365 Ways With Words

At a Concert at St Maurice's

Before the image of Christ crucified, some with heads bowed, we are gathered in happy devotion — to entertainment. A brethren of deliciously unmoved bodies, perhaps all unhampered by prior yields to the cross, brought to the music, as moths to a lit candle. The magnificent altarpiece, a glittering spectacle of baroque majesty, serves  as a mere ornate focal point. Each image, altar and reliquary, intense donations of public reverence and prior devotion, now carry such little weight and affect such little impact, that the venue has little more than a restaurant's ambiance, and certainly not the numinous might of eternal mystery.

Maybe it's the dust, or the mundanity of a concert venue, or the unfamiliarity with the symbolic value of religious currency inherent with such a building — one that has remained upright and been in daily use for one thousand years — for the connection is a weak magnetism, a holiday sigh or a tourist's snap. The habituation of loonies who crawl on their bellies in silent thanks is not the place for honest, gentle and normal folks.

But then something happens: such feelings as these do not spring from supermarkets, banks or sports halls. The unfashionable term 'sanctity' has a hollow ring about it when 20 yards away the beer is poured beneath screens of footy bollocks, but perhaps that is what emerges when an hour or more is spent sitting in contemplation of a baroque altarpiece. The artists may rest in peace, the builders know that their job was well done, for it turned out that the music alone was not enough. Cold buildings with unforgiving pews obviously attract for quite other reasons than mere entertainment and comfort.

We come, we gather, we sit in silent attention, until waves of encored Elgar energy flow around and through us. It is a mystery, a shared experience we take, like our coats, from now into the future: blessed be the devoted, the moths, the candle lighter, the ignorant and the perplexed, the snoozer and the shopping list maker, for theirs is the shared Kingdom of Man, forever and ever, Amen.

Jezi Brewer and the Death of Gods – part three

Mrs Ede, the immediate neighbour, hadn’t noticed anything unusual, hadn’t complained about the smell because she thought it was the drains, and was very sorry for not being very observant. She was an elderly 83-year old, barely able to make tea in the kitchen on account of not being able to get about the house much without relying on her frame. Suffering from a slight stoop, she sat in her upright chair, her eyes a little distant on account of the myopia.

“I only met the black gentleman once, about one month ago, when he was hanging out his washing and she happened to be sitting in the sun.”

“Did you get on well?” asked Detective Vince Rite, dunking a custard cream.

“I was surprised to have a new neighbour!” she responded. “I didn’t know who he was at first. It was his accent, you see, it was so very strong I couldn’t understood a word of it. But then I thought, he must be living there – why else would he be hanging out his smalls on the line. He smiled at me, but I noticed that he seemed quite preoccupied, like his mind was elsewhere.”

“You said, ‘new neighbour’ – quite how long ago was it when he moved in?”

“Well, that’s just it, you see. After Mrs Selman died, the place was empty for a year. And then he just turns up.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, I can’t really remember. A few weeks ago: maybe a month, maybe more.”

Her little grey head appeared to be the only animate part of her; her arthritic hands lay still in her lap. Detective Rite continued with his gentle questioning.

“Hmmm… And what about his friends? What sort of company did he keep?”

“I didn’t really see much of his comings and goings. No one came to the door as far as I’m concerned. But then I don’t really notice a lot now, on account of me not getting about. The meals on wheels lady comes to check up on me every day, and I mentioned it to her, but she didn’t know anything. She even went around to check the other day, you know – to say hello and ask him to look out for me, but there was nothing – not even an answer at the door. Poor man.”

“Was he a noisy neighbour?”

She shook her head. Detective Stiss sat staring at his tea. He knew this was now a waste of time.

“And you didn’t notice that anything had happened? That he’d died.”

“Oh no, the poor man, God rest his soul. I’d just thought he’d simply... gone away.”

And that was about it; they made their excuses, politely thanked her for the tea and biscuits and left her in peace.

They had little more success with the other neighbours, most of whom were unaware of his existence. Of those that had seen him, none had noticed him coming or going, or that anyone had come to the door, or leave. The neighbour opposite, a Mrs Furter, had seen lights on upstairs from time to time a few weeks back, but had assumed it was the daughter back from the Caribbean or some such where she lived. When the lights no longer came back on, she forgot all about it.

That immediately caught the interest of Vince. He put in a request to find out about the passport movements of the strange dead Haitian. In his mind he'd assumed the man had somehow come from Haiti, still suffering from the enormous earthquake of January 12^th, but perhaps he’d come from elsewhere, perhaps indirectly.

“What about that TV? Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?" said Jim. "Brand new flatscreen, and yet nothing else new: not the fridge or the washing machine or anything? And no phone! If he was squatting, then how could he get cable connection. And how did he pay for electricity and gas? What about food?”

The questions had no answers, but they had to start somewhere. Vince went back into the house, turned the TV on its front and copied down the serial number on the back.

