By Kenneth Ogle
“…ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race.”
“…ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race.”
..........Nathaniel Hawthorn from: Young Goodman Brown
Young Goodman Brown kissed his new wife, Faith, as he was about to leave the apartment. It was late, very late. She was puzzled, and she didn’t understand why he wanted to walk until the sun came up. “Are you angry? Are you upset?” She asked with a look of concern.
“No,” he said, “There are just some things I have to think about, sort out—things I have to know and understand.”
“But the night is so cold,” she smiled, “and my body is warm.”
Faith had a nice body and a heart of gold and she loved him well. Faith had made him a happy man, had made his life joyful, and had even given him a reason to go on with life in what seemed to be an otherwise troublesome world.
He smiled. “You must trust me,” he said softly. “I will do this once and never again. It isn’t something I can explain. There is a kind of truth I have to know. It won’t let me rest.”
She looked down. It was a lovely, sweet turn of the head. He noted again the play of light on her auburn hair held in place by a braid that was tied with a pink ribbon. He could smell her natural sweet scent, “I have had some very disturbing dreams—dreams I can’t quite recall,” she said.
“They have been bothering me the last few days—I don’t really care to sleep alone—and why this night? Why this night of all the nights of the year?” She looked back up at him; her brows knitted with worry.
He put his hands on her shoulders firmly, but lovingly. “You must trust me.”
She was quiet a moment. Her eyes darted back and forth as she read his face. “Wait a moment,” she said. She ran down the hall and returned with a scarf. “One night, then, and I won’t ask you about it. I trust you.” She put the scarf around his neck and tucked it into his overcoat, kissed him and added, “Completely.”
With the door locked up and Faith all tucked away safely, he now ventured out into the night. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just walked and thought and visited his past. He paid little attention to where he was going. He recalled his childhood, and for some reason thought of his early experiences of going to church and how he had to wear tight, starched shirts with a tight neck tie, stiff black pants and those uncomfortable, hard leather, wing-tipped shoes on Sunday morning; and of how he was forced to go to church regardless of his many excuses and protests. He had passionately hated going to church, and sitting, for hours it seemed, on hard wooden pews in a cold church full of old people with hard faces. Neither did he like the preacher, Reverend Vernon Pierson, who shouted big, angry words that he didn’t really understand, but which frightened him all the same, and made him feel guilty.
He did like the white, gingerbread church with the bell and steeple, the smell of the perfume and the rustle of the taffeta skirts under print dresses. Women wore hats and white gloves to church in those days. He also liked the colors of the stained glass as the morning sun shone through the windows and the image of Christ. The colors scattering about the congregation with the deep red, emerald greens and dark blues—wild colors—falling on white hair, white dresses, white skin. His grandmother was playing the organ and Deacon James was leading the music. He could recall the smell of perfume and the lace dresses that the women wore. He remembered that he would sit sandwiched between his parents, and had been given Wrigley’s Double Mint gum that he had to chew quietly while he drew on a pad of paper to keep him from squirming with boredom.
And then there was Addy Johnson, his Sunday school teacher, who used to always sit in the second pew. She wore print dresses, white gloves and a black hat with netting. She sat in the second pew from the front. She would have sat in the first row if she could, but those pews were always reserved for the invitation when new converts would come down and sit and be saved. That usually happened when the second verse was sung so that it looked like these converts had spontaneously joined up that morning as if they had been moved by the spirit of God, and this, in turn, was supposed to urge guilty sinners to come down and be saved, since, it seemed, that everyone else was responding to the call of the Holy Spirit on their hearts also. The truth was that the new converts had been told to come down on the second verse by the preacher who had arraigned it that way. When they came down, it was Addy’s job to greet them, and pray with them when the Preacher came down to receive them.
Addy was a lot like Faith, he thought. She had been a little older perhaps, not nearly as pretty, but still there was something about her that reminded him of Faith. It was Addy who would eventually reach him, and inspire him. It was Addy and her love for him; along with her ice cream socials and picnics and croquet on the lawn, with all the children having such a good time—all this and more that drew him in, that helped to form his bond with virtue. And then there were also a number of walks that she had taken with him—just him. One day in particular, came back to him. It was a summer’s day down by the pond on the old cemetery grounds.
The pond was big enough to have a small island in it, and they walked across the little oriental bridge that led to that island. There they sat in the shade of a gazebo that had been built on that island back in Victorian times. He remembered that they were playing checkers. She wore a white dress with a big, brimmed hat and she carried a matching parasol. Summer’s blush was on her face and on her creamy bosoms--bosoms which he tried hard not to look at. And he also had to try hard not to imagine what it would be like if he explore them with his fingers. She was too holy for such thoughts. He had tried to hide his lust. He frequently blushed and shivered even though it was a summer’s day. But something of his redirected sexual energy went instead into listening to her lengthy lessons about God; and she taught him desire for the Kingdom of Heaven, in spite of the fact that he was often distracted that other desire which he had suppressed when he was around her.
A cold wind shook him from his thoughts suddenly. The lights flickered a bit and he now found himself in a part of the city he hadn’t seen before. Exactly how far he had walked he couldn’t say. Nothing looked familiar and he realized he was lost. There were bars, liquor stores, head shops, and strip joints. He didn’t like being there and didn’t feel particularly safe, so he turned around and tried to find a more respectable area for his meanderings. But everywhere he went it was the same or worse: prostitutes on the corners, homeless drunks pan handling, black cars with tinted windows moving slowly down the streets playing hip hop with the base deafeningly loud.
He paused, perplexed, and was now desperate to get out of there. He pulled out his cell phone to call a taxi, but his phone was dead. He walked into a bar and asked if there was a pay phone. A thin bartender with short blond hair and spectacles pointed and Goodman Brown wandered to the back of the bar only to find that the cord to the old pay phone had been cut. He returned to tell this to the bar tender who shrugged. He was about to leave when someone said, “You are late, Mr. Brown.”
Goodman turned and saw a middle-aged man having a beer at the bar. He was dressed a bit oddly, wearing a coat with evening tails and a top hat—but what caught Goodman’s eyes was the man’s walking stick. It was ebony, and was carved of in the shape of a snake, which, for a moment, actually seemed to hiss and strike at him. No one in the bar noticed this and Goodman thought it must have been a trick of the dim light and smoke in the room. As he looked at it again he saw plainly that it was just wood. “Faith kept me back a bit—what was I supposed to say?” He found himself saying, his eyes still lingering on the snake.
“That you were just going out to meet your father.”
At this, Goodman looked directly at the man in front of him. “But you aren’t my father.”
