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My sister and I entered on a day of mourning. Our mother had passed suddenly, and we were harshly stricken by the void we felt. We were in need of solidarity and order. We were both young-- she eighteen, and I twenty. We were naive, simplistic in our defenses, and had much to learn. We joined in a moment of weakness and second-guessing.
As we quickly discovered, the Cathari go by letters. The Perfect lose their names for K or B or X. We were taken by R. He was a man of bones. His elbows jutted from his arms abnormally. His head appeared to be all skull and cartilage, angular and fishy. His eyes seemed luminous and looming, like some creature of the deep, his voice necrotic and hushed.
As he spoke, the only movement issued from his jaw muscles. His body was utter stillness. His arms remained at his side. His eyes pierced through every listener.
“You must learn so much to be a Cathari. You must learn even more to be a Believer. You must learn even more to be a member of the Perfect."
This is how R would begin each meeting, as if he was opening a world which we too could enter, and eventually master, a world which had its own set of rules and nuance.
“The body is vile, as are its functions. The spirit is the only purity. The spirit alone is derived from God. God above wants to unite with us, to merge Himself with our spirits. Satan, however, has other plans. Satan created the body to enclose the spirit, to imprison the spirit. Satan stole the spirit from God to keep it here, in hell. Never forget that is where we are: in the dominion of Satan. And that the only path to return our spirits to God is through the renunciation of the body."
The Perfect all spoke this way. Every sermon I heard from R followed this format, perhaps even the same words, the same sentence structure, the same message.
My sister and I both became Believers after only two years in the community. They accepted us with fervent hands. They offered us compliments and accolades. They promised us eternal reward through denial.
“Why do you think you are here?" R asked us.
“We think were betrayed by the body and found little solace in it," I told him.
“The body is filth. The body is repulsion. You were betrayed by the body because the body is betrayal," R proclaimed.
We learned of the origins in the Bogomils of Thrace and of the theology of the founders. We unlearned the incarnation, which never happened, and the virgin birth, which was an impossibility. We discovered how Jesus entered this world through Mary’s ear. Both were angels sent to assist us, rather than save us. We learned that marriage and sexual relations are forbidden to Believers. The foods of sexual generation are abolished. All material elements of worship are rejected.
We discarded all but our most necessary material possessions, and dressed in clothes bearing little or no decoration. We lived on tubers and grains, as they told us to, and spoke of our gratitude to God, and our imminent return to Him.
A body betrayed us yet again, through the form of my sister. I was not allowed to save her through medicine. She caught fever and vomited for days. She shivered and shook, suffering from delusions. The poor girl coughed blood and cried in her sleep, yet I could do little for her. She spoke of nothing but Him as she passed away. Her hands were cramped into rocks.
Though I suppose I could have doubted or strayed as a result, my sister’s death only strengthened my resolve. Bodily betrayal struck once again. Was Satan to blame for this, or was He to thank? I was unsure at the time.
Upon my question, R spoke to me of this: “When the body dies, the spirit of all Believers goes to Him. If He determines the spirit is prepared, that spirit is united with Him. If the spirit needs more preparation, the spirit is sent to another body."
“I thought the body is the prison of the spirit," I said. “Why would He want to imprison us?"
“Spirits are often not fully purified for Him. He has no other recourse but to purify a spirit further. This is why we became the Perfect. If you become a Perfect, your spirit will have direct access."
I decided then to attempt to rise through the ranks of the Cathari. I aspired to be a member of the Perfect, as I aspired to unify myself with Him.
When a Perfect is cast out, he cannot return to the Believers, nor to the community as a whole. He must exile himself from the Cathari, as Satan was exiled from Heaven. T was the first. He ate an apple-- the product of sexual union. T ate that sexual union. T ate the body. This would not do.
His spare belongings were cast out into the dust: a bowl, wooden spoons, his meager rags, boots, and a rusty knife he used to slice bread crusts. As he left, we were encouraged to pick fruit and throw the products of sexual union at his vileness. I was among the heartiest of these castigators. I hit him on the forehead with a rotten pear. This gave me great delight, for T was lustful and would now cease to unify with Him. I threw peaches and pears, and hollered the slogans, which R encouraged us to proclaim. T stared at me as he limped across a field of scraggly winter wheat. He stared over his shoulder, the look of the lost, and we watched him walk into the distance.
I was made a Perfect. Why I am not sure, other than my continuous presence and fervid devotion. However, the other members of the Perfect decided, and so it was. To become a Perfect, however, they informed me I would have to perform a number of duties. I consented.
They asked me to memorize lengthy passages of holy writings. They asked me to fast for weeks at a time. They asked me to flagellate myself and other members of the Perfect. I performed these requests without complaint.
