Origin of the Brunists (2 page)

Speechless, the foolish man left him. Hiram turned to discover Emma and Sister Betty at his back. “That was well said, Hiram,” said his wife.

“Why, it was
beautiful!”
cried the other woman. “Mr. Clegg—Brother Hiram—you'd make a wonderful preacher!”

“Will we go tonight to the Mount of Redemption?” Hiram inquired of Sister Betty.

“I don't rightly know,” she said. “Let's go ask Clara.”

Hiram's question created, in fact, a certain controversy. Many of the newcomers, like himself, wished to see it, wished to have some picture of tomorrow's goal, the place of the Coming, but on the other hand, and especially among the native West Condoners, there were fears about their several enemies, the reporters and Mr. Miller, the mayor and the law, the so-called West Condon Common Sense Committee which had been harassing them, and, above all, the fanatical followers of Abner Baxter, the coalminer who had arrogated the local Nazarene pulpit following the tragic and untimely death of Ely Collins. Clearly—if accounts of him could be believed—he was a man consumed by a terrible hatred, yet his power as a preacher of the Gospel was never denied; it was only that, as some said, he seemed, with all his power and eloquence, to have no “radiance” about him. The suggestion that was finally accepted was that they in fact make a pilgrimage to the Mount, taking along box suppers, so that all might become acquainted with it, but that they depart late in the evening, at a time when such a journey would no longer be suspected by the foe. The suppers, then, were prepared by the women, Emma, God rest her dear soul, doing her share and more, as always.

At the same time, modest refreshments were brought out and consumed readily. Excitement, Hiram had found, always engenders a certain dryness of the throat and a nervous hunger. White underclothing arrived in enormous bundles, and Hiram selected drawers for Emma, his friends doing likewise, as necessary, in fairly certain hopes now of having their own tunics before the night was over, for Sister Betty had procured the materials and the two women were already busy with needle and thread. A rather stupid and embarrassing thing occurred at that moment. Holding up the drawers to be sure they would be large enough for Emma, Hiram had his photo snapped by a passing news photographer. Hiram saw himself in all the newpapers of the world, holding up a pair of ladies' drawers. Spying Sister Clara Collins nearby, he told her what had happened. She turned dark with indignation, asked him to point out the photographer. Then, quickly, she rounded up six other men, including Brother Ben, and they encircled the man, suggested he turn over all his film packs or risk probable damages to his fine camera. The victory was sudden and total. Later that night, on the Mount, the films were burned. A great and forever unquenchable sense of gratitude welled up in Hiram's heart.

As the evening deepened, the newsmen thinned away, much to the relief of everyone, and finally they were able to rid themselves of all the intruders; able at last to stand alone together, gauge their strength. It was considerable: well over a hundred persons already, not including nearly as many children, and it was still, they all recognized solemnly, only the day before. Hiram, accustomed to such gatherings, was able to be of much help, distributing things, helping to maintain order, taking his turn at the door to forestall any further trespasses. They were all taught the secret password, the handshake, and several other devices properly intended to close nonbelievers out of the circle of the select. From various persons of the inner group, they learned once more about the now-famous White Bird visitation in the disaster-struck mine, the early prophecies, the Night of the Sign, and the other astonishing events. Mr. Himebaugh the lawyer, who was an incredibly active man, seemingly everywhere at once, even-tempered and patient to a fault, yet as though blazing from within with a terrible energy, then presented to them, in outline, the mathematical proofs for the event's inevitable occurrence on the morrow, the nineteenth of April. If there had been doubts before, they were now dispelled. Hiram was speechless—how perfectly revolved this universe of ours!—and he saw tears and amazement in Emma's eyes.

