Eight-column banner: BRUNISTS PROPHESY END OF WORLD! Four-column photo of the group on Cunt Hill, lit by the car lights he’d arranged and shot from the shaggy crotch by Lou Jones. Two-column mugshot of the Prophet in his new tunic, which Marcella had let him get for “inspirational” purposes. And inspirational it was: wonderful dark head afloat in pale white light; forehead, nose, cheeks—all looked as though chiseled from granite or marble, while the uncombed black hair and dark shadows in the throat, mouth and brow seemed almost like concentric circles leading inward to the glittering black pupils of his fierce eyes. Other photos through the issue of the free-for-all on the front lawn with the Baxterites, of Clara Collins’ house burning and the Brunists sifting through the ruins the next day for clues, of the Common Sensers assembled and excited, of the altar in the Bruno living room with its bizarre assortment of relics and instruments. There was an exquisitely grim three-column blowup of the Black Hand and, on the back page, some pictures from the Bruno family album, including a news photo from the late twenties of old Antonio Bruno bringing a gun butt down on somebody’s luckless head during the union struggles—same glittering eyes as his boy and a grin splitting his tough lean jaws. Miller was working up ideas for a special Millennium’s Eve TV documentary, if he could just sell the notion to one of the networks, and that picture of old Antonio was one he meant to use. Then, as if he wasn’t already overloaded, the school board had provided him an unexpected bonus story by firing Eleanor Norton last night. He dug up a somber group shot of the board, never before used because they all looked so sour in it, and ran it with cutlines that all but made grand inquisitors of them. Except for these cum-incensed types, as Lou Jones called them, Miller’s stories were essentially objective—meaning, he left it up to the reader to decide if the end might really be coming or not.

  Of course, the greatest story would have to remain untold. Happy’s description of Giovanni’s abdominal scars had rung some kind of bell in his mind. She’d said they were all horizontal or vertical, but, though intricate, had no apparent design to them. It made him think of cracked wood and that made him think of the wooden statue of Saint Stephen in the local Catholic Church—its patron. He’d first noticed it at Antonio Bruno’s funeral a month ago. The mere fact that it was a Roman Catholic burial had troubled Clara’s people, but the excuse given that it had been the old woman’s pious wish had pacified them. The strangeness of the Cathedral, in fact, was probably the only thing that had kept the Nazarenes from completely losing their heads back then—as it was, they got a sudden stiff injection of awesome grandeur that would no doubt color the rest of their days. Antonio had been properly Disneyed up for his jolly journey, it would seem, to lollypop land, his bloody nose cured and even straightened in death. In fact, it was his very artificiality, oddly giving life to the statues in the Cathedral, that had drawn Miller’s attention to the boyish Stephen. Torso writhing, eyes turned inward to confront death, arms twisted up over his head, the boy was naked but for the usual loincloth—typically half-off, as though about to get raped—which hid away the prick beneath the soft girlish abdomen. Whereas old Antonio’s flesh had been ivory-smooth, the boy’s body was finely cracked, paint chipping off, joints separating. After Happy had tipped him off, he’d made a trip back to the Cathedral to see for himself: yes, the belly was that abstract fretwork of tiny scars she had described. Happy, when he took her there, had not only confirmed it, but located a kind of “LOF” in the right groin that had caused all the girls at the hospital to wonder if it stood for “love” or “laugh.”

  The whole shop caught the day’s excitement. The ad force was instructed to keep quiet but to sell to beat hell, since there could be lean days in the offing. A boycott wouldn’t surprise him. Cavanaugh had already told him that “too extreme an exposure” might jeopardize the paper’s readership, might cause Miller to “lose contact with citizens here,” and this exposure was going to be pretty extreme. The front office was abuzz with anxious whisperings and Miller overheard that a couple of the girls had been approached by somebody who had asked them to quit or at least to protest if the newspaper they worked for insulted their community or their faith. Lou Jones, long chafing for this moment and unable to grasp why Miller had waited so long, was ecstatic now that it was on, which was to say, he wore a kind of half smile and smoked cigars all day. For his typesetters in the back, it was all the same: war, markets, recipes, disasters, end of the winter, end of the world. On the other hand, his pressman Carl Schwartz was in high spirits: perhaps he saw another holiday in the making, or another bonus—or maybe it was just his elation at receiving a gift from a whore.