“No?” the man asked. But Goodman realized from the way this man looked and acted that he could, indeed, have been mistaken for his father. “Ah well, no matter,” the man continued. Come let’s walk for a while.”
They were about to leave the bar when a shriek of laughter caused Brown to turn. Two women, obviously prostitutes, were indulging an older man at the table. He was shocked when recognized that it was Deacon James—older but unmistakable. He was drunk, that was clear, but he suddenly stood when he saw the man in tails. “Well, it is such an honor to see you again, sir.” “Ah, Deacon James! Always with the ladies, it seems. Will you be joining us at the circle later? We have a few new initiates.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Goodman Brown.”
Deacon James started to reach for Brown’s hand when he recognized him. Goodman, however, did not offer his hand in return, being both shocked and repulsed by what he was seeing. The old deacon ignored this and said, “Ah, yes, I’ve known you since you were little, Goodman. Well, I guess it is time you were introduced to our secrets. Way past time, really.”
Goodman was disgusted as the older man disengaged Deacon James with all the civility of a gentleman, and took Goodman from the bar, saying, “You’ll have to pardon us. We have many miles to walk together before this night is over.”
Looking through the window as they left, Goodman watched the prostitutes close in around Deacon James who was smiling and laughing. Goodman felt inexplicably sick. He wanted to return home to Faith and the comforts of her arms. And yet, at the same time, he also wanted to know the truth that was all around in this darkness—had to know, really. If all he had ever known was a lie, he had to find it out and call it what it was.
Breaking a moment of silence, Goodman, shook his head.” “I wonder when Deacon James left the church, and how he came to such a life.”
“Oh, he never left the church. He has always been an excellent servant for me in such a capacity. But, as I said, he has always liked the ladies.”
They walked on in silence for a while, past street lamps where he saw old men drinking and over heard them telling crude jokes. He thought he knew them from his church days. They stopped and waved at the gentleman that walked beside Goodman. “Looking forward to seeing you later, Sir.” They called out. If they saw or recognized Goodman, they didn’t show it and Goodman was rather glad.
Soon they came to a building that had been set up as a temporary campaign headquarters for a certain political party. The gentleman with the walking stick paused in front of this building, and told Goodman he had a bit of business to conduct here and they entered in.
A busy secretary didn’t bother to look up as the two men came into the room. “I’m sorry, but Vernon Pierson is in a meeting at the moment and could be a while. Could you…” She stopped when she looked up to see who it was. “Oh, I am so very sorry sir, I didn’t realize it was you.” She flushed with true embarrassment and stood up too fast, nearly spilling a cup of coffee on her desk.
“Quite all right. You can make up for it tonight at the ceremony.”
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Looking forward to it.” She said suggestively. “Mr. Peirson’s office is over there. Just go on in.”
Vernon Peirson, Goodman thought. He knew that name. As they entered he saw a startled Politician stuffing his pockets with cash that was being handed to him by men he recognized form the papers and magazines as the CEO’s of several large banking industries and drug companies. Goodman then recognized the politician as the old preacher from his childhood days. The men in the room were relieved to see that it wasn’t the press or the cops, and were even visibly relaxed when they saw it was the man in the top hat. They greeted him with warm handshakes and smiles, and all of them seemed eager to please, if not blatantly, brown nose him.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “You are among my greatest servants in whom I am well pleased. Rest assured that your positions are secure and you will have prosperity for the rest of your lives.” After a round of kissing his ring and staff, and giving expressions of gratitude, he said to them further, “Now if you will excuse me, I would like to speak with Mr. Pierson. It is in your interest that I do so.”
These prominent, dignified men quickly scrambled out of the office. Goodman was asked to stay and observe as they all sat down around the desk.
“What can I do for you?” Pierson asked.
“I simply want to reaffirm that we need to up the ante in our seduction of the Christians. Now, more than ever, we need their loyalty to our cause. Even though I allowed a candidate from my other party to win this time, I am rather disappointed by his performance. He has done entirely too much to help the common people at the expense of some of my most powerful friends in this country. I apologize for the damage that this has caused to you and to my more favored party. But trust me; it was essential to our long-term goal. While your party made huge advances the previous eight years at undermining the freedoms and liberties of the American people while advancing the profits of the banking, credit, health care industries and other corporations—all belonging to my great servants who have been so loyal to me—the problem of democracy has reared its ugly head. Perhaps all the efforts of the previous administration were too many and too fast. I had to slow you down a little by advancing my other party over yours for a while. But we are quickly advancing lies and innuendos regarding the current president which will grow and undermine him in the next elections. You will survive his time in office and then we can advance our cause some more.”
As the man with the walking stick talked, Pierson kept steady eye contact and nodded frequently saying, “Yes sir. I understand, sir. Had to be that way, sir.” And he kept on saying such things until the speech was over when he asked, “So how can we win back the Christians?”
“We must reiterate our pro-life position, only I’m afraid that we may have to actually throw them a bone this time. Many of them are becoming disenchanted with the party since we haven’t actually done anything about abortion in years and in the meantime our movement away from democracy toward the neo-baronial system ( a system, I might add, that is more comfortable for me and my greatest of servants) has left them concerned about the lack of jobs and the growing poverty in this country. They are, like the one they follow, rather idealistic in their compassion. But a pro-life position will keep them in line as it has done for years and years. I have it on the best sources that two members of the Supreme Court may be having medical mishaps after the current president leaves office and the new president will be in a position to appoint new pro-life judges to office. They won’t over-turn Roe vs. Wade, of course—nobody wants to do that—but it will give plenty of false hope to the Christians. And, of course, their continued support will insure that large corporations will have a friendly court to deal with and, personally, I am looking forward to the possibility that they will find a way to over-turn tobacco settlements in a number of states.”
To all of this Pierson nodded and salivated like a puppy. He never once recognized Goodman Brown, but Goodman remembered him all too well—and all of his sermons about hell and the terror of a wrathful God. Vernon Pierson would often preach that the love of money was the root of all evil and that it would be harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Goodman wondered how such a man could change so much—become so corrupt, but he said nothing; just listened.
When they left the campaign headquarters, Brown turned to his partner for the evening and asked, “When did you win this preacher over? How long ago?”
“Oh,” He laughed, “that old avaricious son of a bitch has had his hand in the till since seminary. Why, greed and religion go hand in hand, and the belief that God will prosper the righteous overrides anything that is actually in the bible. But come, my son, we still have people to see and a long way to go before we arrive at our destination.”
And so they walked on. Goodman was miserable and wondering if there was any virtue left in the world. Faith, he thought, I still have Faith. She, at least is home and safe and waiting for me to return.