In addition, I wanted to remove a part of my own body as a symbol of my loathing for the body at large even though this wasn’t asked of me. However, I wanted to show my dedication. This was a difficult decision. Yet, after much deliberation, I removed my very nose with one slice of R’s knife. I thought, if I was to be a leader amongst the Cathari, I must illustrate this leadership through action.
Soon after R rallied us for a campaign of purification to the East. “In this land," he proclaimed, “lay many churches that deceive the people. These places of so-called holy worship use golden crosses, jewel-studded idols, and silver chalices to lure their followers deeper into the body." R’s eyes grew large with anticipation and fury. His skin was pale to the point of transparency. As he spoke one could see his veins pulsating underneath his skin, against his bones. I tried to concentrate, though my entire face was enflamed with pain from my self-mutilation.
The Perfect, the Believers, the entire community was up in arms at this reminder. We knew of these places of worship, but here R was detailing the extremes of their transgressions. Some among us vomited at the extravagance. We grasped whatever hoe or axe handle we could seize, and carrying little but ourselves we set forward onto the plains.
For days we walked through the dust of the lowlands. Little water was to be had, for only a parched creek trickled through this land, and the water itself was acrid and sour to the taste. Many complained of stomach cramps and fever. Our feet developed blisters, and we ran out of rations, and resorted to boiling what grasses we could find, and chewing on the bark of the thistle-bound trees and brush that sparsely littered the plains. Some among us considered the deer that grazed by the creek and one of our community frantically ran after one, but was directly exiled to go his own way after the deer, or whatever creatures he might wish to mutilate and devour.
After several weeks of this hardship, we came across a prairie church, and raided it with all the force we could muster on empty stomachs. We found a lone pastor asleep inside, and promptly removed him from the premises (Cathari do not take lives). We raided this church, each engorging ourselves upon the bread and few mealy potatoes and onions they had stored. We ate their food despite the strain of gorging ourselves from the house of sinners.
Within the building we found little in the way of silver or gold, but several stain-glassed windows decorated the facade of this place, and tapestries and silk cloth were to be found. R gave us the command to burn the building to the ground, and with much effort we did, lighting a bonfire of broken pews and ripping garments in the center of the structure.
We stepped back and watched the flames engulf the building, and the smoke billow into the dry air of the plains, and the cinders spark and moan as darkness descended. I watched the pastor on the rim of the horizon, as he watched the building burn to the ground. His shape was still and as slumped and motionless as the spiny trees of the land.
We found and destroyed two additional churches on the way to what R said was the center of Satan’s work in this land, a town called Volga. When we reached the outskirts of this town, the people we came across ran from us, and locked their doors and windows. They must have thought we were raiders bent on looting and raping their women, which was far from the truth. So we walked into the first church of this town, a large building with a high spire and a ceiling that must have been over thirty feet in height. A small gathering of people sat among the pews, but as we entered they stood and stared in open fear and outrage.
“Please leave this building. We are here to free you from the shackles of the body," R proclaimed.
They said they could not understand how we could free them from something they didn’t perceive. Yet R wasted no time quickly sparking his flint and lighting a torch that he fashioned from a cross and the holy garments of these people. He began touching the lighted torch to each pew in the church, and others among us followed his lead.
The congregation began wailing at us, and assaulted us physically. However they were too few, and though weak we were too numerous. The church was aflame. The congregation ran yelling into the street, some hollering of intruders, some calling for assistance. We too left the building, as it burned quickly and well, the fire racing up the wooden structure, and through the spire that crowned it.
Soon we were fired upon by a hail of rifles, crossbows, handguns-- whatever the townspeople had nearby. Our own screams were unleashed and we ran from this town, the citizens in pursuit. I saw my brethren pierced through with hunting arrows, a Perfect bashed with rocks, and many members of our community shot through with bullets of every sort. Many among us died in that town, R included-- his very head was blown clear from his shoulders. I myself only escaped with my life as a result of the citizen’s expenditure of ammunition: they had nothing left with which to slaughter us, and they had to attempt to contain the raging fire.
We nursed our wounds by the creek of those plains. I tried to ignore the piercing pain in my face, and the difficulty I had breathing. I stopped the ever-present flow of mucus with the back of my hand. The ache kept me from sleep. Yet sleep was for the weak, I thought. At night I would walk the land, swallowing the cool night air, like a fish. That night I was elected leader of the Cathari.
We were few in number upon our return. Many starved, strictly following the guidelines of our diet. Some among us chased after illusions. Others gnawed their own arms for sustenance. After our return, for days we did little but eat and drink, recouping the prisons in which we live, sleeping for twelve hours at a time.
