A thirty-three-year-old man, in an extreme climate, a desert, fasting, scarce water, scant food, his a perfect body. It matters little whether he understood the instructions in advance, the pain he feels stretches beyond all he could imagine, is immense, has dragged since the early hours of the day. Even as he prays he wonders, bewildered, without losing consciousness, he gazes at the purple drop of blood on the palm of his hand, it is an image of the shadow of suffering. The trunks of the olive trees shudder, the leaves on the trees weep with him. Heaven and silence are condensed into a single breath. In the distance, the stars plead, flicker, light awaits expectantly and accompanies him. Everything senses the desecration, the bowels of the earth are wrapped in a tremor, and he sees the blood falling from his eyes, drop after drop, he watches: a kaleidoscope of horror, of screams, hunger, anxiety, unease, thousands of years under the purple shadow at Cain’s doorstep . . . the siege. He pauses twenty-one centuries ahead, voices break inside two giant trucks, they burst into shrouded screams, dozens of bodies wrapped in black plastic, children, men, women, the shouting strikes his belly, he weeps, they weep together. The jasmines about him shudder, the heavens moan. There is no time, everything is the same.
The wind blows with a scented perfume, the ritual is about to start, his atonement. Men sleep during this longest of nights. Beyond this time, the trailers stink with the stench of hyenas, the dead bodies multiply, in Africa, Palestine, Syria, Greece, Turkey, in the beaches of Italy, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, El Salvador, in the large window of time, every pain will become his pain.
He looks at his disciples, “wake up, wake up, wake up,” he utters three times, goes on his way. The men will awake. The bristling stars in this, the darkest of nights, proclaim the coming dawn. Prayers carry the sound of mercy, it reaches the consciousness of every mountain, rock, river, flower, and animal, of every one of the disciples in the coming centuries. A prayer is heard: because thou hast been faithful . . . so that thou will not be stained by the blood of this age . . .
The leaves fall slowly, the heavens and stars have their rhythm, the pain makes everything tremble. It has begun, the men are in a slumber still, they will awaken, HE knows, EL knows, they will awaken.
Blood falls, one drop at a time, on the ground, the birds shudder, the sea murmurs, beyond in another time: the lion dwelling with the lamb, the bear lying down with the horse, the asp and the child together. All pain, hatred, ungodliness will burn the transgressor, turn his face to stone, only those who hearken bear his name. Everyone heard, but even so not everyone hearkened.
This night stretches for centuries, and every step he takes is centuries long. . . . Only those who pricked up their ears bear his name. One step at a time, he walks through the garden, waits for the kiss on the cheek.
Citlalli H. Xochitiotzin is a poet, storyteller, and philosopher. Her award-winning work spans fifty years and has been published in Europe and North and South America. A champion of culture and human rights, she is president of the Desiderio Hernández Xochitiotzin Foundation.
Art by Jorgo Cocco.
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