There were gangs roaming the streets through which they walked. Bloods, Kings, GD, all of them were cutting and shooting and fighting, so that Goodman was terrified of the night and the city streets. “No need to worry, they may kill each other, but they all know me.” Goodman’s escort was saying. And it was true—they all ran over to kiss his ring and staff and then went on with their endless war.
In time they came to what was commonly called a whorehouse. Goodman hesitated, not wanting to go in. “I know it is not seemly or tasteful for you to enter such a place, but I have business here also, it is a dear old friend, a mutual acquaintance who would like nothing more than to see you. He led the reluctant Goodman up a set of steps that smelled like old piss and vomit and, though there was incense pouring into the halls, nothing could cover the stench. Inside was a large open area with the smell of pot and women dancing half naked in red lights. Goodman turned his eyes and walked on until they came to a door and entered. A rather plump woman sat in a long, low-cut blue velvet dress. She recognized him long before he recognized her. Her eyes were dark and she wore heavy makeup. Her hair was bleached but it didn’t cover the white at the roots. She resisted rushing to him and turned again to the older man, “Why if it isn’t the Devil, himself.”
“Hello, Addy, you old witch.” He turned to Goodman, “Addy’s a witch who’s ridden a lot of broomsticks in her lifetime. She likes them young and firm, isn’t that true Addy.”
For a split second, Addy looked offended, but then quickly caught herself and laughed, “That’s right, I have a thing for young and firm; the younger and firmer the better.”
“But you never had Goodman’s, did you Addy.”
“No, not Goodman’s.” she sighed.
“And why is that, Addy?”
Addy paused, a bit unsure of what to say. “I couldn’t burst his bubble, I suppose.” She looked away.
Goodman thought he heard the older man’s walking stick hiss, but saw nothing. He dismissed it because he was feeling dizzy. He had been feeling sick and was getting worse, especially since he had realized who this woman was.
“Addy, what are you saying?”
“She’s saying that she fucked about every young boy in her Sunday school class but you.”
Goodman grew nauseas. His throat was constricting. He said hoarsely, “That’s impossible. Addy was so holy—I’d have known. The other boys would have told me.”
“No.” The older man said almost gently, “Not after the initiation. People keep their secrets only for the initiated. You never belonged.”
“Addy, is it true?”
Addy scowled at him, “Did you really want to know this, Goodman? Did you really want the truth? Didn’t you want to go on living your life in the bliss of naiveté?” She grew hard and bitter suddenly, “You think I didn’t want to fuck you too?”
“Why didn’t you, Addy?” the older man asked.
“You know perfectly well, it had to be his choice to do so.” She said this without looking away from Goodman. “You think I didn’t know your thoughts, Goodman? You think I didn’t see those furtive glances or notice the quick drop of your eyes to my bosom? It amused me. I pleasured so many of your friends and taught them the secrets of sin, but you clung to your—virtue.” She spat. “You could have had me, Goodman, and through me, known so many other secret pleasures.” Then she added slowly, bitterly “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, for time it is a flying. Look at your hands, Goodman.”
He looked down and saw that his hands were withered like an old man’s hands. His mouth was opened slightly. He felt his stomach lurch, he turned to puke.
The older man laughed. “Not a pretty sight, old man, especially with that puke on your chin.”
He stood, feeling an ach in his back he hadn’t felt before, glanced in Addy’s dresser mirror, and saw himself as an old man and was horrified.
“What have you done to me?” he asked.
“What have you done to yourself?” Addy said to him. “To have lived for your virtue all of these years and never seen it for the lie it is. You have lived a miserable, pathetic life—shunning every pleasure and want, in the name of virtue and what has it done for you? It has made you old and empty and alone.”
“No, no, no, I have Faith—she is my greatest pleasure and companion.”
“Faith!—Ha! Do you really think that Faith—“
“Enough! Addy.” The older man threw his walking stick on the floor and this time it turned into a very real serpent and hissed at Addy, who backed away.
“Yes, my lord as you desire,” she said with the downcast eyes of a servant.
The man in the evening tails picked up the snake which instantly snapped back into an ebony walking stick. He pointed it at Goodman and transformed him to his youthful self once again, “It is just a witch’s illusion” he said.
But Goodman still felt old, very old, inside his body, and wasn’t sure which was the illusion any more, his youth or his old age?
When they left the brothel, Goodman thought he had never felt miserable and unsure of himself. They walked on not talking for a while. He saw that people were moving along the streets. Some were just stepping from the bars and had hooded cloaks in their arms and others were putting them on alread. He recognized many of them.
“We are getting close now.”
“I still have Faith; I still have her.” He muttered to himself, but he suddenly wasn’t sure any more. People he had believed in for years, had shown that they were, in fact, the worst of sinners. Everything Addy had taught him was a lie, but worst of all was that Addy herself was a lie. He recalled how just earlier that evening he had thought that Faith and Addy were a little alike. How could he have thought that Faith was anything like her at all? Faith was nothing like her.
The older man did not talk now, but he just kept waking. More and more people were moving down the streets and the sidewalks. He heard a woman’s voice and thought it sounded like Faith. He turned and saw a woman in one of the cloaks but he couldn’t see her face. Her movements seemed troubled and she halted from time to time and seemed to be asking a lot of questions. His attention was suddenly jolted back to his companion ashe was abruptly greeted by another acquaintance.
“Good to see you sir, I am certainly looking forward to communion tonight.”
“Glad to see you also Father Andrew, are all things ready?”
“Yes, the sacrifices have been made and the cup is ready. I hear we have quite a few initiates tonight including a rather lovely young woman.”
“Yes, and a very promising young man.”
Goodman was just wondering if the promising young man referred might have been himself, when suddenly he heard a near by scuffle and a scream. It all happened so quickly. The young woman that sounded so much like faith had been abrupty seized and taken into the darkness. Goodman broke away from his companion and ran to the spot where she had been. The street was instantly empty, and it seemed as if all the people vanished into smoke and fog. A wisp of wind blew old news papers around him and something in the street caught his eye. He looked down and saw a pink ribbon. He picked it up and found several strands of auburn hair were still clinging to it. “Faith!” He panicked. “Faith! He ran in the direction that he though she had been taken. He stumbled several times over trash boxes and old homeless men as he made his way down a dark ally, but he came to a dead end of brick walls that were covered with graffiti and garbage. “Faith,” he whispered, out of breath, and he said to the air, “Faith, I’ve lost you!” He felt sick again, his belly cramping. He doubled over but couldn’t retch. He felt the cramps again and again. His face was contorted with agony, and he started crying bitterly, painfully.
