They Without God’s Print
Originally published in Heraldo Filipino Volume 38, Double Issue
In a distant desert above the Middle Seas stood a godly town bounded by giant walls. It braved the sands alone; to anywhere the eyes would wander atop the village walls, only the horizon would reveal itself. Holding together in stark contrast just the scorched sands and the cold blue sky, the thought of escape dare not come from the sight of it. But it’s not as though its town folks would mean to. Escape, to them, could only mean a half day’s worth of solitude in the inner, fencing forest just inside the walls. The forest ran three miles towards the center of town and still barely occupied a fourth of the place. Thus, a journey beyond their haven would neither be meaningful nor faithful, for they have already found God inside the walls. Theirs is the kingdom of the Divine which they proudly named Makhatu.
Between the cobblestone streets and the ancient trees that lurked within, the People of Makhatu are enshrouded in the symphony of tranquil gatherings and lives of continued reflection. They believe themselves complete; whole, and without desire for anything the town does not offer. They carry the print of God in their bodies as a badge of their entirety sworn to Him—except for the young who are yet to receive that totality. Nonetheless, they all live profound and peaceable lives under the stewardship of their Church whose Highest Priest presides over the riveting tradition of this town.
Every decade, when a new High Priest rises to the call of God, he is joined by the qualified young who customarily become one of the People after they rise to a similar calling. It was a baptism of sorts; the young are asked to profess their faith and in return, they shall be bestowed with the mark of His Mercy. This tradition has fared the dunes for centuries and is ever as before celebrated by the People. With a gong! they blend its echo with resounding applause as a tribute to the time God first blessed this town with His revelation. In truth, the People attested that it was also the time when God built and offered them this village, so it is unsurprising to find that throughout their lives, they devote themselves unconditionally to Him.
Today, the enormous bells ring once more.
Standing amid the scattered crowd in the vast plaza at the center of town, a little girl glued her eyes ablaze the sway of the clanging bronze that roared a tremble back to earth every few minutes after the previous. Somehow, she recalls the planked ceiling in her room and the few discolored spots on it. They sometimes kept her bedtimes remotely interesting. Before she could doze away at night, she’d at times spend her dull staring competition with the ceiling, imagining the yellowed rings move as though a flock of ducklings strolling aimlessly through the wood. When that picture becomes stale, she’d then turn to her side and gaze at the flames that danced tirelessly on the candlewick as its gleam faintly outlined the silhouette of her tiny fingers resting atop the beddings. She would often stare at the flame until her eyelids sunk and the flickering light guided her mind to sleep. In the mornings that follow this recurrent trance of hers, she will, unknowingly and in vain, trace the curious trails of the ducklings and the performance of the flame, but never once did these images assemble for her—nor did she remember precisely what she pictured the night before. All she could ever recollect were the stained spots over her head and the candle she had to replace come every sundown. It was as if her mind never ventured, though night after night it did. And it was as though she forgot to remember something, but she had convinced herself that she didn’t. This gave her the habit, though little she knew, of glancing twice at things—this did not happen today.
The grandness of the church stole her eyes too long to take twice the look. The bells reached so far into the sky she began asking herself how many ceilings it took to reach that height. Forty? Fifty? No, it couldn’t be. Her mum stood almost as tall as her room—it must have been about a hundred of her ceilings! Looking from her home, she thought, the church looked puny with its dozen pointed spires. The other children in the plaza shared this sentiment. Upon arrival, they tugged at their mothers’ skirts and, with their jaws pulled to the ground, pointed to the bells, the towers, the banners that rolled down from the heads that poked out of the windows so high in the cathedral.
All around, immensity defined the energy. The children ran joyously throughout the open space—if you fancy the description despite the huts that sprouted across the plaza like a roaming circus, except they were for bargains, for produce, for jewelry, and the like—without mind to their mothers who scrambled just the same to gather their babes before the ceremony began. The noise was loud but perchance it would be better to call it sound. After all, the People were tranquil to their core; domesticated, almost. Even the women who chased after their young were peculiarly elegant in their quest. Nonetheless, the sound all over was loud but not deafening. If one observed more carefully, the men conversed in modulated voices. Even when they laughed about, it sounded strong yet soothing. This chorus carried on until the bells commanded silence with ten thunderous clangs at which point the People understood exactly what to do.
They all gathered into two hordes; convened in front of the church allowing for a straight line of excellently organized space that escorted the cathedral’s center aisle outwards. Soon enough, there was total silence. Not long after, the first figure emerged from the opening of the church and with it a reverberant round of applause. It was the new High Priest.