Jezi Brewer and the Death of Gods – part two

Between them the detectives had been on the force for more than 30 years. In that time they had seen enough of life to sour them – stabbings, beatings, shootings and a whole lot of the nasty leftovers of ‘communication with force’. Jim had been around the longest, and had put in for  a transfer from serious crime when he and his wife Freda moved from the city centre to settle and enjoy village family life the other side of Bolton. Vinny was still single, not having had much luck with the faithless and downright deceptive. They had been paired up several times before and enjoyed a rapport that went beyond late-night kebabs and mixed farting.

The scene was unusual, that was for sure, and they had to take care that homicide or homicidal intention must be ruled out. But from the outset, it seemed there were few indicators that the dead man had been subjected to any trauma, other than that of his own making. It looked like he’d gone crazy, or at least vented his spleen on the dolls, ornaments, offerings and statues smashed before them. But then there was the anonymous phone call… Someone knew something.

Although there was nothing obviously unbroken, they decided to get everything photographed in situ, bagged as best as could be done, and the fragments taken back to the station. Quite apart from the truly awful smell, that seeped through their facemasks and permeated their clothing, there was little else to see in the strange bedroom. A careful wander through the rest of the house revealed only that the man had been sleeping messily in one room, where he appeared to live out of an old style suitcase. They bagged the contents, but were not hopeful of much: there was nothing out of the ordinary about the few modest shirts, underpants and other personal detritus clumsily stored within. But next to it was an old set of drawers – each of them empty. What was going on?

Apart from the sofa and flat screen television in the corner of the living room, the remainder of the house was practically bare: no pictures on the walls, no recently acquired possessions, and only the few possessions he appeared to have brought with him. From the small box of Daz beside the kitchen sink, it seemed he was washing his clothing by hand, despite there being a washing machine beside the sink.

It had been a particularly warm June, but only one window was opened, that of the small downstairs toilet. On close inspection, it displayed a single scuffmark left by the shoes of someone either clambering in – or out, not an easy task for the average man. In fact, it appeared far too small for the average human to use in this way. They deduced it had been used as a point of ingress, by whoever, or even whatever, had come in – the front door being easily used for departure.

They looked at each other. How did all of these scraps fit together? There didn’t appear to be any foul play, and yet someone knew of a body. And there didn’t appear to be anything of value stolen – quite apart from the only item of real value, the TV – which had been left untouched; thus, it was easy to deduce that the dead man was poor. And yet there was a break-in.

They went outside for some much needed early evening air and stood puffing beside a clump of delicious pink roses. A decomposing body had been discovered amidst a bizarre scene of violence against objects presumably in his own possession. The whole thing didn’t make sense. And then there was that problem anonymous phone call. They had a silent smoke together before tackling interviews with the neighbours.

Jezi Brewer and the Death of Gods – part one

It had been an anonymous tip-off: they hadn't wanted to give their name – even when reporting an apparently natural death. Quite how this information had been acquired would have to remain unknown for now, although these and many other curious details would later feature strongly in the report to the coroner.

Battering down the rear door of the semi-detached Manchester house was a simple enough task. It had not been bolted and so the mortise lock took a mere heavy shove. Once inside, there could be no doubt. It was the smell; terribly sickly, rank, overpowering. It remained on their attending officer's clothes until they went home and gave them a thoroughly good wash. But in addition, there had also been flies – thousands of them. What seemed like many hundreds were still buzzing angrily within each room.

He was found lying face-up on the floor of the rear bedroom: a probable heart attack, although it would of course be a little while before a proper determination by forensics. The gaseous swelling and putrefaction of the body had begun. Estimation of death was put at about ten days. The facial grimace, greasy swellings of the eyes and lips, and puffed fingers made for grim viewing indeed. From a utility bill it was determined that the name corresponded with that given by control; Mr Jezi Brewer. This seemed logical enough, there being no apparent foul play, but final identification of the dentures through dental records would give a final confirmation.

But although the finding of a body, any body, is of paramount interest in determining the circumstances surrounding the death, close observations made at the scene are also essential in order that an accurate picture of the last movements can be built up. In matters of crime these can be crucial factors, for an incorrect reading of a scene can result in miscarriages of justice and of question marks raised over the careers of the officers attending. Doing things 'by the book', therefore, is not just a cliché. But in this particular situation, and from the start, the scene appeared to make no sense. Once pictures and a few nearby telltale samples had been taken, and the body had been removed, the detectives detected – as best they could. For there was little to go on. The food in the fridge indicated Mr Brewer had been a frugal eater, apparently surviving on little more than cheap crackers, chicken meat and milk. There were no vegetables in the drawer, nor fruit in the bowl. Tests would reveal that the man was malnourished and suffering from vitamin deficiencies, particularly that of vitamin C. It was later deduced that the poor diet was an important aspect in determining the dead man's mental state.