“Pride, Mr. Brown, is the darkest of all sins.” The older man was saying to him when Goodman finally came to himself. “It may not seem so terrible to you as the acts of lust, greed, and others that are so graphic. Pride is simply the belief that you are holy—that you are above the lechery and debauchery of others—that you are better than others and somehow closer to God.” He was holding a pitch-black cloak in his hand, so dark that it was nearly a shadow or like it was made of some material that sucked in all light. “There are those who say that it is my particular sin, but it is also yours—like father, like son, they also say.”
“I’ve lost Faith,” is all he could piteously respond with.
“Well, it is all for the best, you know. As you said at the beginning of the evening, she—‘held you back.’ Now you are free, Mr. Brown. I hope you enjoy your fall.”
“What fall? What are you talking about?”
“There is mathematical relationship between height of Pride and the depth of its fall to the power of 6. And you, Mr. Brown climbed very, very high. Now perhaps you will understand that you are my son.” He threw the cloak around Goodman and everything went black except for the sensation of falling. It was a fearful fall, like being sucked down at light speed. He was burning like a meteor—like a falling star among falling stars cast out of heaven never able to return again. Faith was lost, ripped away from him. There was no safety net, nothing to catch him, no heaven above, no hell below, only the gaping mouth of oblivion at the end of a brief, meaningless existence.
He hit the pavement hard. It was still night—still the blighted city. He stood and found himself in the middle of a circle of cloaked people. Their cloaks were black but not so dark as his. They were standing on the black top of inner city basket ball courts. Torches and lanterns were hung on the chain link fences towering over those courts. Strange music began with a rhythm that matched a heartbeat. A procession of dancing women entered the court, but they looked as if they had stepped out of negatives of black and white photos so that shadow was light and light was shadow, so that Goodman didn’t realize at first that they were naked and that all of them looked like the reverse image of Faith. At one end of the court those women brought an alter and as they danced they also brought knives and bowls of fruits and other signs of harvest and then, one at a time, they cut themselves a little and gave blood to the cup—a mixture of black and white. Then from behind the alter, in a cloak as dark as Goodman’s, a figure stepped into the light of the torches. He had an ebony walking stick in his hands which he lifted and touched to the points of the Alter. The Stick transformed into a serpent once more and the figure placed the serpent’s teeth to the cup and milked the venom into the cup. He lifted the cup and swirled it to mix the venom with the blood. He seemed to be muttering secret words and made several signs before he placed the cup back on the alter.
“Bring forth the initiates.” He said loudly.
Goodman found himself going forward. Someone behind him reached out to hold him back. He didn’t look to see who or what it was. He pulled away and walked toward the altar. He wanted to be bad, wanted to do the wrong thing, wanted to be free of what was obviously a tyranny of lies that denied him all that was pleasurable in life and that kept him back from living his own life. All he had ever known was the suppression of desires because of his conformity to a religion which was nothing more than manipulation by charlatans who were out to control and take advantage of people to their own ends. He had dared to gaze into the mystery of sin and found that all those he had respected had participated in the secrets. He felt that he had been such a fool. He no longer wanted the charade of religion. If there was something in this cup to free him, he would drink it.
But then a third cloaked figure was brought to the altar. By its shape and walk, Goodman guessed it was a woman. She came and stood next to Goodman but he could not see her face and he guessed that she could not see his either. The older man with the serpent motioned them to turn and look. One by on the cloaked figures removed their hoods. Goodman now began to see how vast this secret of sin was and how many of his childhood friends, teachers and people he had respected and revered as saintly souls had participated. Deacon James, Addy, Vernon Pierson were among many more. And then in the smoke above this crowd, Goodman thought he saw the shadows of people long dead, even his own father and mother—and seeing them in this throng made him feel a twinge of the sickness he had felt several other times this evening. It was the booming voice behind him that turned him back to the alter and made him focus again. The older man was reading from a book that looked as if it had been read from over and over again. He knew he had read them before somewhere:
"There," quoted the cloaked figure, "are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping assembly. This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds:
An older man in the crowd went on as if from memory, having been through this time and time again. “…how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households…”
An older woman quoted: “…how many a woman, eager for widows' weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom… “
A young man quoted: “how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fathers' wealth…"
A woman in her early thirties quoted: “…how fair damsels--blush not, sweet ones--have dug little graves in the garden, and bidden me, the sole guest to an infant's funeral.”
The Master of this ceremony finished the reading: “By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin ye shall scent out all the places--whether in church, bedchamber, street, field, or forest--where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power--than my power at its utmost--can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other."
He took the chalice and handed it to the female figure. She took it in her right hand and pulled her hood back with her left. It was Faith. She looked at Goodman confused and she started to put the chalice to her lips when Goodman slapped the cup from her hands and shouted, “Faith, Faith! Shun the devil and turn to God and to heaven.”
In an instant everything vanished, the crowd, the cup, the altar, the devil and Faith. He was alone in his coat with Faith’s scarf wrapped around him where she had placed it earlier that evening. He was standing on a basketball court somewhere in the city. He walked and walked until he started to recognize streets and eventually found his apartment just as the sun was rising.
He stood a long time at his own door, wondering if she would still be there. Oddly, he found himself knocking at the door rather than use the key to get in. Faith answered and looked surprised, perhaps because he had knocked like a stranger. She was in a night gown and her hair was in the disarray of sleep and yet she looked as if she hadn’t slept much. “Oh, my sweet,” she said, “come in, I have had terrible dreams, I’m afraid I had very little sleep. She kissed him and hugged him even though his response wasn’t really there. “What is wrong?”
“I’m just very tired. I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Then come and lie beside me and we can at last rest.”
Goodman went in and did lie down next to her on their bed, but she fell asleep long before he did. He stared up at the ceiling not knowing what was real anymore. His thoughts were scattered, fragmented and not logically connected. He saw that his future with her would never be the way it was before. He thought of Addy at the brothel and of what she showed him in the mirror: the truth. He was old, very old. His present youth was an illusion-- nothing more than the internal image of himself that was forever young, forever virtuous, and full of ideals—how he had always seen himself. Always, at least until now.
He looked over at Faith. What did he really know about her? He tried to tell himself that the night’s events were all a dream and yet, dream or not, there was something disturbingly true about it all. It was a truth that would haunt him all his life. It would isolate him from all people, and make him doubt the apparent virtue in even the best of men and women, and would even poison his relationship with Faith. He had compared her with Addy once, when he had thought of Addy as a vision of virtue, and had denied that she was anything like Addy when it turned out that Addy was a whore and a pedophile. But now, he wondered what darkness was in her when he was away from her. What if she did have secret sins and went whoring behind his back. How could he sure? How could he ever be sure?
