The Reverend Burns

The Reverend Burns

by S. Joaquin Rivera

There was strong wind blowing on the day it happened, bringing with it a touch of wickedness. It happened on the corner of nowhere and eternity on a busy street in Saigon; the kind of place where mean-spirited hookers sold false dreams on platform heels and slick prophet’s silver tongues sought fat wallets.

It was on this day that The Reverend decided to make a statement that the world would remember. It was the summer season and the leaves in the trees were in full bloom; ripe with new seeds and ready to germinate. The streets of Saigon were themselves pregnant with violence, blood and desire. The hustle of sinners and collectors floated in the air like the wafting aroma of rotten flesh.

Women hurried down the street carrying heavy laundry and children while men of money went along in search of sin and sanctuary. The day was to be the most dramatic day of the New Year. It made sense to the Reverend that it would happen on this day; there was no freezing rain to contend with and no one was paying attention to much of anything other than the blood flowing along in the gutters. The Reverend had planned things well.

The plan was simple; distract and move swiftly. Act simply and be not swayed by temptation. It was uncomplicated and direct; a parade under the watch of daylight and shadows would mask the real event. The Reverend knew that the hypnotic chant of the Buddhist Monks would drown out the sound of war and degeneration; they would turn no heads until it was too late.

And so on the morning on June 11 the yellow robed priests marched along in a single-file line of death. They had reached the world’s stage with hardly anyone taking notice. Among them, almost hidden in their ranks, stepped forward a very frail old man in his sixties; a holy man glowing in yellow and white. The Reverend stepped forward and quietly assumed the lotus position on the street corner amidst the soldiers, the con men and whores.

Even as the moon was still visible in the morning sky, the monks moved with a grace and stealth as if under the cover of full darkness. The Reverend sat motionless as the others from the parade, the ones who had their faces masked in solemnity, proceeded to pour healthy amounts of gasoline on the old man as he sat and waited, expressionless and mute.

From across the busy road a little girl in the throes of horseplay with her brother paused and looked at the Reverend; their eyes locked in time while he smiled slowly. He reached into his yellow and flowing robe and removed a single match, its head igniting in slow motion as the little girl watched, mesmerized as everything surrounding them came to a complete stop.

No one breathed nor blinked. The cars and bikes in the street stood frozen as the women and the men waited and watched. Not a creature moved in that moment and there was nothing except the Reverend in full bloom of the season, fully and totally engulfed in flame.

And just as quickly as the silence had come over everyone, the moon was swallowed by the morning sky and the audience screamed in horror as the Revered sat on the corner of nowhere and eternity, burning freely and as motionless as a statue.

The Reverend sat there in the lotus position for the entire world to see, on a stage of his making, resolute, with the smell of gasoline and burning flesh in the air. He sat like that for the rest of that day, for the rest of his life, forever more; burning his image into history.

His heart, the only part of the Reverend untouched by flame, was preserved and remains to this day an artifact and thing of legend. For on that day, the Reverend sacrificed his body so that his soul would live on, his heart remain and his face imprint itself to the clouds.

©2008 S. Joaquin Rivera/ Broken Sword Publications, All Rights Reserved

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Tags: buring flesh, protest, reverend, Thich Quang Duc, Vietnam

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