Before the front door a small pile of post and assorted bumph had been scattered. The other rooms of the house – living room, downstairs bedroom, dining room, upstairs dormer bedrooms and bathroom – were in order, if a little messy, and had probably last been decorated in flowery Laura Ashley print more than twenty years previous, but there was nothing particularly untoward about this. Apart from the fact that Mr Brewer was a recent immigrant from Haiti. This did not seem to fit with the decor, of him being in a house of this kind or his strange diet.

What had been somewhat startling, that is, as soon as Mr Brewer's body had been discovered, was his presumed activity at the time of death. For on the carpet beside him lay a large carved calabash rattle, on the other side lay a metre-long section of 2X4 that had apparently broken in two, and before him in the otherwise empty room stood a large sideboard that appeared to be an altar complete with carved figurines, religious statuary, mirrors and assorted relics, although this 'altar' had been spectacularly vandalised, presumably with the 2X4 wielded by Jezi Brewer in the moments before his death. The remnants of these gods lay scattered about the room. In addition, Mr Brewer was found wearing what was described as a very colourful 'ethnic' suit that appeared to be religious in nature.

Because of the state of this room, the status of the deceased and the manner of his death being reported, the two attending senior officers on duty that day, Detectives Vince Rite and James Stiss, had been selected by the Chief Super to try to clear up what in hell's name had been going on. They stood, fists on hips, trying to take it all in.

The State of Things

The stranger sits quietly in the waiting room of the doctors. It is his first time. Fully in focus, he does not read the donated magazines, neither does he observe the people to his left and right. He merely waits.

Moving in good time to the beat, the smiling girl grooves like she has never grooved before. She is neither aware, nor unaware, of those all around her. She merely dances.

The black cat runs furiously around the house in a state of tail-high excitement. He jumps from sofa to tabletop. He lets his paws feel the textured surfaces, but does nothing to notice them. He merely scampers.

Within the window box the geranium grows slowly in a late spring cold snap. It is blown backwards and forwards with the wind, but responds most to the sunlight. It merely prepares to bloom.

The chattery starling sits on the rail observing people in the park. He is hungry, but watches the noisy lunchtimers eat their sandwiches and cakes without approaching or fleeing. He merely pays attention.

Depending on the time of day, the clouds part to reveal sun, moon or stars. Each one follows its trajectory across the firmament, neither deviating nor staying put. Each merely shines.

God sits in his heaven, a useful metaphor and the signature of alignment. Impossible and possible, being, but not acting according to our understandings, God neither descends nor ascends. God is God.

"Harmonizing opposites by going back to their source is the distinctive quality of the Zen attitude, the Middle Way: embracing contradictions, making a synthesis of them, achieving balance."        Taisen Deshimaru

Take My Word For It

“Rolling…”

The cameraman didn’t have to say it, but it felt official, as if the sound of his voice was important – an integral part of the day’s proceedings. His eye, completely covered by the rubber eyepiece, took in the rare scene: a militant atheist giving a sermon from a pulpit.

They had been given clearance at diocesan level to film part of The Magnum Opus in the church, the presenter (and writer) and director preferred to go straight to the bishop rather than risk refusal at parish level. As a consequence, they could pretty much go anywhere, film anything and stay as long as they liked. They had filmed segments on the roof, in the undercroft – even the organ loft. It had been a last-minute decision to also use the pulpit, instead of merely standing or sitting in the nave. It was, after all, such a beautiful piece of medieval stonework: stolid, but with a grace and lightness in the detailed panels, the shots of which had already been taken. The director had chosen a slow zoom that would draw the attention from the place to the man, from the setting to the message.

Brigham Dreyfuss began in his ponderous mid-Atlantic tone, taking on a somewhat mockingly sanctified air: “The effect, as we have seen, was that the unflinching belief in falsehoods –beliefs in things that could not be proven, beliefs in gods and spirits and saints and a whole host of fairy stories– had to eventually give way to the truth. And as we have also seen, the rise of enquiry, of empirical study and the Scientific method, and the surety that these things provided, suddenly made everything clear. The claims of religion were nothing more than superstition: insidious mumbo-jumbo that did little other than misdirect, to detract from reality – what was to be the hard-won reality of study, verification and acceptance. And this story is played out so very wonderfully, in the minds of men even today. The fact that places like these are no longer frequented, that they are usually empty, and on a Sunday morning, shows that religion is truly dead. The darkness of occluded thinking had to give way to the lightness of certainties that we call Science. There is victory in truth!”

“And… cut!”

The camerman didn’t have to say that either, especially as he was merely an operator, but someone had to tell the presenter that the take was done. The director would just let things run. His mind was full of hundreds of things, on a succession of multicoloured clipboards, but was strangely absent-minded at the beginning and ending of takes. It was as if these things were so obvious they did not require his attention – something for the technicians and cameramen and best boys and grips to worry about. Except the crew didn’t have any of those, except for the cameraman.

“How was that?” he asked from his lofty heights. “Again?”

