The Alternative

by Richard Dante

A small crowd had gathered to gawk. They stood silently like so many elegant, porcelain dolls; aloof and untouched by the drama they were witnessing. It all came to an abrupt end as liveried footmen roughly removed the body. The colorful party lost interest and returned to the house.

  Their hostess took the distraught Sharon under her wing, and clucking like some majestic hen, she tried to soothe the woman’s sobs, as she led Sharon back to the house.

  Kirk remained behind, stunned by what he’d done. He stared at the hand that had delivered the death blow, his mind trying to sort out a reason for having committed such a violent act. Certainly he’d been angry at his wife’s actions, but not angry enough to commit murder. And Sharon’s strange behavior. What could have prompted her to allow a stranger to take such liberties.

  Yet, what shocked him most was the indifference displayed by their hostess and her guests. A man had been killed, yet, the affair was passed over as if it had been the mere squashing of a bug. For all intents and purposed, these grand personages had merely taken a breath of fresh air and then returned to their games as if nothing had happened. But then, perhaps they were just shadows, images in this remarkable masquerade.

  Only the Shipley sand several others seemed disturbed by the tragedy. The Senator and his wife took charge of the dazed Kirk while Sharon was led away to the hostess’ sumptuous boudoir. She was given a tranquilizing liquid and made to lie on a gigantic, silk-sheeted bed.

  Mrs. Samantha Jackson, mother of the black undersecretary, costumed to represent a rather diminutive Mammy, straight out of a screening of GONE WITH THE WIND, volunteered to tend to Sharon. She mended the torn gown and watched over Sharon, who dozed as the magic elixir soothed away some of the horror of the scene in the garden. Soon Sharon found the unpleasantness was driven from her mind, leaving only the souvenir of a long ago dream. She was comforted by the presence of the warmhearted black woman who helped her dress and escorted her back to the gaiety below.

  Sharon thanked the woman as they descended the grand staircase together. They parted at the foot of the steps as the older woman went off in search of her son.

  Sharon found Kirk and the Shipleys waiting for her in the great entry hall. When her husband tried to embrace her, she gave him her hand. She avoided looking at him, but felt no shame, only a strange sense of loss. She was empty of any feeling for the man who guided her gently back in the direction of the ballroom.

  Once inside the great room, they could see that the splendid, swirling grand soiree was still in full swing. And as if they had no choice in the matter, they too were caught up in the maelstrom; their troubles forgotten for the moment.

  Shortly before midnight, the robust hostess announced she had a marvelous idea! Why not all join together and do the amusing old dance they did back when she was a debutante? La Conga!

  She signaled to the orchestra. The conductor, a boney, sour faced old character who looked surprisingly like Joseph Haydyn, tapped an impatient tattoo on the podium with a long baton. The orchestra raggedly stopped playing their band arrangement of as the leader announced.

  “La Conga!”

  The members of the orchestra, stiff from long hours sitting, were delighted for a chance to get up and stretch their legs. They straightened their powdered wigs and picked up their instruments. The hostess motioned again for them to start playing and they stepped down from their gilt balcony to join the large crowd on the dance floor. The glittering throng made room for the musicians to form a line. The leader, smiling for the first time that evening, counted them down into the start of the infection Conga rhythm.

  They started to move in line around the room: “One-two-three, La Conga! One-two-three, La Conga!”

  The hostess latched onto the snare drummer who brought up the rear. One-two-three, La Conga! Her ample, velvet-covered rump shook like tomato aspic as she demonstrated the simple steps.

  “Come on!” she bellowed gleefully. “It’s fun!”

  The younger guests finally got the idea and the whole room started to vibrate to the intoxicating music.

  “One-two-three, La Conga.

  The hundreds of guests formed an enormous snake that filled the room, growing in length as it moved. Coiling and slithering until the band, like the Pied Piper of old, led the long Conga line toward the French doors and out into the night.

  The leader started off into the direction of the gardens. One-two-three, La Conga.

  They loved it! The musicians led the way through the hedge maze without a hitch and around a miniature lake where sleeping swans pulled their heads drowsily from under wings to stare pop-eyed at the strange spectacle.

  Down another path and through the rose gardens and on and on. The crowd was hypnotized by the exciting new game. One-two-three, La Conga! They began to feel they could go on forever, driven by the pulsating beat of La Conga.

  At length they passed into a small wooded area where there was practically no light; each held a little tighter to the dancer in front. But the path was smooth and level so they passed through the woods and once again danced out into the open. The countryside was now enveloped in heavy gloom. The moon, which had served to light their way, was now hidden behind a passing cloud. Up ahead, barely visible in the dark, was an enormous jumbled mass.

  “Careful now,” someone called back. They were dancing along a very narrow precipitous pass. Below could be heard the sound of ocean surf crashing against the rocks. The white foam glowed with a weird iridescence as it reached upward.

  At precisely that moment, the passing cloud unveiled the moon so its light spread out once again over the vast estate. Before them, the shape could now be identified as a tremendous church building on the cliff above the sea. It was built in the French gothic style of Notre Dame. The sides were pierced with tall, stained glass windows. Flying buttresses supported the walls, sprouting from it like the legs of some great misshapen, crouching spider. The revelers marveled at this new wonder.