Young Goodman Brown kissed his new wife, Faith, as he was about to leave the apartment. It was late, very late. She was puzzled, and she didn’t understand why he wanted to walk until the sun came up. “Are you angry? Are you upset?” She asked with a look of concern.
“No,” he said, “There are just some things I have to think about, sort out—things I have to know and understand.”
“But the night is so cold,” she smiled, “and my body is warm.”
Faith had a nice body and a heart of gold and she loved him well. Faith had made him a happy man, had made his life joyful, and had even given him a reason to go on with life in what seemed to be an otherwise troublesome world.
He smiled. “You must trust me,” he said softly. “I will do this once and never again. It isn’t something I can explain. There is a kind of truth I have to know. It won’t let me rest.”
She looked down. It was a lovely, sweet turn of the head. He noted again the play of light on her auburn hair held in place by a braid that was tied with a pink ribbon. He could smell her natural sweet scent, “I have had some very disturbing dreams—dreams I can’t quite recall,” she said.
“They have been bothering me the last few days—I don’t really care to sleep alone—and why this night? Why this night of all the nights of the year?” She looked back up at him; her brows knitted with worry.
He put his hands on her shoulders firmly, but lovingly. “You must trust me.”
She was quiet a moment. Her eyes darted back and forth as she read his face. “Wait a moment,” she said. She ran down the hall and returned with a scarf. “One night, then, and I won’t ask you about it. I trust you.” She put the scarf around his neck and tucked it into his overcoat, kissed him and added, “Completely.”
With the door locked up and Faith all tucked away safely, he now ventured out into the night. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just walked and thought and visited his past. He paid little attention to where he was going. He recalled his childhood, and for some reason thought of his early experiences of going to church and how he had to wear tight, starched shirts with a tight neck tie, stiff black pants and those uncomfortable, hard leather, wing-tipped shoes on Sunday morning; and of how he was forced to go to church regardless of his many excuses and protests. He had passionately hated going to church, and sitting, for hours it seemed, on hard wooden pews in a cold church full of old people with hard faces. Neither did he like the preacher, Reverend Vernon Pierson, who shouted big, angry words that he didn’t really understand, but which frightened him all the same, and made him feel guilty.
He did like the white, gingerbread church with the bell and steeple, the smell of the perfume and the rustle of the taffeta skirts under print dresses. Women wore hats and white gloves to church in those days. He also liked the colors of the stained glass as the morning sun shone through the windows and the image of Christ. The colors scattering about the congregation with the deep red, emerald greens and dark blues—wild colors—falling on white hair, white dresses, white skin. His grandmother was playing the organ and Deacon James was leading the music. He could recall the smell of perfume and the lace dresses that the women wore. He remembered that he would sit sandwiched between his parents, and had been given Wrigley’s Double Mint gum that he had to chew quietly while he drew on a pad of paper to keep him from squirming with boredom.
And then there was Addy Johnson, his Sunday school teacher, who used to always sit in the second pew. She wore print dresses, white gloves and a black hat with netting. She sat in the second pew from the front. She would have sat in the first row if she could, but those pews were always reserved for the invitation when new converts would come down and sit and be saved. That usually happened when the second verse was sung so that it looked like these converts had spontaneously joined up that morning as if they had been moved by the spirit of God, and this, in turn, was supposed to urge guilty sinners to come down and be saved, since, it seemed, that everyone else was responding to the call of the Holy Spirit on their hearts also. The truth was that the new converts had been told to come down on the second verse by the preacher who had arraigned it that way. When they came down, it was Addy’s job to greet them, and pray with them when the Preacher came down to receive them.
Addy was a lot like Faith, he thought. She had been a little older perhaps, not nearly as pretty, but still there was something about her that reminded him of Faith. It was Addy who would eventually reach him, and inspire him. It was Addy and her love for him; along with her ice cream socials and picnics and croquet on the lawn, with all the children having such a good time—all this and more that drew him in, that helped to form his bond with virtue. And then there were also a number of walks that she had taken with him—just him. One day in particular, came back to him. It was a summer’s day down by the pond on the old cemetery grounds.
The pond was big enough to have a small island in it, and they walked across the little oriental bridge that led to that island. There they sat in the shade of a gazebo that had been built on that island back in Victorian times. He remembered that they were playing checkers. She wore a white dress with a big, brimmed hat and she carried a matching parasol. Summer’s blush was on her face and on her creamy bosoms--bosoms which he tried hard not to look at. And he also had to try hard not to imagine what it would be like if he explore them with his fingers. She was too holy for such thoughts. He had tried to hide his lust. He frequently blushed and shivered even though it was a summer’s day. But something of his redirected sexual energy went instead into listening to her lengthy lessons about God; and she taught him desire for the Kingdom of Heaven, in spite of the fact that he was often distracted that other desire which he had suppressed when he was around her.
A cold wind shook him from his thoughts suddenly. The lights flickered a bit and he now found himself in a part of the city he hadn’t seen before. Exactly how far he had walked he couldn’t say. Nothing looked familiar and he realized he was lost. There were bars, liquor stores, head shops, and strip joints. He didn’t like being there and didn’t feel particularly safe, so he turned around and tried to find a more respectable area for his meanderings. But everywhere he went it was the same or worse: prostitutes on the corners, homeless drunks pan handling, black cars with tinted windows moving slowly down the streets playing hip hop with the base deafeningly loud.
He paused, perplexed, and was now desperate to get out of there. He pulled out his cell phone to call a taxi, but his phone was dead. He walked into a bar and asked if there was a pay phone. A thin bartender with short blond hair and spectacles pointed and Goodman Brown wandered to the back of the bar only to find that the cord to the old pay phone had been cut. He returned to tell this to the bar tender who shrugged. He was about to leave when someone said, “You are late, Mr. Brown.”
Goodman turned and saw a middle-aged man having a beer at the bar. He was dressed a bit oddly, wearing a coat with evening tails and a top hat—but what caught Goodman’s eyes was the man’s walking stick. It was ebony, and was carved of in the shape of a snake, which, for a moment, actually seemed to hiss and strike at him. No one in the bar noticed this and Goodman thought it must have been a trick of the dim light and smoke in the room. As he looked at it again he saw plainly that it was just wood. “Faith kept me back a bit—what was I supposed to say?” He found himself saying, his eyes still lingering on the snake.
“That you were just going out to meet your father.”
At this, Goodman looked directly at the man in front of him. “But you aren’t my father.”
“No?” the man asked. But Goodman realized from the way this man looked and acted that he could, indeed, have been mistaken for his father. “Ah well, no matter,” the man continued. Come let’s walk for a while.”