Then the teacher Mrs. Norton spoke on the meaning of the hill, of the Mount of Redemption, and this too was a deeply moving performance. “Although the transformation we envision is unrelated to the temporal and spatial dimensions of the dense earth,” she said, “nevertheless, it is wholly appropriate at these times to receive the call for certain symbolic actions, not as a part of a divine dialogue, but as a means of providing a comprehensible metaphor for the rest of the world, so as better to prepare the way—” (from the others, “amens,” the nodding of heads gravely) “—and, for us, as a way to exercise our spiritual discipline.” (“Amens” again, applause.) “Thus, meeting on a hill, the highest point in this area, is not so much because our rescue depends on it, but because it fulfills all of these functions: it is in itself symbolic of the upward effort we are all making in order to free ourselves from our physical prisons—” (Hiram said: “True, true!”) “—it is a public act and a spiritual calisthenic; it ties up all the elements of what has gone before, returning us bodily, as it were, to the site of the mine disaster, of the initiating action, and of the White Bird visitation.” Again, then, the chorus of “amens” and an eruption of prayer, the start of a song, but Sister Clara stood and gestured for silence. Mrs. Norton continued: “Moreover, it is so clearly a divine request: my logs have foreshadowed it, Giovanni Bruno announced it, Mr. Himebaugh's computations provide proofs of it, and Mrs. Collins rightly interpreted it—independently, we reached the same conclusion, in other words, each through our own channels of inspiration. And, finally, it is so right a place, as all of you will soon see. A place in nature, away from man-made distortions, and, but for a single tree, a barren place, an ascetic site proper for our great spiritual drama!” Now there were cheers and prayers aplenty, a tumultuous excitement, yes, the excitement had been long building, Hiram too had sensed it, the milling about, the cameras, the white tunics, this great gathering.

And then a little man stood up, staring above and beyond them, and Hiram's heart began to race, and Sister Clara cried out, “Brother Willie Hall!”

“As it says in the Gospel,” Brother Willie cried out, and there was a wave of shouting, “the Gospel of Matthew,” and another wave, yet more impassioned, “the fifth chapter and the fourteenth verse,” and now there were cries addressing Brother Willie and asking that he teach them the truth, which, of course, he had every intention of doing, “‘Ye are the light of the world!'” and the cries mounted and the tears began to flow, “
‘And a city set on a hill cannot be hid!'”

“No, it cannot be hid!” cried a lady, and then they prayed in earnest, they sang in earnest, they wept in joy.

And Sister Clara Collins rose tall and she said, “We go, we go to that Mount of Redemption,” and how her voice rang! “we go not to die,
but to act!”
And oh! how they exulted! and oh! how their hearts leapt with a common hope! and oh! how the halleluiahs were sounded! “The Kingdom is
ours!
It awaits us! It awaits us on the Mount of Redemption! We have but to
act!
We have but to
go!
But to go and
to receive it!”
Oh! it was tremendous! it was electric! it was glorious!

So come and march with us to Glory!

Oh, come and march with us to Glory!

Yes, come and march with us to Glory!

For the end of time has come!

And so, loading up with box suppers, they headed for their automobiles. On the morrow, of course, they would march out there barefoot, but tonight's pilgrimage was primarily to familiarize the new people, and the cars, they reasoned, would permit them a quick removal in the event the enemy—any enemy—should appear. Tomorrow they faced persecutions, suffering, perhaps even death. Tonight they wished only for peace, desiring not to push God's hand. The following strategy was decided upon. A guard would be posted throughout the supper, and, at the first sight of approaching car lights on the mine road, they would adjourn instantly to their autos. West Condoners, most familiar with the route, would lead the escape, forming a caravan and keeping their own lights extinguished until the last possible moment, in an effort to speed by their persecutors before these latter realized what was taking place.