Without taking his eye from the eyepiece the cameraman gave the thumbs-up. Next to him, the soundman checked through his headphones. He nodded. It was a wrap.

How he had enjoyed using the pulpit. He recognised that it had given him a secret tinge of delight. Standing before a receptive congregation, unable or unwilling to answer back, was not the same as delivering a lecture, or presenting a paper. Although both occasions warranted listeners, here in the house of God he felt he could dictate. Who, after all, would question the very words of God?

These thoughts irritated him and he sniffed before making his way back down the steps. The would-be celebrity atheist was very please with the way things were going. He was sure this would be a major piece of television, a confirmation of his high standing in the minds of colleagues, the producers, his students and even the blessed viewers. As a result of this, his first TV series, his popularity would bourgeon ensuring he was able to sell more books, DVDs, make appearances on talk shows and at conferences and book signings…

From the large oak vestry door came the blackened figure of the vicar. He held it open so that the runner could carry through a rattly tea tray complete with large brown ceramic teapot, some coffee, milk, a sugar bowl and nearly a dozen mismatched teacups and saucers. She approached the crew, but wasn’t sure where to place the tray.

The vicar saw her difficulty. “Here, Janice, on the front pew; as long as you’re careful.”

She then set-to, with milks and sugars and spoons, recalling the orders: in fairness, the crew slugged down their brew without giving it much thought. In the break they took to wandering through the Norman church like tourists. The director took a call that began with an overly theatrical “Darling!” and took it outside for privacy.

“Erm… Mr Dreyfuss, it was…?” She had only forgotten the main man’s order: how could she? A blush came to her cheeks.

“Dear me–” came the brief response and a frown, “it was no milk.” The celebrity went to pick up the teapot.

As he leaned forward, the vicar leaned in to stop him. “No-no, allow me. Please.”

The celebrity looked askance at the white haired vicar; mindful that they had gone over his head to secure today’s filming and that the matter upon which he had just waxed lyrical was probably an incendiary subject to a serving man of the cloth.

“Thank you!” The response felt forced.

“Tony.” He held out his hand.

“Professor Brigham Dreyfuss.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I was not a little interested in your sermon just now. I could hear it on the speaker in the vestry.”

The celebrity laughed. “I’d hardly call it that.” He slurped his black tea across some rather old and slightly malformed peg-like teeth. “What was it that interested you?”

“It was more its appropriateness than my interest, I suppose.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he gestured to the pew on the other side of the aisle, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

They sat together, although the proximity to an official representative of a recalcitrant force of unthinkers made him screw up his face a little – what rubbish was going to be proffered in defence of the old faith now?

“I’m afraid we have no biscuits. I’m afraid all the money, even for that sort of thing has gone on the roof.”

This useless apology added further irritation. “No matter. What was it you wanted to say, erm, Tony?”

He smiled. “This piece is for a new series, is that right?”

“Yes it is. The Magnum Opus. These are some of the final concluding remarks.” He smiled. “It’s all about how Science has overturned religion. The journey from darkness to light.”

“Hmm… How interesting. I look forward to seeing it.”

“You do? I’m afraid I haven’t got very good words to say about Christianity. We finished examining that particular faith in January. I think it’s already been edited.” He looked at the man in his funny black clothes again. “Was there something… in particular…?”

“Oh, yes. It was what you said, right at the beginning, if I’m not mistaken, about religion being unflinching faith?”

“Unflinching belief – in falsehoods. That’s right.”

“Ah. Quite so. I suppose it was the word, ‘unflinching’ that captured me.”

“How?” He didn’t really want to know, but felt it was the civil thing to ask, and apart from the vicar there was only young clueless Janice to speak to.

“Well, I don’t know how much you know about this church, but it is dedicated to St Thomas.”

“And what relevance does that have? In what I said, I mean.”

The vicar nodded and took a quick refresher. “Quite a lot, actually. You do know the story of St Thomas, I presume.”

“You might say I have an incomplete knowledge, but I have the feeling you are about to tell me.”

“Quite so. You see, in the biblical narrative, Thomas was the only disciple not to have seen Jesus after the resurrection. The others were quite insistent that they had seen him alive and well, but Thomas was not convinced. He infamously said that unless he could put his finger in the nail marks of his hands, and his hand in the spear wound of his side, then he would not believe. That is, of course, how we have arrived at our term, a Doubting Thomas. A full week later he was again with them and then Jesus appeared, even though the door was locked, and says “Peace be with you!” He then told poor Thomas to put his fingers in the hole in his hands, and to place his hand in the spear wound. Thomas’s only response was, “My Lord and My God!” to which Jesus said that it was easy to see him and to believe, but more blessed still would be those that could not see and yet still believed.”

He paused. The two men looked at each other. The vicar was used to silence. He encountered it every morning in his regular morning devotional in the old empty inner city church.