They were about to leave the bar when a shriek of laughter caused Brown to turn. Two women, obviously prostitutes, were indulging an older man at the table. He was shocked when recognized that it was Deacon James—older but unmistakable. He was drunk, that was clear, but he suddenly stood when he saw the man in tails. “Well, it is such an honor to see you again, sir.” “Ah, Deacon James! Always with the ladies, it seems. Will you be joining us at the circle later? We have a few new initiates.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Goodman Brown.”
Deacon James started to reach for Brown’s hand when he recognized him. Goodman, however, did not offer his hand in return, being both shocked and repulsed by what he was seeing. The old deacon ignored this and said, “Ah, yes, I’ve known you since you were little, Goodman. Well, I guess it is time you were introduced to our secrets. Way past time, really.”
Goodman was disgusted as the older man disengaged Deacon James with all the civility of a gentleman, and took Goodman from the bar, saying, “You’ll have to pardon us. We have many miles to walk together before this night is over.”
Looking through the window as they left, Goodman watched the prostitutes close in around Deacon James who was smiling and laughing. Goodman felt inexplicably sick. He wanted to return home to Faith and the comforts of her arms. And yet, at the same time, he also wanted to know the truth that was all around in this darkness—had to know, really. If all he had ever known was a lie, he had to find it out and call it what it was.
Breaking a moment of silence, Goodman, shook his head.” “I wonder when Deacon James left the church, and how he came to such a life.”
“Oh, he never left the church. He has always been an excellent servant for me in such a capacity. But, as I said, he has always liked the ladies.”
They walked on in silence for a while, past street lamps where he saw old men drinking and over heard them telling crude jokes. He thought he knew them from his church days. They stopped and waved at the gentleman that walked beside Goodman. “Looking forward to seeing you later, Sir.” They called out. If they saw or recognized Goodman, they didn’t show it and Goodman was rather glad.
Soon they came to a building that had been set up as a temporary campaign headquarters for a certain political party. The gentleman with the walking stick paused in front of this building, and told Goodman he had a bit of business to conduct here and they entered in.
A busy secretary didn’t bother to look up as the two men came into the room. “I’m sorry, but Vernon Pierson is in a meeting at the moment and could be a while. Could you…” She stopped when she looked up to see who it was. “Oh, I am so very sorry sir, I didn’t realize it was you.” She flushed with true embarrassment and stood up too fast, nearly spilling a cup of coffee on her desk.
“Quite all right. You can make up for it tonight at the ceremony.”
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Looking forward to it.” She said suggestively. “Mr. Peirson’s office is over there. Just go on in.”
Vernon Peirson, Goodman thought. He knew that name. As they entered he saw a startled Politician stuffing his pockets with cash that was being handed to him by men he recognized form the papers and magazines as the CEO’s of several large banking industries and drug companies. Goodman then recognized the politician as the old preacher from his childhood days. The men in the room were relieved to see that it wasn’t the press or the cops, and were even visibly relaxed when they saw it was the man in the top hat. They greeted him with warm handshakes and smiles, and all of them seemed eager to please, if not blatantly, brown nose him.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “You are among my greatest servants in whom I am well pleased. Rest assured that your positions are secure and you will have prosperity for the rest of your lives.” After a round of kissing his ring and staff, and giving expressions of gratitude, he said to them further, “Now if you will excuse me, I would like to speak with Mr. Pierson. It is in your interest that I do so.”
These prominent, dignified men quickly scrambled out of the office. Goodman was asked to stay and observe as they all sat down around the desk.
“What can I do for you?” Pierson asked.
“I simply want to reaffirm that we need to up the ante in our seduction of the Christians. Now, more than ever, we need their loyalty to our cause. Even though I allowed a candidate from my other party to win this time, I am rather disappointed by his performance. He has done entirely too much to help the common people at the expense of some of my most powerful friends in this country. I apologize for the damage that this has caused to you and to my more favored party. But trust me; it was essential to our long-term goal. While your party made huge advances the previous eight years at undermining the freedoms and liberties of the American people while advancing the profits of the banking, credit, health care industries and other corporations—all belonging to my great servants who have been so loyal to me—the problem of democracy has reared its ugly head. Perhaps all the efforts of the previous administration were too many and too fast. I had to slow you down a little by advancing my other party over yours for a while. But we are quickly advancing lies and innuendos regarding the current president which will grow and undermine him in the next elections. You will survive his time in office and then we can advance our cause some more.”
As the man with the walking stick talked, Pierson kept steady eye contact and nodded frequently saying, “Yes sir. I understand, sir. Had to be that way, sir.” And he kept on saying such things until the speech was over when he asked, “So how can we win back the Christians?”
“We must reiterate our pro-life position, only I’m afraid that we may have to actually throw them a bone this time. Many of them are becoming disenchanted with the party since we haven’t actually done anything about abortion in years and in the meantime our movement away from democracy toward the neo-baronial system ( a system, I might add, that is more comfortable for me and my greatest of servants) has left them concerned about the lack of jobs and the growing poverty in this country. They are, like the one they follow, rather idealistic in their compassion. But a pro-life position will keep them in line as it has done for years and years. I have it on the best sources that two members of the Supreme Court may be having medical mishaps after the current president leaves office and the new president will be in a position to appoint new pro-life judges to office. They won’t over-turn Roe vs. Wade, of course—nobody wants to do that—but it will give plenty of false hope to the Christians. And, of course, their continued support will insure that large corporations will have a friendly court to deal with and, personally, I am looking forward to the possibility that they will find a way to over-turn tobacco settlements in a number of states.”
To all of this Pierson nodded and salivated like a puppy. He never once recognized Goodman Brown, but Goodman remembered him all too well—and all of his sermons about hell and the terror of a wrathful God. Vernon Pierson would often preach that the love of money was the root of all evil and that it would be harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Goodman wondered how such a man could change so much—become so corrupt, but he said nothing; just listened.
When they left the campaign headquarters, Brown turned to his partner for the evening and asked, “When did you win this preacher over? How long ago?”
“Oh,” He laughed, “that old avaricious son of a bitch has had his hand in the till since seminary. Why, greed and religion go hand in hand, and the belief that God will prosper the righteous overrides anything that is actually in the bible. But come, my son, we still have people to see and a long way to go before we arrive at our destination.”
And so they walked on. Goodman was miserable and wondering if there was any virtue left in the world. Faith, he thought, I still have Faith. She, at least is home and safe and waiting for me to return.