  Once all the copy had been hooked and layouts sent back, he headed out for a quick lunch. Already feeling a little giddy with what was coming. He skipped Mick’s, stopped in a drugstore for a sandwich instead, found Maury Castle and Vince Bonali in a booth there. Bonali had emerged as a new Cavanaugh protégé via the Common Sensers, and turned up on Main Street pretty often these days. Now a grin split his dark face from ear to ear.

  “Hey, Tiger!” Castle boomed. “I was just telling old Vince here that story about the whore in Waterton, the one your boy laid the night after the disaster.” A quick glance told Miller that the little girl at the soda fountain and two ladies at another booth had heard it, too.

  “Funny thing happened last night,” Miller said. “Dinah gave Carl a silk shirt.”

  Castle roared with laughter. “No shit!” he bellowed. “What was it, his birthday or something?”

  “No,” Miller said. “It would have been her brother Oxford’s birthday.”

  There’s a small green sprout in her garden. She examines it closely. No, not a weed—birth! She feels a hand on her shoulder. But not his. She smiles up at Mr. Himebaugh. He clasps his hands in front of him, as though embarrassed, makes his sad face smile timidly. Such a child, and yet he is so wise and kind. He has been almost a father to them both since their own father died, and though he eats here almost daily now, he buys all their food and has undertaken many of her own tasks. Especially those touching her brother. “Is it a flower?” he asks. “I think so,” she says. He crouches down to see, loses his balance, steadies himself with a pale hand on her knee. “Yes, yes, I think it is!” he says.

  Mort Whimple was waiting for Miller in the office when he got back, and said, glancing toward Jones, that he wanted a quiet personal-like talk. They went into the jobroom. Miller wondered if he had heard somehow they were breaking the story tonight. “What is it, Mayor?”

  “Tiger, I just wanted to talk to you alone a minute.” Whimple was a small rolypoly man with a big nose, short forehead, close-cropped hair, wore colorful clothes too tight for him. Had a big idea of the swath he cut. Jones called him Wart Pimple. “Tiger, I’m in a spot. You’ve been a big help to me before, and maybe you can be again. Even if only for a little goddamn advice.” Whimple’s narrow eyes got so sincere, it looked like they might cross.

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, in a sense, now don’t take me wrong, but in a sense, I am West Condon, Tiger. I don’t mean that in any arrogant self-conceited way, goddamn it, you know that, I just mean I sometimes feel this whole town inside me. Organic like.” Miller shuddered at the image. “When something ain’t functioning right, I get to feeling sick. You know what I mean? Well, things ain’t functioning right now, Miller. And I’m feeling pretty cruddy. I’m sorry, but that’s the only goddamn way I know how to put it.”

  Miller nodded. “Mort, I think if you just—”

  “Now, I�
��m getting letters. Bushels of letters. More every day. Letters from crackpots. Letters from people who are out to get me anyway. But, more important, Miller, letters from sensible people here in West Condon. They don’t like this Bruno outfit. They’re getting nervous about what might happen next week. They don’t like the bad name the town is going to get if this thing gets out of hand. They’re good hardworking Christian people, Miller, who just want to be left the fuck alone.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m getting letters, too.”

  “All right, let’s face it, Miller. Bruno is a goddamn nut. I don’t give a shit about your big line that if Bruno’s a nut, Christ was a nut, that don’t mean nothing to me. I got a feeling everybody in that whole fucking outfit is a nut, but no offense. I admit, sometimes people can get carried away by this or that. Anyhow, I don’t give a good goddamn if Bruno thinks he’s the Virgin Mary, but what I don’t like is for the law and order in this town to get disturbed, see? People can belong to any goddamn religion they like, that’s their business, that’s their right, but what they can’t do, by God, is turn a goddamn town upsidedown!”

  “Yes, but, Mayor—”

  “Don’t but-Mayor me, Miller! Goddamn it! I want to make it clear how I feel. I ain’t the mayor to set on my fat ass and let the town go to hell. I got a duty, I got my duty here, and I think it’s pretty goddamn clear. I gotta nip this outfit in the butt.”

  “In the bud.”

  “I said butt! Now look, here’s what, Miller. Let me be clear. I don’t want to interfere with religion, see—”