But the silence felt awkward for the Cambridge professor. Feigning a little obtuseness, he grimaced again, before letting out a small laugh. “It’s a pretty story: very moving, but exactly in what form is it relevant to my earlier words?” It was beginning to feel like a late afternoon tutorial with a particularly dim-witted student.

“Yes, it is a lovely story. It’s so lovely that years ago we were donated a lovely copy of the Caravaggio painting of The Incredulity of Saint Thomas– there, behind you.” The atheist turned around to see, indeed, the painting that he had not noticed at any time that day. “As I said, it is a copy, of course. Victorian, I believe.”

The professor was about to make his excuses, but paused, probably out of bare respect.

“So, to the story: it has relevance to your remarks. A great deal. You see Thomas was ‘a doubter’. Here you have to remember the scene where he is essentially refuting the words of the others, his trusted companions. They are maintaining that Jesus has just risen from the grave. But this thing is impossible! Dead people don’t get up and introduce themselves, do they? So he utters his memorable words, “Unless I see the nail marks,” etc, etc. What he’s really looking for, you understand, is undeniable proof. He will not believe what is clearly impossible unless he sees it with his eyes and feels it with his hands. In that way alone is the thing irrefutable.”

“I see. So you’re trying to tell me that there’s some sort of relevance in this Christian story of seeking verification of the miraculous? But the story itself is unverifiable – it could be a simple fabrication made centuries later.”

“Really, that’s not the point. The point is in the meaning: for the individual, believer or not. I think, perhaps, that you have been spending an awful lot of time and energy looking for external verification, or even validation, without considering the implication. The certainties I imagine you have examined all of your life have been the certainties beyond the vagaries of the self. I imagine they have been rather existential certainties – beyond doubt.”

“The only truth is empirical truth. It must be verifiable. That goes, whether I believe in it or not. My belief is irrelevant.”

“Yes, you are right. And as far as the story is concerned, that moment came with Thomas’s meeting with the disciples. He refused to believe outlandish claims; even about the man they loved and dearly wished to be alive. He wanted proof. He demanded it. But the important point was not so much that he saw it. It was that he touched it. In all of the narrative, he is the only person to have touched the transcendent Christ – the most important person, the most important thing in the universe in all time. And from all the humans that have ever lived, only one unworthy and unbelieving person was considered the right person to touch Jesus after his resurrection. An unbeliever.”

“But I simply do not believe this! None of it! I don’t believe there was a Jesus, that he lived and died, as it is maintained, or that he arose from the grave… any of it! It’s just not possible. Unbelievable!” He was about to go on, but realised this was going to be a useless charge. “Look, this is all very interest…”

“You are right! It’s just not possible.” The vicar reply silenced him. “But, again, this story is all about the meaning, not about who sat where around the table. If you remember, the last words Jesus said on the matter where that those who did not see and still believed were blessed. I don’t think this was about blind faith – ‘unflinching’ belief, as you said. No, this particular thing takes a great deal of effort. To simply accept something because someone else says it is so is actually quite easy. That is unflinching. That is blind. History is littered with the corpses of those who gave their lives for ideas that were not their own, but about which they had unflinching belief. To believe something, without relying on anyone else to say it is so, is hard. I’m also not referring to delusional belief. That’s actually quite easy, too. I could introduce you to a one or two parishioners who foster beliefs of the most delusional kind. No, to believe without proof, without delusion, without external verification of any sort, is hard. There's a lot of doubt involved. In fact, it may be more doubt than belief. But that is why it is blessed. It’s hard, and it is an isolated and lonely belief; like the empty pews of this church.”

“I’m sorry. This is clearly absurd. Thank you for the tea, vicar.” And with that the professor walked swiftly to the back of the church without turning around and left through the smaller west door into the street. His series was successful, his books sold, his lecture tours were written up in newspaper columns – he even received an honorary degree conferred by an Australian university.

Shame On You

                                        For choosing intolerance over love

                                        For cherishing law over spirit

                                        For loving hate

                                        For protesting clinics but paying for bombs with taxes

                                        For demanding change in others before changing yourself

                                        For confusing culture with creed

                                        For misunderstanding the point of myth

                                        For limiting the pursuit of discovery

                                        For stripping the life of all but respectability and cash

                                        For seeking costly argument where concessions are free

                                        For hardening the heart and closing the ear

                                        For claiming to speak for one who needs not your voice

I Believe in Bell Ringing

                                        I believe in bell ringing

                                        The freedom of inspiration

                                        Through the call to understand

                                        Cast resonance of bronze

                                        Across free fields and forests

                                        Over townscape and sunning seashore

                                        Reminder of mysteries within

                                        Without, with all

                                        Worlds beyond words    

 

                                        In the trust of a child's voice

                                        On the long path of evolution

                                        The songs of birds animating faith

                                        Behind the power of waves

                                        On the track of nervous humanity

                                        Strength of force unstoppable

                                        Stopped, started

                                        Meaning beyond actions

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 4

The cold light of day –la fría luz del día– slammed into the small house, through the security bars and dusty windows and settled on the crumpled form of Señior Colibrí. His night sweats made him steam slightly in the sunbeams as one snore after another rose and fell in sonorous ocean waves.

