Ramon went to the _Morada_, the chapter house of the _penitentes_, alone
and late at night, for all of the whippings and initiations of the order,
except those of Holy Week, are carried on in the utmost secrecy.
The _Morada_ stood halfway up the slope north of the little town, at the
elevation where the tall yellow pines of the mountains begin to replace
the scrubby juniper and _pinon_ of the _mesas_ and foothills. It was a
cool moonlit night of late summer. A light west wind breathed through the
trees, making the massive black shadows of the juniper bushes faintly
alive. As he toiled up the rocky path Ramon heard the faraway yap and
yodel of a coyote, and the still more distant answer of another one. From
the valley below came the intermittent bay of a cur, inspired by the moon
and his wild kin, and now and then the tiny silver tinkle of a goat bell.
The _Morada_ stood in an open space. It was an oblong block of _adobe_,
and gave forth neither light nor sound. Ramon stopped a little way from it
in the shadow of a tree and lit a cigarette to steady his nerves. He felt
now for the first time something of the mystery and terribleness of this
barbaric order which he proposed to use for his purpose. All his life the
_penitentes_ had been to him a well-known fact of life. For the past week
he had spent much of his time with the _maestro de novios_ of the local
chapter, a wizened old sheep herder, who had instructed him monotonously
in the secrets of the order, almost lulling him to sleep with his endless
mumblings of the ritual that was written in a little leather book a
century old. He had learned that if he betrayed the secrets of the order,
he would be buried alive with only his head sticking out of the ground, so
that the ants might eat his face. He had been informed that if he fell ill
he would be taken to the _Morada_ where his brothers in Christ would pray
for him, and seek to drive the devil out of his body, and that if he died,
they would send his shoes to his family as a notice of that event; and
would bury him in consecrated ground. Some of the things he had learned
had bored him and some had made him want to laugh, but none of them had
impressed him, as they were intended to do, with the might and dignity of
the ancient order.
He was impressed now as he stood before this dark still house where a
dozen ignorant fanatics waited to take his blood for what was to them a
holy purpose. He knew that this _Morada_ was a very old one. He thought of
all the true penitents who had knocked for admission at its door and had
gone through its bloody ordeal with a zeal of madness which had enabled
them to cry loudly for blows and more blows until they fell insensible. He
tried to imagine their state of mind, but he could not. He was of their
race and a growth of the same soil, but an alien civilization had touched
him and sundered him from them, yet without taking him for its own. He
could only nerve himself to face this ordeal because it would serve his
one great purpose.
As he stood there, a curious half-irrelevant thought came into his mind.
He knew that the marks they would make on his back would be permanent. He
had seen the long rough scars on the backs of sheep-herders, stripped to
the waist for the hot work of shearing. And he wondered how he would
explain these strange scars to Julia. He imagined her discovering them
with her long dainty hands, her round white arms. A great longing surged
up in him that seemed to weaken the very tissues of his body. He shook
himself, threw away his cigarette, went to the heavy wooden door and
knocked.
Now he spoke a rigamarole in Spanish which had been taught him by rote.
“God knocks at this mission’s door for His clemency,” he called.
From within came a deep-voiced chorus, the first sound he had heard from
the house, seeming weirdly to be the voice of the house itself.
“Penance, penance, which seeks salvation!” it chanted.
“Saint Peter will open to me the gate, bathing me with the light, in the
name of Mary, with the seal of Jesus,” Ramon went on, repeating as he had
learned. “I ask this confraternity. Who gives this house light?”
“Jesus,” answered the chorus within.
“Who fills it with joy?”
“Mary.”
“Who preserves it with faith?”
“Joseph!”
The door opened and Ramon entered the chapel room of the _Morada_. It was
lighted by a single candle, which revealed dimly the rough earthen walls,
the low roof raftered with round pine logs, the wooden benches and the
altar, covered with black cloth. This was decorated with figures of the
skull and cross-bones cut from white cloth. A human skull stood on either
side of it, and a small wooden crucifix hung on the wall above it. The
solitary candle—an ordinary tallow one in a tin holder—stood before this.
The men were merely dark human shapes. The light did not reveal their
faces. They said nothing to Ramon. He could scarcely believe that these
were the same good-natured _pelados_ he had known by day. Indeed they were
not the same, but were now merely units of this organization which held
them in bondage of fear and awe.
One of them took Ramon silently by the arm and led him through a low door
into the other room which was the _Morada_ proper. This room was supposed
never to be entered except by a member of the order or by a candidate. It
was small and low as the other, furnished only with a few benches about
the wall, and lighted by a couple of candles on a small table. A very old
and tarnished oil painting of Mary with the Babe hung at one end of it.
All the way around the room, hanging from pegs driven into the wall, was a
row of the broad heavy braided lashes of _amole_ weed, called
_disciplinas_, used in Holy Week, and of the blood-stained drawers worn on
that occasion by the flagellants.
Still in complete silence Ramon was forced to his knees by two of the men,
who quickly stripped him to the waist. Beside him stood a tall
powerfully-built Mexican with his right arm bared. In his hand he held a
triangular bit of white quartz, cleverly chipped to a cutting edge. This
man was the _sangredor_, whose duty it was to place the seal of the order
upon the penitent’s back. His office required no little skill, for he had
to make three cuts the whole length of the back and three the width,
tearing through the skin so as to leave a permanent scar, but not deep
enough to injure the muscle. Ramon, glancing up, saw the gleam of the
candle light on the white quartz, and also in the eyes of the man, which
were bright with eagerness.
Now came the supreme struggle with himself. How could he go through with
this ugly agony? He longed to leap to his feet and fight these ignorant
louts, who were going to mangle him and beat him for their own amusement.
He held himself down with all his will, striving to think of the girl, to
hold his purpose before his mind, to endure.…
He felt the hand of the _sangredor_ upon his neck, and gritted his teeth.
The man’s grip was heavy, hot and firm. A flash of pain shot up and down
his back with lightning speed, as though a red hot poker had been laid
upon it. Again and again and again! Six times in twice as many seconds the
deft flint ripped his skin, and he fell forward upon his hands, faint and
sick, as he felt his own blood welling upon his back and trickling in warm
rivulets between his ribs.
But this was not all. To qualify, he knew, he must call for the lash of
his own free will.
“For the love of God,” he uttered painfully, as he had been taught, “the
three meditations of the passion of our Lord.”
On his torn back a long black snake whip came down, wielded with merciless
force. But he felt the full agony of the first blow only. The second
seemed faint, and the third sent him plunging downward through a red mist
into black nothingness.