The Emperor

The man emerges from a heavy curtain of gray cashmere. It hangs from the ceiling in rolling waves that cascade to form small mounds on the floor. They shift ponderously as the man’s shoulders push them apart.

He stands at average height with dark, captivating eyes that sparkle in the light. Thick locks of black hair curl around his ears, and he has a cleanly shaven, strong jaw. When the man passes through the curtains, his billowing white robes of silk shimmer. The robes are trimmed with blood-red stitching, matching the fabric around a thick cord that extends from his back to disappear behind the curtains, trailing behind him at all times.

Standing at the center of the stage, his gaze lazily drifts over the people. There are hardly more than two dozen of them waiting for him to speak. Most look uncomfortable on the lumpy wood benches that pass for seating in the man’s modest arena.

“My sons, my daughters,” he begins, with a warm voice that bounces off the rough walls. “You all have braved the elements and the ever-darker world outside these walls to be here today, and I cannot express my gratitude for you doing so enough.

“But let it not go unsaid that my gratitude is not for you coming here to see me. I am, in fact, grateful that you all have dedicated yourselves to doing so for your own benefit. It warms my heart to see a flock, no matter how small, invest in the purity and sanctity of the self.”

On the slightly raised platform of the altar, the man is only accompanied by a rickety old podium. He walks towards it slowly, letting the silence draw his nascent flock in. The wood is rough under his weathered hands. Strips of faded white paint peel back over its surface, weathered by the stalwart passage of time.

He stops behind the podium and puts his weight into his palms, flattened atop its gently angled surface. It creaks under his weight and his nostrils welcome the warm redolent of ash wood that it radiates. The artifact reminds him of the dusty basement of his childhood home, where he had always spied it nested in the corner like a sentry. It is all he has left of it since the accident that left him alone.

Atop the podium is a crumbling black leather journal. Its pages are beginning to come free of its spine, stained with a flaxen hue. In the silence of the chapel, he gingerly opens the journal to a bookmarked page. His own familiar script greets him. In his free time, he slowly transcribes the fading ink to a digital document kept on a floppy disc in his office, but his progress is slow and methodical. He doesn't trust the alluring glow of the computer’s screen -- it is too alien.

An exaggerated inhale allows him to crescendo the crowd’s anticipation just before he speaks. “When I first discovered God, I too found myself filled with similar emotions as you all find warming your breasts now. It opened my eyes to a magnificent new prism to view all of existence; it pulled back the curtain on the reality of life.

“My epiphany is what drove me to share the message of God with people like you. It was with His grace that I built the building we are now sitting in with my own two hands.” He holds up his hands and turns them over slowly for everyone to inspect.

“I know that it is far from the most comfortable of buildings to worship in, but it was the best that I could do. Maybe you all wish that God had come to a carpenter rather than a burned-out peddler of narcotics like myself.” He lets out a hearty, welcoming laugh that is echoed by the congregation.

“Regardless, it serves its purpose well, as we all must. We all are imperfect much like this building, and it is only through God’s divine intent that anything is made special. Only through God’s decree does the dirt beneath these boards become sacred. So, too, are we imbued with His blessings.”

He emerges from behind the podium and stands to the side of it with one hand resting on top of the leather book. The wrapped cord that sprouts from his back gently pulls back toward the curtains, keeping him ever conscious of its presence.

“Now, I have heard remonstrance from some of you during confession because you feel guilty for desiring His benevolence at all. You are worried that the very act of yearning for salvation and betterment is fueled by selfishness. Don’t look at your feet in shame, I say to you. I am painfully familiar with this guilt that so many of you have confided in me, as I too have struggled with feeling as though my desire to spread the benevolence of God is somehow a filthy extension of my own ego.”

The man lets the words hang in the air. He wants them to slightly crack the edifice that the congregation views him as. It is important that they recognize him as a mortal, as a peer, as merely a vessel of God.