Within his dehydrated awakening mind there appeared visions of loveliness: money poured into his hands from the skies like so much hard rain. He was in a dilemma: as a barrenderos, a road sweeper of Mexico City, his job was to sweep it up and put it into his steel drum on his cart, but he also wanted to pick it up with his hands to fill his empty pockets. He decided on the latter course until his pockets could take no more and the seams began to break. The bulging weight of so many pesos hung onto his shoulders and he began to sink into the street. He called for help, but no one would listen – they were too busy stooping down to collect their own treasures. He was up to his knees and sinking fast. By the time his hips were under he faced the decision of soon going under or of lightening the load, of dying rich or of shedding his newly-acquired wealth. But as he put his hands into his pockets the weight upon him overtook his volition and he sank quicker and deeper. He could no longer hold his head above the pavement slabs and took a deep breath ready to go under...

His dreaming shuddered to a halt. Before he opened his eyes he was aware of being watched. His arm was dead, and the heat of the winter sunlight was beginning to warm him, so he shifted to remove his blanket and allow the blood to trickle down his aching arm. As he prised his lids open the blinding sun pierced his skull. Before him the curtain-free window received the brightness in full force. Beneath it stood the make-shift altar table, but a visible trail of light smoke arose into the stuffy atmosphere of the room. His nose took in strong resinous copal incense hanging in the air and instantly knew this was a religious odour – the stench of the gods.

He looked around to see the two figures of Carlos and Maria standing in the kitchen observing him. They made an unlikely couple of male and female, big and short, fat and thin, light and dark.

"Señior Colibrí! You join the living." he joked. "I hope you slept well. Will coffee be acceptable? It's Nescafé, I'm afraid."

After finding the latrine he came back inside to see a little china cup and saucer on the kitchen table before an empty chair. He sat and took in the hot syrupy bitterness of the sugared instant brew. He was instantly revived. "I hope I was not too much bother for you. You are so kind."

Carlos gave a quick smile. "I only hope, Señior, that you were comfortable."

"Oh yes, thank you. I slept soundly. That aguardiente made sure of that." He was a little uncomfortable that they were still standing. Why didn't they sit with him? It was as if the situation had changed and they were suddenly more formal.

"Ah yes," Carlos wistfully replied, "that was good. Señior, how much of last night do you recall?"

He looked at the man. What was he trying to imply? He quickly racked his memory. "I... don't, really. We had an excellent meal cooked by your wife's fair hand, but I don't remember much else. Did I... do anything..?"

"Oh, no, Señior, it's nothing like that. I wondered if you recalled what was said."

"Carlos, if I said anything to embarrass myself, or you, I am truly sorry..."

"No, Señior. It was I that said something. My wife reminded me of it this morning."

He looked back blankly and put his coffee cup back in its saucer.

"I will remind you. I said that you were to see God this day." Carlos was stern. There was not a hint of humour or light-heartedness about him.

"Carlos, we say a great many things when we are drunk." he drank another mouthful of the reviving coffee.

"Maybe, but I said what I said." He looked across at him. "And I mean to do this. The gods are my witness." He pointed to the altar table under the window.

He looked back at Carlos with disbelief. All his life he had tried to be a good Catholic, attending mass nearly every week. He had admired those who enjoyed the favours of the clergy through donations and faithful adherence to doctrine, but he was a steadfast attender – as steadfast as work and life would allow. But right now he was unsure just what it was Carlos was saying, although he was certainly not talking about the church and the gods weren't anything to do with the God of Christianity. A shiver of understanding crossed his mind: if Carlos was to be understood, he was to meet God alright, but it would not be gentle Jesus or his blessed Mother.

"Señior, I meant what I said."

"Carlos, I am a good Catholic..."

"It does not matter. Your beliefs are unimportant."

"How can you say that? Are you an unbeliever?" He knew it was more than mere atheism.

"Of course not. I have very strong beliefs in God. I have beliefs that are based on experience, the deep religious experience of the witness and the devotee."

They stood where they were watching him, but their appearance began to waver. It was a strange sensation – that they were there, but also moving. When he returned to his coffee he was aware of a sickness in his stomach which he at first attributed to the after-effects of an evening's boozing, but now realised was  much stronger than that: stronger and increasing by the minute, by the second.

"When I put my mind to something I see it through, Señior. It is God's will I have the strength."

