Red Palm

by Ochse, Weston

  The Palms Quorum had also established a formal relationship with the Black Grotto since the Black Bishop had announced that he’d set up food tents to feed the hungry. Anyone who wanted transportation to the Grotto merely needed to show up at any bus stop and the system would provide, which was how Jenkies and Brianna found themselves stepping off the bus into the superheated air of Cathedral City.

  Both of them were dressed in black tights beneath black calf-length skirts and black boots. Jenkies wore a black t-shirt underneath a black sweater, with sewn in blood splatters across the back. Brianna wore a red and black tartan bustier with black mesh sleeves. While Brianna wore deep red lipstick, Jenkies wore black. One thing they did have in common was the dark kohl smudging around their eyes.

  The bus had dropped them off at the bottom of a large grassy hill. Families ate in clusters on the side. Even more ate alone, some ravenous, as they devoured plates of chicken and beans. On top of the hill was the first of many tents of the sort she’d normally seen at state fairs or carnivals. Each one was easily large enough to shade several hundred people, which they did, along with servers who provided everyone their fill of food and refills.

  As they made it up the hill, they were approached by an older man wearing all black; like what a priest would wear except he was missing the white collar. A nametag on his chest said Bill above the word Docent.

  “I see we have new arrivals,” he said, smiling beatifically. Seeing their put out expressions he added, “I saw you getting off the bus. This is what I do. I greet.”

  Both Jenkies and Brianna stopped.

  “Greetings,” he said.

  Brianna nodded, as did Jenkies.

  “If you’re hungry, you can choose any tent and a postulant will serve you.”

  “We’re not hungry,” Brianna said.

  “No, what then?”

  They exchanged glances. What were they supposed to say, Where are the cutters?

  When they didn’t answer, Docent Bill said, “It’s really okay. Just tell me what you want and I’ll make sure you get it.”

  Brianna sighed and pulled back a mesh sleeve, revealing raw and old cuts, all in uniform rows.

  Bill clapped, his eyes suddenly bright. “Why didn’t you say so? Come this way and I’ll take you to Brother Paris.”

  They exchanged looks again. This time Brianna wore a smirk. Jenkies rolled her eyes. They both followed.

  “As you can see, since The Blinding there has been an influx of activity at the Grotto. It never used to be like this. I remember a time when we were virtually ignored.”

  Ignored wasn’t the term Jenkies would use for it. Scared would be a better term, after all the Black Bishop had always held the same sort of terror as the boogeyman.

  She noted the uniformity of the servers—what had he called them—postulants. Like the docent, they all wore black. But unlike the docent who wore black dress shoes, all the postulants wore white high-top sneakers.

  They passed one tent, then another, all filled with the hungry. Jenkies was beginning to appreciate her mother a lot more, especially seeing all those who couldn’t feed themselves.

  A tall man wearing a black cowl approached them.

  The docent stopped and bowed, “May the wind ever blow, brother.”

  As the man passed, Jenkies saw that his face was hidden behind what looked like an intricately carved umpire mask. So strange that not an inch of skin was visible.

  When he passed, Brianna asked, “What was that?”

  “I’m sure you mean who was that. That was a Monk of the Western Wind. They are the eyes and ears and the healing hands of the Black Bishop.”

  “Doesn’t he ever leave the Grotto?” Brianna asked.

  Jenkies shot her a look, but all the other girl did was shrug.

  “The Black Bishop stays in the Grotto,” the docent said firmly.

  “Like he’s been grounded or something,” Brianna muttered. “Mommy won’t let him leave.”

  Jenkies saw the docent’s face transform at the insulting words but he said nothing. They reached a road and joined a group walking towards the tall razor wire tipped walls of the Grotto. She’d seen it from afar and in pictures, but had never been close enough to truly appreciate the immenseness of it.

  A line of supplicants were waiting at the gates, checked one at a time by a pair of black robed monks.

