Prostrating Before the Goat

Sometimes you think you know a person, but twenty years later you find out they are somebody else altogether.

That Wednesday afternoon she packed our three teenaged boys and little girl into her minivan and kissed me goodbye as usual. I watched as she walked down the path, her black silk skirt flouncing around her ankles, the soft fabric clinging to her waist and accentuating her stylish figure. Even though we had been married for nearly two decades, I still considered her to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

She drove off toward the mountains. She and her siblings were getting together at her parents’ country house in the Laurentians to celebrate her nephew’s third birthday. She had been visiting her parents quite frequently over the past few years – in spite of the two-hour drive each way – and would even take off after a quick but festive luncheon following Saturday morning services at our traditional synagogue, knowing full well that I could not join her due to my religious observance, prohibiting me from travelling on the Sabbath. She would come up with a different excuse each time, disappearing at least twice a week for an extended period of time – whether to accompany her ailing father to a medical examination or to help her mother sort through her recipe books.

I was all set to leave the house for my weekly lecture on Spinoza’s Philosophy of the Divine, making the last knot on my tie, when the phone rang and the voice at the other end of the receiver announced that the lecture was cancelled as the synagogue was currently suffering a power outage. Though I had been exploring Spinoza’s philosophy – conflating God with nature – for over a decade, I never tired of sharing my fascination with his writings, originally thought to be heretical and grounds for excommunication by the Amsterdam Jewish community. Perhaps it was the very fact that they were initially forbidden that made them all the more intriguing and that inspired my in-depth study of the subject, which eventually turned into my doctoral dissertation and one of the authoritative books in the field.

I kicked off my leather shoes and removed my jacket, before collapsing into the armchair and reaching for the remote control. I surfed the channels until I realised that there was no show worth watching. It then occurred to me that, since my evening was now liberated, it might gladden my wife to have me join the family celebration.

I put my shoes and jacket back on, locked the house, got into the car, and drove north. The drive proceeded smoothly, despite the distance. I climbed the Laurentian Mountains and watched the sky changing colours as a prelude to sunset. Meanwhile, I practiced singing birthday songs – after all, there was no one there with me to catch me going off tune.

I finally exited the main road and entered the village of Val-David, where Sarah’s parents spent the majority of the year at their lakeside home. Even though darkness had already set in, the patio lights were off and no balloons decorated their garden gate. Other than her parents’ old Ford, the driveway was empty.

I parked my car across the narrow street and slipped into the garden noiselessly. I found a window with the blinds halfway up and glued my body to the outer wall of the house, peeking in. Flashing blue silhouettes pursued one another against the pane. The elderly couple sat in the loveseat, their outstretched legs resting on the ottoman covered in a patch quilt, their lined hands cupped around steaming ceramic mugs. They appeared to be captivated by a black-and-white film on the bulky screen. All alone, they were surrounded neither by their children nor grandchildren and I did not detect a frosted birthday cake on the living room table.

Bewildered, I knocked at the wooden door. At first the elderly couple did not hear my knock, camouflaged by the film’s soundtrack. I knocked again, louder this time. Sarah’s mother nudged her husband; he slowly rose from his seat with a groan, grabbed his cane, and limped all the way to the entrance.

“Aren’t you a week early?” he exclaimed, when I enquired about Nick’s birthday party. “It’s called for next Tuesday.” I apologised and, head lowered, strolled back to the car. Knowing not where to go next, I cruised the village, ruminating my next move.

I circled the lake, increasing my radius from the centre of town with every turn, until I found myself at the edge of the forest. There I spotted a familiar burgundy minivan, blending in with the autumnal shades of the maple leaves. I stopped the car and got out. As I made my way into the forest, I glimpsed more and more vehicles concealed between the giant pine trees. It was already pitch black, so I could barely make out the details, but followed the sweet aroma of burning maple bark deeper and deeper into the forest. More than once did I stumble over roots and shrubs, but a soft hum which gradually grew into a full-blown but inarticulate chant guided me as I approached the wood’s heart. I finally saw a glimmer of fire and froze in place, hidden behind an ancient tree.

