Song of Sinai, Chapter 4

Of Baptists, children, and a family on the run.

IV

 

Since we’re still having this conversation, I’m guessing you really are interested in Big Dog and his foretold works. As I said, we have to go back to the pup. Seems like a leap, but rumors have advantages. In the first five years, Cassius was untouchable. The stories of him being the son of Big Dog followed him like a hungry bloodhound. In a neighborhood where walking the wrong way gets you robbed, Cassius never got robbed, his household locked down with divine will. He was young and untouched, and neither Roman nor peasant took the risk of angering the mythical Big Dog. His name alone invoked fear and respect; love the Big Dog, and he’ll love you back. Anger him, and they said cataclysm followed, far worse than a black triangle at your door. Some would say he’s already angry, and Trinity was his terrible vengeance for some long forgotten insult. Canis Magnus est Dominus; Big Dog is Master.

Yearley. I know that name from somewhere. Anyway…

Numbers are the key to this whole deal, and when dealing with the man upstairs, you need to know one thing; he was an egotistical, mysterious, and violent man. ‘Was?’, you might be saying. Yeah, I use that term, but that doesn’t mean he’s dead and gone. Just quiet. No matter how you cut it up, Big Dog was said to have ended entire civilizations just because they didn’t respect his deific status. Cities would burn, flood, or generally suffer whenever his strength was challenged, and it was said the world was clothed in his majesty. One man I shared a loaf of bread with claimed he was a survivor from a distant and long forgotten land laid to waste by his wrath just for partying too hard. The tales always end the same way; Big Dog loves order, and you either fall in or burn. Not the kinda guy I’d want to bump into on the street. Still, they say he was always watching. Try to cover up next time you take a leak.

At least, that’s the way things should have been. Little Cassius had a healthy dose of kid’s innocence during his short stay here. While he was playing with blocks, his Mama sang him lullabies, though it’s anybody’s guess who needed the comfort more. A mother’s song can drown out gunshots, and she shielded him every hour of the day. Cassius was her treasure, and she made sure the kid knew it. She wasn’t much of a singer, but she could hum like an angel. In her head, she sang along to her little miracle.

Amazing grace

How sweet the sound

In reality, people tend not to accept so-called miracles on word alone. When you claim a ‘virgin birth’, there’s always going to be skeptics. And by ‘skeptics’ I mean the survivors of the bloodbath that night Little Cassius was born. Lots of angry parents, dead kids, and humiliated gangsters. Needless to say, this made life into a heap of trouble for Mr. And Mrs. Virgin. It didn’t help that the kid didn’t look like either parent neither. Dark dad, brown mom, light baby. Chocolate and peanut butter doesn’t make vanilla.

Every day, they’d be hounded. They couldn’t touch them, but they could sure as hell spit and curse. Mama Cassius was a w***e to them, and Papa Cassius was weak for putting up with his likely adulterous wife. Her cover story came back to haunt her real quick, and suddenly she became a sinner lying to cover her sins. Each day got harder and harder, and it got real clear real quick that Big Dog wasn’t barking to save them. Some alleged father he was. He had his way with her, and he was gone, whistlin’ his tune to another mistress. No one sings in Sinai.

One day, Papa Cassius had a change of heart. He’d been adamant of protecting his home, hard won and bought with the sweat and tears of industrial labor. He was a modern homesteader, and until this one moment, the thought of starting fresh elsewhere was a blasphemy even Big Dog wouldn’t tolerate. Read all about it! The Big Dog wants blood, fresh from nonbelievers!

“We need to go”, he said. Over and over again, he kept telling Baby Cassius and Mama Cassius that this place isn’t safe, and we need to go. ‘Herod is dead. We must go.’ Mama Cassius was about as lost as any rational person would be. Why leave when the supposed problem is gone? ‘Where do you expect us to go?’ she’d ask, grilling him harder than cheap steaks. And then, as the story goes, Papa Cassius couldn’t take any more of his wife’s words. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his calloused hands hard and firm. She protested, but cowered right into his eyes. And then, he hissed like a wild animal, equal parts fear and rage…‘Where they will never find us.’

Silence. Dust made more noise than the Cassius family household that night. And the staring. Husband and wife, locked in the loving embrace of death glares. I’d say you could cut the tension with a knife, but that’d be pretentious. You’d need something more industrial.

Now what? Well, what do you think? She was poor, lacked skills, and had no accepting family nearby. What would you do, genius? That, and Herod’s last ‘security’ patrol got a little too close for comfort, blasting their stereo horn thingy just down the street, cracking a window with the sheer force.

That’s right. They walked. I don’t mean just out the door, either. The Cassius family just kept on walking, day and night. Or so the story goes. They didn’t have a car, bus pass, train ticket, or even a pair of long legs and hooked thumbs to hitch hike. Come to think of it, I’m not even one hundred percent sure Mama Cassius agreed to the trip, dragged along by her built and ever so manly hubby. Kicking and screaming? It’s a possibility. Either way, the next generation nuclear family made it to a whole new world. Bright skies and happy endings, right? Well, not exactly.

See, right after the great family Cassius hit the road, certain leavings hit the fan. It all started where you would expect it to. Think of it as a lit match in house full of dry newspapers.

After news of the massacre in the slums, Herod senior took a turn for the worst. It hadn’t been three days since the shooting before the crazy old man breathed his last, and Herod Roman Junior was still shaken by the foolish movements of his former top three. With the world coming down around him, he took control, hellfire in his eyes. In a city already wracked with disease, crime, and raving lunatics, Herod’s massacre remained unforgotten. Street preachers called for the return of Big Dog, and the descent of his kingdom was nigh, fueled by the devil’s ignition. One man stood out above the rest, and boy, he was a sight.

Now, the Mad City had little in the way of natural wonders. Concrete gardens, trees, and even blades of grass cracking concrete were rare. Still, it wouldn’t be a land of contradiction without something that throws the lack of plants out the window. The preacher in the park, or “The Baptist” as he called himself, was one of these contradictions. In a park of mostly dead plants, old trees, and graffiti, The Baptist kept a garden, well watered, cleaned, and regarded. He slept in some industrial leftovers, probably remnants of a project to demolish the long dead park. Still, this man endured…wearing nothing more than leather and a tattered, hand sewn animal fur garb he claimed was made of camel hair. Some said he ate nothing but scraps and old leftovers he found lying around, with the occasional feast of roasted insects to treat himself. Others figured he lived off the land, and kept a beehive hidden away in his near-forest sanctuary, feasting on wild honey and rodents while the Mad City fed on fast food and cheap beer. I’d bet that it was a combination of both. Honey fried locust anybody?

Anyway. This “Baptist” got his name by what he did. Every day, he’d offer baptisms in the river. With this baptism came the promise of a sin free rebirth, and forgiveness from Big Dog. He never explained his reasoning, nor Big Dog’s. This river was just special for being special, and The Baptist had no shortage of a flock. Some even came daily, in the hopes of clean living right after they’d finished up with a girlfriend-for-hire. Still, The Baptist didn’t care. Preach and purify, no matter who or what showed up on his grassy doorstep. For the fire in the streets, The Baptist had a river to quench the flames.

Sit on that. Let’s get back to the pup.

Author's Note

As it appears in the book. Read on.