  The docent diverted them to a space to the left of the gates on which another immense tent had been erected. Rock and roll music pumped from the eaves, causing more than a couple to leave the line to see what was going on.

  “There,” the docent pointed briskly. “You’ll find what you need there.”

  Brianna curtsied and beamed a false smile.

  When he was out of earshot, Jenkies whispered, “You didn’t have to be so rude.”

  “That old fraud?” She made a sour face. “Ever wonder why he really wanted to help two schoolgirls?” She rolled her eyes. “You know sometimes you’re the smartest girl on the planet and others you are as dense as limestone.”

  “I don’t think he’s that way,” Jenkies said.

  “They’re all that way.” Brianna shook her head, then turned towards the tent. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let’s get our cutting on.”

  No sooner had Jenkies offered her hand than Brianna snatched it, and jerked her into a jog. They reached the tent together, found seats in back and watched.

  A three piece band played on a raised stage, while a movie-star handsome young man in white high-top sneakers, white dress pants, white t-shirt and white suit vest held out his arm, eyes closed, getting down to the rock and roll beats of the music as his blood dripped to the floor.

  There were about a hundred seats and most of them were full. Jenkies recognized some of the girls and a boy from her school, but the rest were unknown to her. They weren’t all of a type either. Sure, about seventy-five-percent were dressed like Brianna and Jenkies, but the others could have been anyone.

  Attention Wal-Mart shoppers. Cutting in aisle two.

  Regular mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, all caught in the furious grip of cutting.

  Suddenly the music died.

  Everyone was still for a moment, then the man opened his eyes.

  Applause built and built until it drowned out every other sound.

  Brianna and Jenkies exchanged glances as they clapped politely.

  Brianna mouthed W-T-F.

  Jenkies shook her head and shrugged.

  They didn’t know what was going on, but they’d find out soon enough. The young man held both of his hands out for silence. When the crowd finally quieted, his face was lit up by an impossibly bright smile. It was the sort of smile Jenkies couldn’t defend against and she knew if he smiled at her that she’d smile back, despite her wishes.

  “All right, all right. Another good tune from The Flaming Tarantulas.” He turned to the drummer, “You guys are good.”

  The drummer gave him a rat-a-tat-tat.

  The young man beamed. “Did you listen to the words? It was a song of pain. It was a song of goodness. Too often we associate pain with something bad and you know whose fault it is?”

  He paused to see if anyone would answer.

  “I said, do you know whose fault it is?”

  People shook their heads. Several shouted out No! One shouted out Barak Obama. This got a few people chuckling, even the man on the stage.

  “No, it’s not Mr. President, but it is someone you know really well. It’s someone close to home.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s your mother.”

  An older woman sat back and said, “Hey,” clearly taken aback by his attack against motherhood.

  He grinned at her, but didn’t miss a beat. “Let’s do a check here. Raise your hand if your mother ever said, be careful or you’re going to get hurt.”

  Hands shot in the air. Jenkies and Brianna joined them. But the older woman didn’t.

  “Come on now. Let�
��s be honest. You do want to be honest to Brother Paris, don’t you? I’m not here to lie to you. I’m here to save you. So let’s try this again, did your mother ever say it to you?”

  She murmured something Jenkies couldn’t hear. But she now realized who this was—the Brother Paris that the docent had mentioned.

  “Well of course she did.” Paris chuckled. “So get your hands in the air with the rest of us.”

  Reluctantly, she lifted her hand.

  Paris laughed. “Okay, everyone can put them down now. My point is not to denigrate mothers. Not at all. I even had a mother, rest her soul. But it’s to point out that the fear of getting hurt is inculcated within us from the earliest of ages. It becomes part of our DNA. Some of you, and you know who you are, have already thrown off the bonds of that fear. But for the most part, modern culture is still enthralled by the idea that pain is bad.”