“To those of you who suffer from such an affliction, I wish to impart some advice, or, more so, a different perspective, if I may be so bold. You see, such desires or acts in service of those desires are diametrically opposed to the very nature of selfishness. By feeling those feelings, by acting on them in whatever way God has inspired you to do, you are giving yourself over to Him. You are commandeering the flesh and consciousness that ties you to this damnable mortal coil in the hopes that it will allow you to better experience the beauty of his given world. It is a sacrificial exchange of will for awe.

“Did you hear that word? Sacrifice. It is through sacrifice that we transcend the physical toils that God tests us with in order to earn our place by His side for all of time. It is through sacrifice that we prove our devotion to His cause, His message, and His ascendancy. Sacrifice is the most holy action and even a small sacrifice receives the same scrutiny and appreciation from Him as the largest. Each is an infinitesimal drop in the ocean that is the love and adoration our God deserves, but He appreciates and inspects each one accordingly all the same.”

The warmth that emanates from the congregation is palpable. It gives the man a high, raising him up until he feels as though he can float from the ground. He wonders if perhaps that was why God had him build his chapel. Without its roof, he could float up to the heavens before his mission on Earth was done.

The man feels the power of God flowing through his veins and he knows that it is time to deliver blessings to his flock. He plods slowly from his spot by the podium, the skin of his back bemoaning the stiff cord that so stubbornly drags over the ground behind him. His skin begins to tear as the plug that connects the cord to him begins to loosen. The pain is a special flavor, one that he dreams only he has ever or could ever know. It is a righteous pain in the name of God.

“I can feel God lending me his strength, my family. He has seen fit to reward you for your sacrifices through me. Any of you with ailments of soul, mind, or body come forth now, and let the tender touch of my hands be the conduit for the divine reward you all so earnestly deserve.”

#
A producer mouths the word "go" and waves her hand just as the red light on the "On Air" sign winks to life. A camera dollies forward toward the anchors behind the colossal glass desk.

"Good evening. I'm Bruce Argyle, and you're watching the eight o'clock news here on WLJFM, your one-stop shop for local news."

"And I'm Julia Morriston. Our lead story tonight is whether or not you need to be worried about the recent increase in falling meteorites in the area."

The broadcast snaps to a close-up of Bruce's face, complete with a forced lopsided grin, next to a photo of a shabby wooden building barely larger than a shed.

"Before we get to that, Julia, we have an incredible story regarding the new local religious movement known as Hemiology. Founded by local drug peddler turned pastor Robyn Goldwater, Hemiology has found itself able to make a huge splash here in our community.

"What is really catching everyone's attention is not only how charming Goldwater himself is, but that he is performing actual miracles. There are reports of Goldwater's sermons curing the blind, the common cold, and even mental afflictions such as depression and schizophrenia."

The video changes to focus on Julia.

"We sent one of our reporters undercover to a Hemiology service this past weekend, and he brought back this shocking footage."

The footage takes over the broadcast, finding its way to hundreds of television sets in the surrounding counties. Tomorrow it will be broadcast on countless more across the country.

Bland, dark shoes stand on a fresh wood floor made sloppily with uneven planks. A disorienting tilt upwards reveals a small herd of desperate men and women that twitch and shuffle with anticipation. A muffled voice calls out unintelligibly. The crowd heaves like a sea toward the speaker until only shoulders and the backs of heads as they bump against one another are seen. A great flash silhouettes the crowd as if they stood before the sun. A rapturous scream erupts, mixing rapture with horror and agony. The flash repeats several times, the crowd undulating as people walk out of it with glazed eyes and smoldering bodies, trailing thin lines of smoke behind them.

The herd begins to part, leaving a canyon that allows a child to be pushed toward the front in an old wheelchair. The child is sprawled in the chair as if with rigor mortis. It claps its hands weakly with excitement, a contorted smile distorting its features. The herd closes back around the wheelchair and it is blocked from view. The moment lags with import, a historical event in stasis, a still-forming landmark frozen in time.