There were gangs roaming the streets through which they walked. Bloods, Kings, GD, all of them were cutting and shooting and fighting, so that Goodman was terrified of the night and the city streets. “No need to worry, they may kill each other, but they all know me.” Goodman’s escort was saying. And it was true—they all ran over to kiss his ring and staff and then went on with their endless war.
In time they came to what was commonly called a whorehouse. Goodman hesitated, not wanting to go in. “I know it is not seemly or tasteful for you to enter such a place, but I have business here also, it is a dear old friend, a mutual acquaintance who would like nothing more than to see you. He led the reluctant Goodman up a set of steps that smelled like old piss and vomit and, though there was incense pouring into the halls, nothing could cover the stench. Inside was a large open area with the smell of pot and women dancing half naked in red lights. Goodman turned his eyes and walked on until they came to a door and entered. A rather plump woman sat in a long, low-cut blue velvet dress. She recognized him long before he recognized her. Her eyes were dark and she wore heavy makeup. Her hair was bleached but it didn’t cover the white at the roots. She resisted rushing to him and turned again to the older man, “Why if it isn’t the Devil, himself.”
“Hello, Addy, you old witch.” He turned to Goodman, “Addy’s a witch who’s ridden a lot of broomsticks in her lifetime. She likes them young and firm, isn’t that true Addy.”
For a split second, Addy looked offended, but then quickly caught herself and laughed, “That’s right, I have a thing for young and firm; the younger and firmer the better.”
“But you never had Goodman’s, did you Addy.”
“No, not Goodman’s.” she sighed.
“And why is that, Addy?”
Addy paused, a bit unsure of what to say. “I couldn’t burst his bubble, I suppose.” She looked away.
Goodman thought he heard the older man’s walking stick hiss, but saw nothing. He dismissed it because he was feeling dizzy. He had been feeling sick and was getting worse, especially since he had realized who this woman was.
“Addy, what are you saying?”
“She’s saying that she fucked about every young boy in her Sunday school class but you.”
Goodman grew nauseas. His throat was constricting. He said hoarsely, “That’s impossible. Addy was so holy—I’d have known. The other boys would have told me.”
“No.” The older man said almost gently, “Not after the initiation. People keep their secrets only for the initiated. You never belonged.”
“Addy, is it true?”
Addy scowled at him, “Did you really want to know this, Goodman? Did you really want the truth? Didn’t you want to go on living your life in the bliss of naiveté?” She grew hard and bitter suddenly, “You think I didn’t want to fuck you too?”
“Why didn’t you, Addy?” the older man asked.
“You know perfectly well, it had to be his choice to do so.” She said this without looking away from Goodman. “You think I didn’t know your thoughts, Goodman? You think I didn’t see those furtive glances or notice the quick drop of your eyes to my bosom? It amused me. I pleasured so many of your friends and taught them the secrets of sin, but you clung to your—virtue.” She spat. “You could have had me, Goodman, and through me, known so many other secret pleasures.” Then she added slowly, bitterly “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, for time it is a flying. Look at your hands, Goodman.”
He looked down and saw that his hands were withered like an old man’s hands. His mouth was opened slightly. He felt his stomach lurch, he turned to puke.
The older man laughed. “Not a pretty sight, old man, especially with that puke on your chin.”
He stood, feeling an ach in his back he hadn’t felt before, glanced in Addy’s dresser mirror, and saw himself as an old man and was horrified.
“What have you done to me?” he asked.
“What have you done to yourself?” Addy said to him. “To have lived for your virtue all of these years and never seen it for the lie it is. You have lived a miserable, pathetic life—shunning every pleasure and want, in the name of virtue and what has it done for you? It has made you old and empty and alone.”
“No, no, no, I have Faith—she is my greatest pleasure and companion.”
“Faith!—Ha! Do you really think that Faith—“
“Enough! Addy.” The older man threw his walking stick on the floor and this time it turned into a very real serpent and hissed at Addy, who backed away.
“Yes, my lord as you desire,” she said with the downcast eyes of a servant.
The man in the evening tails picked up the snake which instantly snapped back into an ebony walking stick. He pointed it at Goodman and transformed him to his youthful self once again, “It is just a witch’s illusion” he said.
But Goodman still felt old, very old, inside his body, and wasn’t sure which was the illusion any more, his youth or his old age?
When they left the brothel, Goodman thought he had never felt miserable and unsure of himself. They walked on not talking for a while. He saw that people were moving along the streets. Some were just stepping from the bars and had hooded cloaks in their arms and others were putting them on alread. He recognized many of them.
“We are getting close now.”
“I still have Faith; I still have her.” He muttered to himself, but he suddenly wasn’t sure any more. People he had believed in for years, had shown that they were, in fact, the worst of sinners. Everything Addy had taught him was a lie, but worst of all was that Addy herself was a lie. He recalled how just earlier that evening he had thought that Faith and Addy were a little alike. How could he have thought that Faith was anything like her at all? Faith was nothing like her.
The older man did not talk now, but he just kept waking. More and more people were moving down the streets and the sidewalks. He heard a woman’s voice and thought it sounded like Faith. He turned and saw a woman in one of the cloaks but he couldn’t see her face. Her movements seemed troubled and she halted from time to time and seemed to be asking a lot of questions. His attention was suddenly jolted back to his companion ashe was abruptly greeted by another acquaintance.
“Good to see you sir, I am certainly looking forward to communion tonight.”
“Glad to see you also Father Andrew, are all things ready?”
“Yes, the sacrifices have been made and the cup is ready. I hear we have quite a few initiates tonight including a rather lovely young woman.”
“Yes, and a very promising young man.”
Goodman was just wondering if the promising young man referred might have been himself, when suddenly he heard a near by scuffle and a scream. It all happened so quickly. The young woman that sounded so much like faith had been abrupty seized and taken into the darkness. Goodman broke away from his companion and ran to the spot where she had been. The street was instantly empty, and it seemed as if all the people vanished into smoke and fog. A wisp of wind blew old news papers around him and something in the street caught his eye. He looked down and saw a pink ribbon. He picked it up and found several strands of auburn hair were still clinging to it. “Faith!” He panicked. “Faith! He ran in the direction that he though she had been taken. He stumbled several times over trash boxes and old homeless men as he made his way down a dark ally, but he came to a dead end of brick walls that were covered with graffiti and garbage. “Faith,” he whispered, out of breath, and he said to the air, “Faith, I’ve lost you!” He felt sick again, his belly cramping. He doubled over but couldn’t retch. He felt the cramps again and again. His face was contorted with agony, and he started crying bitterly, painfully.