  Brother Paris paced from one end of the stage to the other, making eye contact where he could, encompassing everyone. Jenkies felt it. She felt a part of the conversation rather than a witness to it.

  “Pain is freedom. Pain is good. Pain gives you access to parts of your psyche which are locked down. Say it with me. Pain is freedom.”

  A scattering complied.

  He shook his head. “Come on, now. You can do better than that.” He strode to the center of the stage and held out both of his arms so that everyone could see the hundreds of cuts that created a roadmap to nowhere. “Pain is freedom.”

  More complied.

  “Again.”

  Even more said the words.

  Jenkies noticed that Brianna had joined the chorus.

  “Again.”

  “Pain is freedom,” came the resounding chant.

  “You begin life with pain, your mother screaming your way into the world. You end your life in pain, you screaming silently as your soul finds a path free from earthly constraints. Your life is marked by moments of pain. Pain is freedom.”

  “Pain is freedom,” they chanted.

  “The memory of that first broken bone.”

  “Pain is freedom.”

  “The first time your heart was broken.”

  “Pain is freedom.”

  “That time you crashed your bike or your car or your motorcycle.”

  “Pain is freedom.”

  Paris chuckled and nodded his head as he resumed pacing. “That’s right, my friends. Pain is freedom. The Monks of the Western Wind have been worshipping pain for nearly a century.” He nodded to an exclamation of surprise from the audience. “Yes, that’s right. The Harlots of the Desert Palms have been worshipping pain for almost as long. Under the thoughtful and considerable leadership of the Black Bishop, they have taken pain to a new level. They have transmogrified pain into high art. Those of you lucky enough to make it into the Grotto will see for yourself. I’d show you here, but they have taken holy vows to keep themselves hidden from unclean eyes. The exceptional ones among you might even be asked to join their orders.” He shrugged dramatically. “This is all I know about them. You see, I come from the Holy Court of Rook. He is my liege. Much like the Black Bishop rules this land, much like the Harlots of the Desert Palm and the Monks of the Western Wind serve as his spiritual ambassadors, I too am a spiritual ambassador of Rook. Unlike the followers of the Black Bishop, I’m not here to do unto myself pain, instead I am a deliverer of pain. I am a courtesan of agony. I’m here to shepherd those of you who wish to learn more about the freedom of pain, who wish to understand that the path to perfection and understanding travels through the portal only pure pain can create.”

  He paused for a breath, then said very softly, “Pain is freedom. Now who is with me?”

  Brianna’s had shot straight up as fast as a lightning bolt. Several others were equally eager to join him.

  Then in his best daytime game show voice, Brother Paris shouted, “Then those of you who want to cut, come on down!”

  Brianna bounced out of her chair and into the aisle. She’d gotten ten feet down, then ran back and grabbed Jenkies’ hand. She tried to resist, but an increasing number of eyes on her as Brianna struggled to pull her into the aisle caused her to accept her fate and let Brianna drag her forward.

  Jenkies kept her eyes down as she passed row after row of people. When she finally reached the stage, she glanced once at Brother Paris and couldn’t help but blush. He was even more handsome than she’d thought. Movie-star handsome. Impossible handsome. Someone who she couldn’t possibly look at. Even now, her face was burning and turning beet red.

  She was joined onstage by more than a dozen audience members. Most of them were like her, dressed in dark colors, young, angst-ridden. But there were several young men, one who even looked like a star athlete. Then there was the pair of grandmothers who seemed completely out of place, especially with their smiles and barely contained anticipation.

  Brother Paris in turn beamed at them as he clapped his hands. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  They both nodded, their wrinkled conviviality almost breathtaking.

  He lined them up next to each other then went to each of the volunteers in turn, placing them in a row with equidistance between each of them. Then he went to a toolbox, and brought out what looked like a pencil case. This he opened, and began passing out silver scalpels.

  He grinned to the audience. “I’d say be careful, you might cut yourself, but we just went over that.”

  They chuckled in return.