A blinding flash like lightning erupts on the far side of the crowd. They all fall to their knees, their hands covering their ears to try and protect themselves from the accompanying roar of thunder. On the raised stage at the front of the chapel stands Robyn Goldwater, his arms outstretched a couple of feet above the child in the wheelchair. His hands and the child's motionless body smoke in twirling strings. It begins to convulse and contort, moving in erratic movements like breaking twigs. He twists out of the chair and tumbles to the ground. All eyes are on him; Robyn Goldwater pants above. The child slowly rises from the wood floor. Its legs are shaky and wobble under its weight, but with effort, it stays standing. The child starts walking out of the crowd. Its shirt has burned off to embers, revealing a web of fresh burns that mar its entire torso.

#

There is a lump in the couch under the left side of Dick Larkin's ass. He has battled it for hours. He shifts himself around on the couch in search of relief, sending the crumbs of the day's donuts tumbling down to disappear into the cushions. Relief proves unattainable, but Larkin remains sprawled on the cheap torn leather of the couch all the same. His body rumbles with a heaving sigh as he settles into the gravitational pull of static morosity.

Larkin's television - a dented, oblong, gray cube - fills the room with flashing lights of color and a high-pitched whine. The images pass through Larkin's eyes and the mind behind them as a liminal visitor, leaving no trace of themselves. It is a common ritual, but one that breaks for Larkin when the image changes to a grainy video from a field reporter. It draws him in as he watches the emotional rawness of the scene inside a small rickety chapel play out.

It begins with a chaotic air that frightens Larkin. But then, a child is cured. It is wheeled through the crowd, is assumedly at the center of a brilliant flash of light, and then comes walking back out. He is unable to entirely believe what he just witnessed. Could it be a trick of the light? Or maybe a staged event with a second similar-looking child? Maybe the footage was even edited somehow? After all, movies with computer graphics have increased in number in recent years. But Larkin has never seen any movie effect look that realistic before.
Standing takes a couple of attempts, but eventually, Larkin is able to rock enough on the riveted couch cushions to build momentum and push his feet to the old wood floors below. He hefts himself up and walks to the computer desk he has in his home office at the back of the house. The computer’s fans whine as they spin to life, shaking off weeks of dust accumulated from being ignored.

When the computer comes to life, Larkin feverishly scours the internet for more information regarding what he just saw on his television. It seems as though he caught the first national broadcast of the footage, so it is only showing up on some smaller news sites that managed to catch it.

So, he instead tries to find a digital footprint of the church itself, but there is nothing. The best alternative he can find is a tucked-away blog run by a dedicated worshiper. It has everything that he is looking for. There are transcripts of Goldwater’s sermons, a section detailing the tenets and lessons of the church, and, perhaps most importantly, vivid retellings of the miracles that have been performed thus far. Schizophrenic patients on the verge of giving up being given peace and hope, amputees regrowing limbs, and abusive husbands undergoing sudden and comprehensive changes of heart are all described with painstaking detail and documentation.

It plants a seed of hope in Larkin. Physical miracles are amazing in their own right, but miracles of the mental domain as well? That’s truly incredible and means that Goldwater’s abilities largely surpass those of even the most advanced of modern sciences. He can’t help but wonder what being healed by Goldwater would feel like or how it could help him. Maybe he could be happy again, or fill the holes in his heart that have festered for so many long years.

It does not take long for his interest to solidify into a drive to attend one of Goldwater’s services himself. He bookmarks the blog’s main page and dedicates himself to checking it daily so that he knows if the services ever begin touring. He also decides to start saving money so that if that day never comes he can travel to the small chapel shown in the video to get a miracle for himself. It feels like his last way to heal.

#

In a small office tucked away in the back of the new chapel, Robyn stands at the center of a ring of half a dozen elders. The room is sparsely decorated but is half the size of the original chapel in which Hemiology was built. The day's service is to be the first delivered in the new chapel, which was professionally built and much more comfortable. It is probably twice as large as the church really needed, but Robyn feels in his breast that his flock will grow enough to fill it.