It was really incredibly beautiful out on the Mount, one felt indeed quite in the palm of God's gentle hand, a dark sky above but clear, the tipple of old Number Nine silhouetted against it, a glorious taste of burgeoning spring in the night air. They built a large bonfire, there sang songs familiar to them all from campmeetings and evangelistic outings, heard important declarations of faith from many of the newcomers. “Oh, I thank God I am here tonight! I thank God my Mommy and Daddy were Christian people! I thank God I am ready!” As they sang, a kind of nostalgia swept over them and it astonished them all to discover, as if for the first time, the true power, the inspiration, the profound significance of their songs' collective message. Someone had had the foresight to bring marshmallows, which the children roasted in the flames of their fire, and their innocent gaiety soothed the grownups' fears: yes, surely, to such belongeth the kingdom of God. Giovanni Bruno, who, Hiram was told, may have perished in the disaster that shook the very earth beneath their feet, and might now be inhabited by a superior spirit, thus accounting further for his fragile taciturnity, never participated directly with them, though he passed among them freely, now smiling approvingly, now nodding solemnly, now raising his hand in a sort of benediction.

Standing out there on the hill, Hiram was not ignorant of, nor did he shy from, the recognition of the sensual excitation that accompanied the spiritual one: the cool night breeze around their all but unprotected loins, the descriptive folds of the tunics, the inciting fragrance, and the strangeness—and, when one passed before the fire, his body was as though revealed to those behind him. And yet, though perhaps it enhanced the fervor of their songs and prayers, there was a total chastity, not merely of action but of thought, pervading them all. The human body, after all, was an instrument of lust, but it was also—could also be—must
always
be!—a divinely created instrument of grace, consecrated to the Lord's service, beautiful in all its parts, when all its parts were subservient to piety and prudence. The body of a woman of sin, even when perfectly proportioned, was a hideous abomination, a repulsive and malformed tool of evil—yet these women now silhouetted against the flames, though sunken like Mrs. Norton or gauntly bold and athletic like Clara Collins, though wizened like Mrs. Bruno or inflated like his dear Emma or Sister Betty Wilson, possessed bodies which, by their modesty and their holiness, were consummately beautiful.

Besides the old songs, they sang many new ones written by Brother Ben Wosznik, including his exultant “White Bird” ballad, that, perhaps more than any other single thing, most immediately conjoined them all to this common cause:

“Lights!” cried the lookout.
“Lights on the mine road!”

They gasped, panicked, flew in a mad scurry back toward their cars. They knew not this enemy and what a man knows not, he fears unreasonably. People cried without cause. Clara stood on the hill and shouted to all of them their instructions. Ben, at the foot, shepherded each into cars, and it was most confusing. Hiram and Emma were somehow separated, Hiram's own car filling up with complete strangers, and just before pulling the door to, he heard the lookout cry, “They's fifteen or twenty cars of 'em!” Hiram watched the fire being extinguished, a little guilty that he had run so frantically.

And then it began. Darkly, the procession eased away from the Mount of Redemption and turned toward West Condon, toward that advancing column, and there was no choice but to fall into place quickly, else be left behind, indefensible victims. They drove in rather rapidly, a little
too
rapidly, Hiram thought, for he observed there was a deep ditch to either side of them, and for one dark fear-stained moment he saw it all as stupid, insane, a blind and foolish covenant with whimsey, what had brought him—?

Then he saw the lights ahead and he thought of nothing at all but the immediate danger, the car in front of him, the ditch to his right. Yes, indeed, there were many of them; these advancing lights guided them. And then there were their own lights and, his heart leaping to his throat, he threw his on, lights everywhere, and suddenly …

But how did it happen? If all of it seemed a dream, how much more so this jolting dizzying moment! If all a whirl, this was its violent vortex! Hiram remembered something of the later return: the thick flow of their great procession through that little town, the congregation of automobiles jammed in all directions around the Bruno home. Of that night, there remained scattered images, the vigil, the weeping, the mournful making of tunics and tunics and tunics. There were public confessions and old enmities were dissolved in prayer and awe. No one slept. There was that profoundly moving incident of the gold medallion, when, just before dawn, the hysteria abating and their great task upon them, the deeply grieving lady Mrs. Eleanor Norton—had she not been a spiritual mother to the girl?—stood, approached, in a walk more of death than life, Sister Clara Collins, and, wordlessly, hung that medallion around Clara's neck. Whereupon they embraced and wept like schoolgirls, and all who saw wept too.