  Jenkies gripped her blade. There’d been a time when it would have thrilled her. Not being in front of everyone, that intimidated her beyond words, but the idea of that long moment stretched before her when she could anticipate the feel of the cold steel on her warm skin, followed by the warm rush of blood as the pain sizzled along the thin dark lovely line.

  She realized that Brother Paris had been talking. She struggled to return to the present.

  “…and together we will cut, in unison, as one. It is in this bloody communion that we will become something greater than we were before.”

  “Is everyone ready?”

  Everyone indicated they were ready except for Jenkies. She found she couldn’t move. Her eyes were on the tip of the scalpel and she wanted nothing to do with it. This whole scene, this circus of blood Mr. Handsome was creating seemed totally wrong.

  “Jenkies,” hissed Brianna. “Come on, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Is there a problem, miss…”

  All Jenkies could do was stare. She was frozen, locked. She wanted to say something. She wanted to explain how wrong this all was, but her mouth wouldn’t work.

  “Listen,” Brother Paris began, “If this is something you’re not ready for—”

  He wasn’t able to finish because Brianna jumped in. “Jenkies is hells yes ready. She’s a pro. Come on, Jenkies, what’s wrong?”

  Jenkies didn’t have the power to speak to Paris, but she found her turning her head towards Brianna. “I—I—”

  “Spit it out, sister,” someone nearby said impatiently.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Brianna rolled her eyes. Angry. Disgusted. “I can’t believe you.”

  Just then Paris put a hand on her shoulder and the connection was electric. She dropped the blade. By the time it clattered to the ground, she was sprinting down the aisle. She ran like the devil himself was on her trail, sparing a single glance behind her as she cleared the tent. Everyone’s eyes were on her as she fled the scene. Brianna’s face was a typhoon of anger and Jenkies knew she’d hear about it soon enough. When she turned around, she plowed right into the sternum of someone who was in her way.

  She stood, dizzy from the impact. Her face buzzed, as if it were bleeding. She brought her hand to her nose, but it came away free of blood.

  A man began to get up.

  “I’m sorry, mister.” She reached out and grabbed a black oval from where it had fallen from him into the grass. But as she glanced up she, felt a spike of fear pound through her. She’d
knocked down one of the Monks of the Western Wind. And in her hand she held his mask.

  A cry escaped her lips as she dropped the mask. She turned to run, feeling as if everything was now in slow motion. A knee came up as her foot hit the ground. She couldn’t get away fast enough. The image of the monk’s face—no nose, lip cut at the philtrum so it had four parts, peeled back, like a monster’s. The eyelids had been removed and the eyes had been tattooed blood red. Piercings dotted the face, including gauges in the cheeks, showing his teeth and gums on either side of his face. Scarification covered his—

  An incredible blow in the back sent her sprawling. Her face slammed into the ground. This time there was blood.

  She scrambled to her feet as best she could and spun. As she turned, she saw the monk make a gesture with his open hand and she flew back once more, slamming into the ground.

  What was going on?

  What was he doing?

  Oh my god?

  She started to get to her feet, but she didn’t have to. The monk moved his hand upwards and she went with it. First her legs straightened, then she was on her tiptoes, then she was a foot off the ground, gasping for air. Although he was twenty feet away from her and closing, it felt as if his fist was wrapped around her throat.

  Her eyes bulged as she scratched at her throat, trying to remove the invisible fingers.

  She watched as he placed the oval back over his face. He strode to within a foot of her, then made a throwing motion with his hand. She flew a dozen feet, landing on her back. The air left her to be replaced by pain.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, but it was long enough for the pain in her neck to subside; long enough for her tears to dry in the hot desert air; long enough to know that she was never coming back here ever again.

  She climbed to her feet, limping hard on her left leg.

  A docent and a postulant watched her leave, smiles of understanding on their faces, smiles of wanting, smiles of need.

  Chapter Twenty Three