A medley of chanting voices, both male and female, emerged from the dozen or so naked bodies swaying around the fire pit, as in a trance. The mantras that came out of their throats sounded to me like a sorcerer’s spell and, indeed, they appeared to have been bewitched. Though it was nearing zero degrees, their bare bodies dripped with sweat in their elation. I shivered and tightened my hood around my head.

An albino goat’s head with curved horns was on display on a spit deeply entrenched in the ground. Its red eyes shone in cadence with the dancing flames. One by one the people left the circle, fell down on their knees (despite the gravel), and threw an offering into the fire – dry leaves, petals, rotten fruit, or raw meat – for immediate consumption. Pine cones exploded in a series of sparks, like fire crackers. A shriek erupted every time the fire lingered over a bouquet of wild chrysanthemums, convinced that the gods must be displeased. Only when they had accelerated the rhythm of their frenzied motions and increased the volume of their chants did the fire devour the gift.

When everyone had taken their turn, the participants split up into smaller groups. A muscular man with wild hair and a long white beard sat at the centre of the circle on an amputated tree trunk. A handsome woman with flowing black hair rushed to his side and poured a thick red liquid from a ceramic jug into the fire (her menstrual blood, as I learned later, collected over the course of the week), which emitted a horrible stench, welcomed by the others with a loud cheer. She then started rubbing the man’s shoulders, sensuously making her way down his body.

I recognised her, even though she had her back to me. Who but me could recognise Sarah in the dark? Who knew every curve and crevice of her body, every undulation of her skin, as intimately as I? Or so I had thought, up to an hour ago.

I wanted to scream, to hurl a rock at the man’s head and release my beloved from his clutch, but it was as though I was also spellbound. My limbs were heavy and numb and I could not move from my spot behind the tree nor utter a single sound.

Until I spotted my three grown-up sons crouched over my four-year-old daughter – lying restlessly on the icy ground as each caressed a different part of her tiny body. She scrunched up her face every time they reached in too deep, but seemed to think they were merely playing with her and did not resist.

I ran over to them, pushed the boys aside and picked Lily up, throwing her over my shoulder.

“Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I’m so happy you’re here!” she rejoiced, her head burrowing into my chest. Her intonation startled everyone present and they immediately desisted from their actions, freezing in the most unusual poses, while her kneeling brothers shot one another puzzled looks. Sarah raised her head from the patriarch’s groin and ran over to the site of the commotion.

“What are you doing here, Charles?” she demanded, her shrill voice revealing no hint of the delight I had sought to bring her when I set out on this fateful journey several hours before.

“What are you doing here? I came to celebrate Nick’s third birthday; what a party this is!” A few of her peers crept forward and gathered around us. Sensing their camaraderie, she squared her torso, stabilised her feet, and placed her hands firmly on her hips.

“You don’t understand,” she spat out. “It’s only because of these rites that I was able to bear Lily after so many years of infertility and that Nick was born the following year.” I spotted her older sister across the fire pit. “Your darling Lily would never have been born otherwise; the Goddess of the Earth watches over her.” She tried grabbing Lily from my arms, but succeeded only at pulling her golden curls. The little girl yelped in pain.

“That would have been better than to be hurt by her own mother and brothers,” I retorted. Reinforcing my grasp of Lily’s trembling body, I set off with her toward the edge of the forest, my youngest boy, David, following several feet behind, struggling to keep up.

My legs carried me and the added weight to the car, while my thoughts remained at the scene I had just witnessed. I do not know how long it took us to get there, but I could feel Lily’s heartbeat racing all the way. Or was it my own heartbeat intermingled with hers?

So flustered was I when we reached our destination that my hands shook uncontrollably and I could barely fit the key into the hole. After repeated attempts I finally managed to turn the lock and set Lily down on the back seat. I covered her in the emergency blanket and helped her sip some water, gently stroking her head.

Once she had calmed down and fallen into a dazed stupor, I got into the front seat, buckled David into the seat next to mine and drove all the way home as fast as I could. Instead of the Traveller’s Prayer, I incessantly repeated the verse petitioning the Almighty to abolish idol worship.

And I had all this time feared that I was being heretical by studying Spinoza’s theology, but now I knew what true heresy actually means.