The Lover asked his Beloved if there remained in Him anything still to be loved. And the Beloved replied that he had still to love that by which his own love could be increased.
Ramon Llull, The Book of the Lover and the Beloved, verse 1
It is the first Sunday after Easter. People are lining the small street leading from the centre of the village all the way to the monastery's large entrance further up the mountain. A good three miles of which the first few hundred yards through the village are plastered with cobblestones before it turns into a gravel road. The sun is shining. Still, there is a chill in the air. The subdued solemnity of the Easter procession has been replaced with eager chatting, laughs, and the gleeful anticipation of this year's gauntlet. Young men have taken the front line, holding rods and canes, exchanging stories and suggestions on how to best place a hit, discussing the proper length and weight of their tools.
The crowd is hushed when the jail gates open. The heavy wooden doors and metal hinges squeak and creak as if protesting the bright light and fresh air flooding the dark and dank cavities behind the massive stonewalls. The commander in chief, pretentiously sitting on a beautiful black horse, rides slowly out on to the small square, a long rope in one hand while guiding the horse forward with the reins in his other hand. Behind him a small figure emerges from the shadows.
A boy, almost a man, stumbles forward. His hands are bound behind his back and he is naked except for a small cloth barely covering his privates. His black hair is sticking to his temples, grimy with filth and dirt. He squints, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light after long months in almost total darkness. His body bears the witness of torture and hunger, bruised and thin. The protruding ribs and the stark whiteness of the skin are covered by mud and excrements smeared on and clinging to his body. Around his neck, spun tight in a noose, is the end of the long rope.
The pent up energy of the crowd is released in a roar. It surges forward, closing in on its victim who stands in the middle of the open place, defenceless and confused. Intently, merciless and eager the men wield their weapons of punishment. The first beatings are fumbling and unsure of their target, but soon their aim improves, supported by the viciousness of angry slurs and curses.
The commander tugs hard at the rope and the young man staggers ahead, trying to find his footing, to gather speed and find a safer way through the mass enclosing on him. The noose is tight and he can hardly breathe, the strokes and blows fall relentlessly, in seemingly endless succession.
Danny is scared. He shuts his eyes, would have covered his ears to shut out the noise, the shouts. He cannot understand what is happening. His dulled senses attacked by too much light, too much noise, too many people. Nameless faces interspersed with men and women Danny recognises. But recognition turns into horror when he finally realises the purpose of the gathering. His steps are faltering, only to be pulled brutally forward once again by the rope around his neck.
The gauntlet, Danny's mind screams at him.
The annual gauntlet, the only event in his village he has never been a part of in any way. A silent scream is forming in his throat, constricted by the rope, noiseless because of other screams, cries for mercy and help, which had gone unheard and ignored in the past months of his incarceration. As he shuffles forward, pulled and pushed, it is not the pain and humiliation Danny fears. His body is numb already, the pain barely felt through the fog of hunger and exhaustion. Having insults thrown at him has become far too common through the years since his mother had passed away. No, Danny does not fear the abuse or indignity of the gauntlet. He fears its destination, the end.
A particular vicious blow has Danny on his knees, the crowd screeching even closer, hands punching, boots kicking. He tries to shield his body, his head, curling in on himself before the rope pulls him forward and up once again, away from the mob. But Danny cannot breathe, the noose too tight, his fear too overwhelming.
Not the monastery!
His scream is mute, voiceless, powerless. Not another prison, another dark cell, surrounded by a large wall build of stone and self-righteousness, discipline and obedience, hypocrisy and sanctimoniousness. A life of servitude and slavery in a place from which no boy has ever returned to the village.
Blindly Danny pushes forward, not heeding his bloodied feet and battered body. His mouth is open, gulping for air. The rope between him and the rider is growing slack. He has no plan, but he needs to escape, to find a way out of this before they reach their destination.
The commander grins when he spurs his horse. He knows the boy will not be able to keep running and why should he deprive the people the fun of chasing their prey. When they pass the pillories a tug on the rope tells him that the boy has finished his run. And well timed, the commander thinks dispassionately. Empty for once, the two pillories stand as the physical incarnation of shame and contempt.
Danny has given up by now. Back on his knees, the crowd is closing in. In another cruel twist of fate Danny regains a few moments of awareness and recognises the pillories. The one to the left, closer to the large old oak which during the summer throws a bit of a soothing shadow over the pillory, giving any captive a short reprieve from their ordeal. The old oak, which Danny had used as a hiding place during the day while his mother was kept on display. During the night, he would climb down, find food and water for them. He would wash her face and tend to her wounds. She was branded by the end of her first sentence.
The uproar from the crowd has Danny back on his feet. He has tears in his eyes. He mouths Goodbye Mother before the rope forces him to turn and stagger onward. Engulfed by hatred and pain, Danny continues to walk, pulled closer to his destiny no matter how much he tries to fight against it.
In the small wood right before they enter the open place in front of the monastery he falls once more, being dragged a few yards before the horse stops with a disgruntled whinny. The crowd is over him, beating and kicking and screaming. Danny is not even trying to protect himself any longer, lying helpless, his head rolling on the ground and his body rocked by the kicks and punches from the agitated mass.
The colossal sound of the bell brings everything to a halt. The crowd falls silent, and when the second bellow rumbles through the tree tops, the people draw back, opening up around the beaten and bloodied body in front of them. Even the horse stops swishing its tail, now standing guard beside Danny, the rope hanging loose from the surprised commander's hand. The bell tolls a third time, silencing the last birds and with them the world around them.
The sun cannot fully reach the lifeless body under the trees, but its warmth gets hold of Danny's torn feet and begrimed legs. It stretches up and forward, a promise of gentle touches and tender care. Danny's body reacts, somewhere buried deep in his consciousness he knows he needs to move, to get closer to the sound that saved him if he wants to survive. He gets up on his knees, head bend, wheezing. First putting one foot down and pushing upwards, he sways but stays upright despite the weight of the rope dragging his head and neck down. One foot in front of the other, he moves past the horse which nudges him forward, its muzzle soft and grounding. It refuses to move once Danny has made it past the commander and when the length of the rope is running out he lets it slip to the ground.
Danny continues his slow progress toward the looming wall in front of him. Step by step, he pushes his body past its limits, exhausted and mindless. One step further away from a community which has kept him at its fringes since his birth as the fatherless son of a whore. One step further away from the community which has turned its back on his mother when she fell ill. And one step closer towards a community which by its own laws and regulations condemns him as a sinner, a heathen unworthy of this life and even less deserving of a dignifying death.
The sun casts a long shadow now. The world is silent, watching breathlessly as the small figure moves forward. Danny is surrounded by warmth and light; and he stands upright with eyes wide open when a small door in the heavy bulwark of the wall is opened.