“Pride, Mr. Brown, is the darkest of all sins.” The older man was saying to him when Goodman finally came to himself. “It may not seem so terrible to you as the acts of lust, greed, and others that are so graphic. Pride is simply the belief that you are holy—that you are above the lechery and debauchery of others—that you are better than others and somehow closer to God.” He was holding a pitch-black cloak in his hand, so dark that it was nearly a shadow or like it was made of some material that sucked in all light. “There are those who say that it is my particular sin, but it is also yours—like father, like son, they also say.”
“I’ve lost Faith,” is all he could piteously respond with.
“Well, it is all for the best, you know. As you said at the beginning of the evening, she—‘held you back.’ Now you are free, Mr. Brown. I hope you enjoy your fall.”
“What fall? What are you talking about?”
“There is mathematical relationship between height of Pride and the depth of its fall to the power of 6. And you, Mr. Brown climbed very, very high. Now perhaps you will understand that you are my son.” He threw the cloak around Goodman and everything went black except for the sensation of falling. It was a fearful fall, like being sucked down at light speed. He was burning like a meteor—like a falling star among falling stars cast out of heaven never able to return again. Faith was lost, ripped away from him. There was no safety net, nothing to catch him, no heaven above, no hell below, only the gaping mouth of oblivion at the end of a brief, meaningless existence.
He hit the pavement hard. It was still night—still the blighted city. He stood and found himself in the middle of a circle of cloaked people. Their cloaks were black but not so dark as his. They were standing on the black top of inner city basket ball courts. Torches and lanterns were hung on the chain link fences towering over those courts. Strange music began with a rhythm that matched a heartbeat. A procession of dancing women entered the court, but they looked as if they had stepped out of negatives of black and white photos so that shadow was light and light was shadow, so that Goodman didn’t realize at first that they were naked and that all of them looked like the reverse image of Faith. At one end of the court those women brought an alter and as they danced they also brought knives and bowls of fruits and other signs of harvest and then, one at a time, they cut themselves a little and gave blood to the cup—a mixture of black and white. Then from behind the alter, in a cloak as dark as Goodman’s, a figure stepped into the light of the torches. He had an ebony walking stick in his hands which he lifted and touched to the points of the Alter. The Stick transformed into a serpent once more and the figure placed the serpent’s teeth to the cup and milked the venom into the cup. He lifted the cup and swirled it to mix the venom with the blood. He seemed to be muttering secret words and made several signs before he placed the cup back on the alter.
“Bring forth the initiates.” He said loudly.
Goodman found himself going forward. Someone behind him reached out to hold him back. He didn’t look to see who or what it was. He pulled away and walked toward the altar. He wanted to be bad, wanted to do the wrong thing, wanted to be free of what was obviously a tyranny of lies that denied him all that was pleasurable in life and that kept him back from living his own life. All he had ever known was the suppression of desires because of his conformity to a religion which was nothing more than manipulation by charlatans who were out to control and take advantage of people to their own ends. He had dared to gaze into the mystery of sin and found that all those he had respected had participated in the secrets. He felt that he had been such a fool. He no longer wanted the charade of religion. If there was something in this cup to free him, he would drink it.
But then a third cloaked figure was brought to the altar. By its shape and walk, Goodman guessed it was a woman. She came and stood next to Goodman but he could not see her face and he guessed that she could not see his either. The older man with the serpent motioned them to turn and look. One by on the cloaked figures removed their hoods. Goodman now began to see how vast this secret of sin was and how many of his childhood friends, teachers and people he had respected and revered as saintly souls had participated. Deacon James, Addy, Vernon Pierson were among many more. And then in the smoke above this crowd, Goodman thought he saw the shadows of people long dead, even his own father and mother—and seeing them in this throng made him feel a twinge of the sickness he had felt several other times this evening. It was the booming voice behind him that turned him back to the alter and made him focus again. The older man was reading from a book that looked as if it had been read from over and over again. He knew he had read them before somewhere:
"There," quoted the cloaked figure, "are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. Ye deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping assembly. This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds:
An older man in the crowd went on as if from memory, having been through this time and time again. “…how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton words to the young maids of their households…”
An older woman quoted: “…how many a woman, eager for widows' weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom… “
A young man quoted: “how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fathers' wealth…"
A woman in her early thirties quoted: “…how fair damsels--blush not, sweet ones--have dug little graves in the garden, and bidden me, the sole guest to an infant's funeral.”
The Master of this ceremony finished the reading: “By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin ye shall scent out all the places--whether in church, bedchamber, street, field, or forest--where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power--than my power at its utmost--can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other."
He took the chalice and handed it to the female figure. She took it in her right hand and pulled her hood back with her left. It was Faith. She looked at Goodman confused and she started to put the chalice to her lips when Goodman slapped the cup from her hands and shouted, “Faith, Faith! Shun the devil and turn to God and to heaven.”
In an instant everything vanished, the crowd, the cup, the altar, the devil and Faith. He was alone in his coat with Faith’s scarf wrapped around him where she had placed it earlier that evening. He was standing on a basketball court somewhere in the city. He walked and walked until he started to recognize streets and eventually found his apartment just as the sun was rising.
He stood a long time at his own door, wondering if she would still be there. Oddly, he found himself knocking at the door rather than use the key to get in. Faith answered and looked surprised, perhaps because he had knocked like a stranger. She was in a night gown and her hair was in the disarray of sleep and yet she looked as if she hadn’t slept much. “Oh, my sweet,” she said, “come in, I have had terrible dreams, I’m afraid I had very little sleep. She kissed him and hugged him even though his response wasn’t really there. “What is wrong?”
“I’m just very tired. I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Then come and lie beside me and we can at last rest.”
Goodman went in and did lie down next to her on their bed, but she fell asleep long before he did. He stared up at the ceiling not knowing what was real anymore. His thoughts were scattered, fragmented and not logically connected. He saw that his future with her would never be the way it was before. He thought of Addy at the brothel and of what she showed him in the mirror: the truth. He was old, very old. His present youth was an illusion-- nothing more than the internal image of himself that was forever young, forever virtuous, and full of ideals—how he had always seen himself. Always, at least until now.
He looked over at Faith. What did he really know about her? He tried to tell himself that the night’s events were all a dream and yet, dream or not, there was something disturbingly true about it all. It was a truth that would haunt him all his life. It would isolate him from all people, and make him doubt the apparent virtue in even the best of men and women, and would even poison his relationship with Faith. He had compared her with Addy once, when he had thought of Addy as a vision of virtue, and had denied that she was anything like Addy when it turned out that Addy was a whore and a pedophile. But now, he wondered what darkness was in her when he was away from her. What if she did have secret sins and went whoring behind his back. How could he sure? How could he ever be sure?
No comments:
Post a Comment