The Eleventh
by Amanda Boyden
November 7, 2006
We all know that in the beginning, People created our heaven and condemned the rest of us to earth. Back in the time of darkness, People told us who to worship, and we followed, blind puppies nuzzling around for an available teat. Now, though, while People still makes a show of choosing the celebrities, we decide what these gods and goddesses will accomplish, what they will do with their powers. We are People.
The elders, Fair Shiloh and Dark Zahara, continue to sit lotus as the first ordained. Their brother Maddox refused People's calling. His treks across the globe, his alpaca-petting and whale-riding, work in much the same way, but he will never sit lotus. A shame for us. Regretfully, the controversial ruling ten years ago did away with their other siblings' ability to join the sisters in status.
I had the honor of tending Dark Zahara from '22 to '25. Before I came to her, she determined, at the age of twelve, that she would represent the dark continent in mourning colors until the troubles had ended. Now, I am a fey old man, but I must admit, I personally urged her to consider the beautiful side of shadow. My small legacy began with Dark Zahara. Today she wears deep violet like no other, brown and wine and navy, tarnished bronze, silver gone to near black.
My new ward, the latest People has designated Holy, debuts this week. She tips the balance of five female and five male. Everyone waits, zealously, chomping at the bit, for our Holy eleventh, Islita. My gut tells me that she lives and breathes not as a product of Love but rather the planning of her very beautiful and A-secreting blood type parents. I am certain they procreated with a verbal pre-pro and shook upon it, even though all the Holy are supposed to be born of passionate and spontaneous unions. They parted shortly after Islita's mother tested pregnant. Lithe Islita, the ectomorph, knows nothing of the rewards her parents are soon to reap.
Day One
Islita comes out quietly on her eighteenth birthday, as is tradition, but all the earth and heavens watch. There's little to establish other than her physicality, which I've nurtured for seven months. Islita's appearance is unannounced and choreographed down to the minutiae.
We've chosen a tofu place on The Strip, just popular enough to pass under the radar with enough buzz for a Somebody to notice, a Somebody to get Islita with a cell-cam.
And one does. I see him at his table, eating noodles. He glances, and then glances again. He tries to be sly, tries to be the first. He may get the credit and the money if his cell-cam server is quick enough. And then the crush begins. I whisper a reminder of her training in her ear as they begin to circle, pointing their lenses at the new Holy. Flashes of light fill the room. I know my job for this day is over. Islita's hair, her breast presentation and her limb ratio will be perfectly represented.
She smiles, her tilted head perfect. She blinks, stands for the followers, for People, turns and poses. Good girl, I nod.
I will take credit for this week whether or not I want to. It's in my contract. Tomorrow she will have her full name. Tonight's debut will determine it.
Day Two
Islita weeps. I suspected she would. None of them are ever prepared enough for the weight of it all. But I am old enough to have seen Princess Diana's wedding and her end, old enough to have watched the Hilton empire collapse, old enough to remember Jude Law sober. And so I know how to help Islita. Gentle Islita, they have named her, and she weeps for the passivity of it, for the lack of strength. Her weeping, of course, speaks to her name, and I have to smile behind my hand.
I remind her of her lessons, of Gandhi and Barack Obama. Gentle Islita's tears fill her aqua eyes, spill out onto her mother's cheek bones, collect in the hollows above her clavicles. If this morning's naming produces such a reaction, I am afraid for Friday's Flower Ceremony.
It can't be undone, I tell her. It is what it is.
I don't want it, she says, wiping at her eyes. I will need to apply cold compresses later, hemorrhoid cream if she keeps at it. Thank goodness for young skin.
I lift her chin, force her to look at me. Gentle, I say, is better than many.
She nods. We cannot change it. She will be Gentle Islita forever and ever, Amen.
Day Three
Today she goes unbathed in public protest for the Fair Water Agreement. The move is planned, but I make certain to see to her appearance, am sure to approximate impulsiveness. She goes braless beneath her gauzy shirt. The shoot takes place in the desert of Nevada. Dry ground. So much dry ground. The cracks remind me of the lines on maps.
The cameras snap away, click and click, the photogs clamoring, and I stare at the ground, wonder if the boundaries of the former Soviet Union are marked anywhere in the earth at all. Maybe it is only an invisible border of karma alone.
Gentle Islita performs like a trouper. She smiles at me near the end of the shoot. I smile back, but I have seen the images of the man for her Flower Ceremony. He feeds the children of Guatemala for three years for Gentle Islita's hymen. It is not, in my humble opinion, enough, her blindfold and his anonymity the only saving graces.
Day Four
On her fourth day, Gentle Islita joins the stars, moves from one club to the next. She breaks a shoe strap. A woman from television elbows Gentle Islita in the head. Her casualties are minor, however. I smoke a joint in celebration behind the pool house at night, stare at the moon, and wonder what People will print the next morning. The smoke fills my lungs with regret instead.
Day Five
On the fifth day, Gentle Islita says, Today I will fly.
Today you will fly, I agree. Like a bird.
Like a flying fish.
Higher, farther, than a flying fish, I tell her. I am guarding her against tonight. Parachuting, today, will keep her in the moment, for a moment at least.
Later, I watch through the designated screen. My word alone constitutes consummation. I have to watch. I must. She does not make a sound. My fist likely does not hide my sobs.
Day Six
An elder sends her thanks. At breakfast, we watch Fair Shiloh's message on the wall screen. Gentle Islita scoops at a mango half. She says, I heard you crying last night.
I'm sorry, I tell her.
Why?
Because.
I'm fine, she says. Children will eat for years.
I look at the oats in my bowl, the traditional nudes, the men and women copulating around its ceramic edge. I can't eat.
And that is when it comes, when the wall screen switches to People Live, and we see the act as it unfolds.
The man is small and muddy-colored and clutches a knife. He holds an image of Gentle Islita aloft for the crowd to see. He asks of someone to his side, off camera, if People Live has tuned in. He appears satisfied with the answer he gets. He kneels. He proclaims his undying love for Gentle Islita. And he slices his own throat.
The screen fills with a torrent of blood, and I know my future will change.
Day Seven
On the seventh day, Gentle Islita rests. She sits lotus as she must. The chosen followers have paid righteous money to view her live, and she has announced her prayers, as is tradition. The Holy have a success rate beyond question. Over half their prayers have been answered with the power of People. Maddox should be so successful.
Gentle Islita sits lotus, and the people pray for what she wants. She has asked that they pray for understanding and for forgiveness. She is eighteen years and seven days old. And because of the events of yesterday, she is the first to sit lotus behind bulletproof glass at the end of the runway. I see her future and know, beyond question, she is needed, and she is ready, and she will be lonely beyond belief. I vow to renew my contract. I vow to earn bonuses. I understand my role. I know I will never be Holy by association. I know who I am, and I know what I will be called, forever and ever, Amen. n°
©2006 Amanda Boyden & hooksexup.com