  An explanation for the structure came back quickly by word passed along the line. Their hostess late husband was a collector of architecture. The church had originally been shelled during World War II, and her husband had paid the diocese handsomely to take the ruin off their hands. The bishopric wanted to build a more modern structure on the same site and was glad to have the eccentric billionaire gather up the pieces and ship them off to America for restoration.

  As they approached, the merry makers could hear a monster pipe organ breathing it’s deep tones through the great stone portals. The more devout among them paused at the doorway, but the musicians and their hostess marched right in. The band stopped playing and the dancers ceased their undulating as they stepped somewhat hesitantly into the cavernous, high vaulted nave.

  There was little illumination except at the far end, in the immense choir area. There, a pool of flickering candle light revealed a fabulous display. At the elaborate alter, a high mass seemed to be in progress. The participants were garbed in the opulent robes of cardinals, bishops and high clergy. But as the party moved closer, they could see in place of the rich red, white and gold raiment usually worn by such exalted gentlemen, these wore black, white and silver. The vessels, censers and candelabras were also cast in silver. In fact the lighting gave the impression they were watching an old black and white movie. The depth of three dimensions was still there, yet there was no color. During the ritual, the clergy turned toward them and their faces reflected a strange sickly whiteness.

  The congregation of partygoers remained silent for several long minutes. then someone in the far back snickered, another took it up and in a few moments, they were all laughing uproariously. For in the reverent ceremony, the litany was being chanted in pig-latin What a rare joke, they thought. The iron was too hilarious.

  “Ixnay onyay ethay igpay atinlay!” Someone called out over the laughter.

  The prelates continued their ritual, ignoring the unseemly la
ugher and remarks.

  On an unseen signal the band struck up again and away they went.

  “ It’s not much farther now, my dears,” panted the hostess as they congaed- along the north transept of the cathedral. Just before they reached the north portal of the granite edifice, the orchestra made a sharp left turn and began to descend a flight of stone steps. Some of the crowd giggled because the stairs made it difficult to move in tempo.

  In the tower far above them a great bell began to toll midnight. They continued their way down, laughing and stumbling against one another.

  As the twelfth beat of the tolling bell faded away, they came upon a vast stone chamber. The room was well lit by flaming braziers on the walls-- walls which looked damp to the touch. There was a deep coolness about the room and the moldy odor of great age.

  At the far end rested a low wooden dais on which had been placed a richly decorated leather chair. Radiating in rows from the dais were several dozen wooden chairs. A table of wood with a small bench was positioned in an open space below the dais. On it were ancient writing materials: quill pens, ink and parchment.

  The revelers fell silent, awed by the room and the strange, slightly ominous atmosphere that filled it. Perhaps it was because they realized this great stone room was below ground...like the dungeons of the middle ages.

  When the last of the assemblage had descended into the chamber, a tall slim figure clad in a dark cassock entered through one of the gothic arches to the left. His head was hooded and there was only the suggestion of a gaunt face deep in the heavy cowl. The robe was of simple design, similar to those worn by friers and monks during the middle ages. the material had the look of soft wool in a rich, dark brown fabric,

  The garment brushed the stone floor as the man moved toward them. There was only a whisper of sound. He went directly to their hostess and extended a slim pale hand. the grand dame executed an elaborate curtsey and devoutly kissed a large amethyst ring adorning the hand.

  “Good morrow, my Lord Inquisitor.” said the dowager obsequiously. She was still garbed as Queen Catherine de Medicis.

  “And my blessing on you, you Majesty,” came the deep voiced reply. It seemed to reverberate and fill every corner of the great chamber.

  Their hostess turned to face the silent party and announced,

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let me present our guest of honor, His reverence, The Grand Inquisitor. We are indeed fortunate to have him with us this morning. He’s here on a very special mission which I’m sure he can describe better than I.”

  “Ah, I am the one honored to be in such illustrious company,” he responded. “I believe I see Alexander the Great, and there is the Emperor of France,” he added, gesturing toward a rather short round gentlemen with one hand stuck in the jacket of his elegant empire uniform.’

  Some of the party smiled, for he had indicated a man who certainly resembled Darryl Parsons, the Chief of the FBI. The detective chief frowned at being singled out and withdrew his hand from the jacket.

  “And Herr Adolf...what a pleasant surprise,” continued the Inquisitor. “You may not believe this my friends, but this mustachioed gentlemen and I have much in common, despite our differences of motive”.

  “So many familiar faces.” The crowd opened before him as he pointed out Sir Winston Churchill, Erasmus, Queen Victoria, Gengis Kahn, Disraeli, Ramses II. Finally he stopped when his eyes fell on Kirk Miller.

  “And of course St.Thomas Aquinas!” laughed the figure in brown. The Inquisitor directed their attention to the young physicist. Most of them had met Dr miller at one reception or another. Few could claim they knew him personally, but all were struck by the unique presence he carried with him.

  The Inquisitor had compared the scientist to the studious St. Thomas, and though Kirk Miller wasn’t in costume, they were held by the saintly glow of the young physicist’s face in repose. Lit from behind by the flickering braziers, his head was surrounded by a halo-like glow. For a moment. their attention was captured by this ethereal image The the object of their concentration coughed nervously and cleared his throat. The spell was broken.

  SIX