The nausea grew into a swimmy sensation and deadening of the limbs. He found it hard to lift his hand to his head and rub his brow. Within a minute he was aware of hands beneath his armpits and of the sensation of being lifted from his chair and taken outside into the warm winter sunlight. He stumbled as he was walked up the road until it ended: he knew not how long it took. Within what seemed like minutes he was being helped along a path through banana trees and little plots of acquired land cleared from the sub-tropical forest. The path narrowed and climbed between the trees until it leveled onto a flat clearing beside a cliff face covered in cascading ferns and vines. He looked up to a round circle of blue sky as birds twittered and fled. The path ended at an ugly, impressive boulder that at some time in the past had fallen from the cliff face. As they staggered behind it a wide passageway in the rock opened into a cavern. Rocks from the roof littered either side of the smooth, well-trodden path that led down into the darkness of a subterranean chamber hewn by a river now long-since dried. The daylight had all-but disappeared when to their eyes a gloomy flickering firelight glow grew on the inky walls of the cave. Around a corner they were confronted by a scene difficult to take in. There was a damp, rotten smell in the air, as if something had died. Two smokey altar fires either side of an impressive carved figure of an Aztec deity, illuminated his emotionless face painted a terrifying blue and yellow stripes. Upon his chest was a shell pendant and upon his youthful head was pushed back the helmet of the hummingbird complete with carved feathers that rose into the empty darkness. His covering was a cape of skulls and bones and where his left foot should be was the serpent, mouth open and ready to strike. In his left hand were weapons; a spear thrower and impressive sacrificial knife, and his right carried a large embellished shield. Before him lay what appeared to be a empty small stone table.

"Señior Colibrí, here is Huitzilopochtli!" Carlos announced this, his voice commanding and strong. "This is the carved statue of the Aztecs, once in the great temple. I told you it was destroyed by the conquistadors, like Gil González de Benavides, but that was not true. Tlatolatl, the devout servant of the gods, arranged for it to be removed here where it has been for nearly 500 years. There are few that know of it, still less that worship here. You, Señior with the great name, are fortunate indeed to see this wonder."

He looked up at the imposing statue – a dream, a nightmare, a vision of the hell of the un-Christian past. What ran through his clouded mind was the question of why – why had he been brought here? He found himself on his knees, his hosts on either side. He sense a commotion behind him as more people arrived.

There was a hush, as from amongst them a man dressed from head-to-foot in a long white robe and white head dress. He turned to the people and raising his hands intoned hallowed words of the Aztecs. He continued in Spanish:

"Huitzilopochtli, god of war, god of the sun, god of the precious gifts of life and of the great city of Tenochtitlan, we come to you in respectful obeisance. We bring with us a gift, one who has been touched by your hand, one who has been blessed by your hand and your name."

He came over to the awaiting trio and lifted the face of the inebriated barrendero. There was a moment of recognition – they had seen each other before: astonished, he recognised him as his boss. His boss's face broke no smile. "Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, you are fortunate this day to see God."

He was lifted towards the shadowy immensity of the statue of Huitzilopochtli and his jacket and shirt removed. He was made to lie down upon the cold table as his hands and feet were held by Carlos and his Maria. From within his clothing the priest retrieved a wide-bladed black serrated stone knife, its obsidian facets reflected the orange firelight. He stood before the helpless, splayed man and intoned the final words, "May the pure blood of this honoured sacrifice banish the darkness within which we are forcibly held and may the midday sun of re-conquest rise and recover the land of Tenochtitlan and beyond." With that he lifted the blade and forcefully plunged the pointed tip into the exposed abdomen of the victim. He made a short scream before the priest plunged the blade again across the chest to expose the heart. With two movements he worked the heart free and held it aloft to the god and to the assembled crowd. There was a murmur of approval.

Carlos and Maria then took the body to one side as others came closer. The rest of his clothes were removed. The priest and Carlos then began the dis-assembly of the body, separating the head and arms, the internal organs and the long flesh of the legs. Each of the assembled crowd of worshippers then came forward to receive the body parts allocated for consumption. They received their little portions wrapped in paper and placed in plastic bags with smiling thanks, turned and left. The priest, taking off his blooded robes, turned to Carlos. He received the money retrieved from his guest's pocket as payment.

On their way back the trail of worshippers talked contentedly. At their rear came Carlos and Maria carrying a Walmart plastic bag with the clothes of Señior Colibrí that they had recently gone through. Within the coat pocket was the letter from the bank that told of instant closure of his account. When he read it he discussed the way in which he'd miraculously been able to withdraw the necessary money for the sacrifice only two days before, after enjoying the aramanth from the previous sacrifice. He added, "It appears God gives and takes. Blessed be the name of God."

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H

The Barrenderos Amaranthine Bank Account – part 3

They walked up the road called Alcatraz in the tricky gloom of city darkness – the street lights were out. Nearing Christmas, they passed tacky illuminations of trees, santas, baby Jesus and nativities. In front of them the wooded hillsides loomed as black shadows, ominous vacuums of light.  Even the insects were quiet. Nearby dogs barked as they passed a garage with a hastilly-constructed palatte wood door. Above it a hung a large Mexican flag, barely visible.

"Did you know, Señior Colibrí, that the flag is wrong? Actually, let me correct myself, the flag is right but our interpretation is wrong."