The little girl who had been stuck in awe of the humongous vicinity earlier feasted her eyes once more on the exhilarating experience of it all—the cheering, the intensity, the view of the blue open sky. It was truly fascinating. She had no chance against its magnificence. She felt festive and thrilled to see the men and women who would march behind the priest bearing God’s cross in their backs. The only thing that would have made this better for her was if she had a sibling or two in the line to cheer for—which proves she has already forgotten. Just a week ago, there had been a thing she saw. Whether conjured or real, it seems she’d already parted with the memory. In the tapestry of everything she’d forgotten, aside from the candles that danced at night and the critters that roamed her room, was the view of the oceanlike sands.
Just a week past she had been atop the walls, as did the crowd that stood with her today. While the People pay no mind to, the children know nothing of it—that is, man’s most treasured gift from God: the burden of His name, the baptism of the young. Outside the citadel’s western walls, the young, who were to be celebrated in the plaza today, stood on the sands a few meters apart. They had their backs turned to the colossal walls and in front of them laid the horizon that married heaven to Earth. They could have appreciated the scenery like the ones watching from the top of the walls, were it not for the blindfolds that stole their vision and the warmth of the sand that gradually overwhelmed their bare feet. As for their bodies, they were half naked—girl and boy alike, they were stripped of their top garments in preparation for the ceremony. The People watching from the wall walk, however, did not know this since their mere elevation rendered the ones below minute. All they knew was somewhere there in the unholy desert among the tiny grains that weren’t sand stood a member of their family, or a relative perhaps, who was waiting to receive the sacred symbol of the Creator, just as they did.
In the heat of the sands, something more blazing awaited the candidates. Behind them was the priest, holding out a lengthy metal rod. At the tip of the staff dripped a little of the molten bronze that formed the shape of a cross perpendicular to the staff. It was tall as the entire half body and wide as the broad shoulders of an adult man. It longed to press on the backs of the eager young who, meanwhile, were compelled one at a time to loosen their blinds. The first one asked was a young adult female—the first always had the littlest of choice—who immediately grew anxious to be done with the ritual upon the endless sight of what stood in front of her. The others still blind only had the option to wait for what was to come. Suddenly, a commanding voice struck them from the direction of the priest; while it was loud and felt like a reprimand to all of them, it was aimed for the only one able to see. The blinded ones heard clearly the priest who ordered the young woman to profess her faith for without, she cannot be whole, and not long enough—even clearer—the screeching scream from her position. They might have heard a bit of sizzle but they would not have noticed because the screaming did not cease. Not at all. Not until the young woman had belted all her voice out, thereupon allowing a few weeping sounds from the other youngs to be heard. Time froze among them but another roar from the priest casted the seconds loose as another blindfold was demanded off.
The roll call below went on and that day seemed brilliant for the little girl on top of the wall. She simply enjoyed dancing against the atmospheric winds and playing with other children along the merlons of the fortress. To tell the truth, everyone on the high ground rode a high akin only to that day and to the way they discovered a bliss unique to themselves; like God blew with the wind and to each of them unfolded a certain joy. For the adults, it was the thought of their sons and daughters welcomed into manhood and womanhood. Regardless of whether they’d see them again or not, it was the thought that their offspring would finally know of God, even if only for a moment. As for the little girl, the wind occasionally blew her against the unoccupied wall embrasures where she stole a glance against the instructions of her mother. During the moments she peeked, she’d find the dots of people in the sands and thought some of them were playful; some tried chasing the sand to the horizon, and some ran about without leaving their general position. It gave her a familiar feeling of entertainment. When she watched the dots scatter round, she must have felt the dozy sensation of imagining baby ducks wandering through her wooden ceiling, because she unconsciously chased this feeling when the day’s end loomed near. As dusk broke and the children ran tired, she took a final glance below. There, she caught yet another déjà vu: the human dots were now lined up towards the wall as the sunset gifted them a golden, orange spotlight through the troughs of the dunes—it appeared like candle flame, lulling her to sleep. She rested her head by the edge of the embrasure and reached a hand to the tiny people. She can’t wait to see God’s print on her sister, she thought. But this was just another of her nighttime—just another trance before the reality she’ll soon awake to.
Today, the enormous bells ring once again. The cheering got louder as the line of newfound People came to light from the shadows of the church. The little girl heard many shouts of names that called to the attention of the sons, the daughters, the brothers, and the sisters whose robes showed off the burn of God in their backs. Wide-eyed, like the other children, she admired the scars, thinking to herself how wonderful it must have been to meet God in person and have His symbol granted unto you.
The People shared the same sentiment, but it was wildly different still: There was something else aside from having God on your person—a question. A question that was once asked to them that needed not hear their answer but nonetheless impelled them whole. A question they never want asked again. And a question that changed their lives. They without God’s print.
Art slider by Natasha Audrey Ordinario and Ma. Niña Erica L. Ramirez