The Perfect expected me to speak to them, to ease their grief. The community was falling apart. Many spent days weeping over their lost ones, consoling each other with sex and drink. So many had to be exiled. We must have lost half of the Believers, if not more. Some left in the middle of the night, burning their houses, leaving scathing letters reproaching the Cathari. The Perfect pleaded to me: "Speak to us, bring us guidance."
"I don't know what to say," I told them.
“Say anything," they pleaded. “You must speak the wisdom of our forefathers to appease their grief. Without leadership the Cathari will quickly dissolve."
That night I dreamt of copulating animals and wild cannibals with shiny teeth. They pursued me with their teeth and wet genitals. I ran from them, but they were faster, stronger. I tripped upon a root, and then awoke.
The next day I was brought into the hall with the remaining Believers and the sullen community watching me.
“Members of our community. Believers, Perfect. We have mourned for our losses. We have cried over our loved ones. Now it is time to take action. Now we must rectify the wrongs committed through the bodies of the Volga. Risking alterations in our beliefs, we must attack.
“I have reflected. It is not wrong to grieve over these losses. Yes, we are but bodies, trapped from our union from God. However, we are bodies seeking perfection to that union, approaching that union. We are humans who are allowed to love. We are humans who are allowed to protect our attempt at purification. He does not expect us to die lying down, throwing our bodies off the cliffs, gouging our hearts out with knives. If this was so, why are we here breathing? Speaking? Eating?
“We shall make a trade. We have enough knives in this community to perform this. Let it be. Upon your return home today, I ask of you: remove your genitals as a gesture to Him, a gesture of humility, of reckoning. This will be a gesture that tells Him we have not forsaken Him, that we have not forgotten the proper path. This will be a gesture which will rectify the bloodshed that will follow. This is how it will be."
A thunderous tumult erupted from the listeners. Many praised the gesture, but the Perfect glared at me, shaking their heads at the sky and wailing.
Among those that performed this deed of sacrifice, some buried their genitals underneath the hall. Others tossed their genitals into the river to be digested by fish and turtles. Others wrapped their genitals in linen and carried them in their satchels as a reminder of their previous incarnation.
Some among us refused the sacrifice all together, though I attempted to castigate them for this. Other members of the Perfect disagreed. Dissent was among us, which I was unable to squelch, just as I was unable to go back on my directives. Once it is said it is said. Once it is done it is done.
I sent several of the Perfect to the neighboring town for guns and swords. Those that remained waited in eager anticipation. Many wondered what would come next.
My genitals lie buried in the riverbank under layers of sand and pebbles.
On the evening before our voyage, the Pope’s legionnaires captured us as we slept. They slit the throats of the Believers and burned the humble houses of our community. The Perfect were taken across the plains in the name of justice. He allowed me to be spared. I walked along the riverbank that night. Witnessing the billowing smoke as I returned, I viewed the wreckage left by the legionnaires.
I would have rather been kidnapped along with the others. I was the sole member of the Perfect to remain, and the remaining community was desperate and distraught. They looked to me for guidance. We had weapons, but little in the way of an army. The community was demolished, eating stale bread and uncooked potatoes.
Many among us fled for safety and peace. Many left for former homelands. All rescue of the abducted was abandoned. Dissent was in the ranks, and few could tolerate the thought of sure suicide.
“We don’t stand a chance against the Pope’s men," I announced. “If we were fortunate enough to even make it there."
I was left ruling three families, all of whom were too sick to escape. Little hope was left. The remaining families returned to their old ways, eating rabbit stew and venison. I was the sole practitioner of the Cathari ways. I had little power to exile anyone, for they would laugh in my face. They ate apples and pears openly.
I visited the humble grave of my sister. The wooden cross had nearly rotted from the rain and ceaseless weathering. I borrowed stone-cutting instruments from the town, and set forth building her a proper headstone out of the feldspar common to that area. As I cut the stones with my unskilled hands, the raggedness of the rock and the softness of the soil affected me in unspeakable ways, in ways difficult to communicate. For the first time, I wept over the deaths I had witnessed, my sister’s death predominant among them.
Several days later, I packed what few belongings I had. Setting off to the South, I stopped by the sides of many a rural roadway, and picked apples from the trees, and ate them without hesitation. I let the juices run down my chin, and was at least momentarily content.
Nathan Leslie is the author of two collections of short fiction, A Cold Glass of Milk and Rants and Raves. Aside from being nominated for the 2002 Pushcart Prize, his fiction and poetry has or will appear in over one hundred publications, including Gulf Stream, StorySouth, Amherst Review, Wascana Review, Red River Review, X-Connect, Fiction International, Adirondack Review, The Crab Creek Review, Santa Clara Review, Tulane Review, Newport Review, The Sulphur River Literary Review, 3 A.M., Orchid, and Daybreak. He completed his MFA at the University of Maryland in 2000 and teaches at Northern Virginia Community College.
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