"What do you mean? The eagle is victorious over the snake: good is victorious over evil."

"Yes, that's what most people belive, but it's wrong. You see, the eagle is not an eagle. It is a crested caracara – a falcon, not an eagle. A beautiful bird. It's clutching the rattlesnake, but that's also wrong. It's Coatlicue, mother of the serpents. Actually, her real name is Cihuacoatl and she created everything by crushing the bones of previous world and mixing it with the blood of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent hero. The caracara bird is holding the mother goddess."

"So the eagle is not killing the snake?"

"It's confusing at first, but the caracara and the serpent are together united."

"Wow! How do you know so much?"

"It's an interest of mine. Once you find out one thing, you find out other things. Pretty soon you change you mind altogether."

"You said the snake was the serpent mother. What about the eagle?"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked, my good friend Colibrí. The caracara is the son of Cihoatcoatl, Huitzilopochtli. He is the sun, he is power. You know the story – after he had fought against Copil and killed him, he threw his heart into lake Texcoco. When Huitzilopochtli ordered the Aztecs to build a city over his heart he said the sign for the right place would be the caracara perched on the cactus."

"Oh yes, I remember that from school, about the flag: Mexico City is built there."

"Exactly so. The story is the foundation of Mexica – our city and our life."

"So, the eagle and serpent are two gods and they are... linked?"

"You are right again. Huitzilopochtli is the key. As the caracara he is the important one. The Aztec ancestors knew him and feared him. Back then they made a magnificent statue – so powerful it was always hidden behind a curtain, so formidable the Spanish conquerors destroyed it."

"Wow! You really know your Aztecs. I knew it was important, who we are, but I didn't know any of this."

They walked on, their feet tired, as they passed an intersection where soil had collected. If they could have seen beneath them, they would have noticed round dust clouds rising, swirling in little vortexes as their steps moved on.

"My house is not much further." he said as word of encouragement. "You must stay tonight. We are not at work tomorrow, are we?"

They came to the end of the road at the junction of 5 de Mayo and within ten steps were at Carlos's house. By the striplight inside, the busy figure of his wife could be seen in the steamy kitchen cooking on the stove. From the TV, too loud in the main room, could be heard the dastardly pronunciations of the soap star Enrique Rocha in Corazón salvaje. The squeak and slam of the gate announced their presence to the dog and the dog's frenetic barking announced the visitors to the occupant. The fly-screen door opened to allow the two weary workers to enter.

"Allow me to introduce Maria. Maria, this is my friend and colleague Señior Colibrí." They shook hands formally, the dark stinned petite woman with the broad mouth said little beyond the expected 'hello'. Carlos gave instructions for one more serving and that this guest would be staying for that night.

Over dinner of corn, beans and meat tortillas the two men talked of work, of their infuriation with the current situation and how bad things are getting on the streets. Carlos had a bottle of habanero, a spirit aguardiente brew made by Maria's clan in Chiapas that they called pox. They both knew enough English to laugh that drinking pox would leave them both with a dose of sífilis. They moved on to Caldéron, whom they loathed, the problems with labour shortage and decreasing salaries and longed for the day when all Mexicans were free and prosperous – all fine sentiments under the increasing influence of the rough spirit.

Moving onto the battered sofa that would later suffice for a bed, they continued their talking. Carlos opened a further bottle of pox and they toasted the revolutonary Francisco Madero, Emiliano Zapata and Subcomandante Marcos and concluded with a hearty "Viva los Zapatistas!"

Carlos looked over: would he like to see the gods of the Lacandon, the tribe of his wife? He stood up and staggered towards the window where a small table sat. He had not noticed this before – upon it rested a conch shell, a rattle and a drum and a collection of other smaller objects. In the midst of all of these sat a large and rather crude pottery human figure with a human face.

"This" he started with theatrical overtones, "is a god pot. But..." he continued, picking it up, "it's not a god. It's just a human – like you and me. Look, here's his face. His little face."

He laughed. "What is it for?"

"The Lacandon people send their prayers up with it." He pretended to whisper so that his wife would not hear his words, "Very primitive people. Cannibals, I tell you." He looked around to notice his wife was busy in the kitchen with something and not really listening at all. "Cannibals!" he shouted louder. She stopped and turned her head, then went back to whatever she was doing. "Tomorrow, Señior, I will show you something that is really magnificent. I will show you something that will make you wonder if we are real Mexicans, you and I; if we are the downtrodden masses, or if we are the ones who will one day have the power." He clumsily put down the clay pot and pointed to his dinner guest barely able to keep his eyes open. "You – you, Señior Colibrí, Señior Hummingbird, will see God. I, myself, will take you to see him."

In the kitchen his wife turned to see the man, his hand outstretched, pointing at the slouched figure as if power was flowing through his fingertips. Fear took hold of her face and she crossed herself and shouted the word, "Hesuklistos!"