At the moment, Robyn listens to one of the newly elected elders voice his concerns regarding the muted decoration of the new chancel. He isn't inherently wrong. It is decorated only with long curtains of thick gray wool, a standing candelabra on each side, and a bare altar of rough dull apatite. It stands as a regression from the adjacent nave that was adorned with handwoven carpets, polished wood pews, a brilliant stained glass roof, and lit incense burners that fill the room with the smell of saffron.

But this is an element that Robyn is unwilling to budge on. The symbolism of the moderate design principles at the forefront of the chapel is paramount to his services and message. Any less would fail to be as welcoming while any more would push it to the borders of vanity. He takes the moment to emphasize his position, as well as its importance to the public perception of Hemiology. He is firm but understanding, ensuring that the man does not feel belittled or his opinion ignored.

The holy man then turns his attention toward the final preparations leading up to his service. He instructs a couple of the elders to greet newcomers to the chapel and make sure they feel at home; one to perform a final tuning of the organ; and the remaining three to prepare his new pulpit and its microphone system to make sure it is ready for his big sermon. The group disperses excitedly, and Robyn goes to a vault the size of a room that is just behind the gray curtains of the chancel. Tumblers rattle and clang as he manipulates them open, entering a smooth space only lighted by the spare rays passing through the open door. The vault is empty except for a cage in one corner: The Corral of God.

Robyn approaches the cage. God is slumbering. It leans back in one corner of the cage, propped up on the metal bars with a half-eaten avocado teetering on the edge of its open palm. He approaches the cage and kneels down next to it, clutching one of the bars with a sweating hand.

"My God. I have come to pray for your guidance, your light, and your benevolence so that I can share it with the congregation that you have so graciously entrusted to me. I ask you to give me the sight to guide them through time. To give me the strength to lift them where they fall. To give me the insight to see their souls for the fragments of your will that they are." He says with his eyes clenched shut and his jaw set firm. His lips move as though he is whispering, but his voice echoes throughout the vault until it submerges him.

His voice awakens God and glowing eyes that each hold a shifting galaxy peel open. A vibrant yellow slime covers its eyes and begins to pour down its face once freed from the lids. The eyes lock onto Robyn without betraying emotion or thought.

"Please give me the strength to face the demons you have designed to test me, both within and without. I strive only to serve your message and to imbue my own life with it as an example to lead others toward your benevolence. I work toward satisfying your aims for this mortal coil, and beseech you to use me as an extension of yourself."

The shadowed form of God begins to reveal itself as it slowly shifts toward Robyn like a coming tide. Its bulbous head emerges in the light coming through the vault's door first, revealing a shape like a deflating balloon. Long feathery tendrils extend out the back of its head where they hover and dance in slow motion. It has no visible mouth or other feature that is even remotely human beyond its glowing galactic eyes. Monstrous limbs extend out from its center mass, still cloaked in shadow. They are thin and chitinous, measuring only an inch and a half thick. Each limb has half a dozen joints that lead down to small claws draped in feathers matching those on its head. God's many limbs extend out and grab the floor and bars of the corral to drag its body across the floor toward Robyn.

"I also pray that you find joy in the new chapel that I have built to honor the spreading of your word. May every board of its body stand as a representation of your ripples on our world. May the calluses on my hands stand as a testament to my dedication to you. I pray that my work for you is far from finished. Amen."

God drags itself up to the bars directly in front of Robyn, who opens his eyes just in time to see him. He leans forward and gently kisses the center of God's head, lingering to feel the skin's rough surface on his lips. A rapid clicking emanates from deep inside God's form. Robyn leans back and whispers, "I love you."

He stands up and checks the port on God's side to make sure the tube is properly secured. Satisfied, he leaves the vault and ignores the still-growing volume and pace of the clicking that fills the vault. He triple-checks to make sure the vault door is properly sealed and locked before walking to a small area behind the thick gray curtains just behind the altar. There, he picks up a plug from the opposite end of the tube connected to God and pushes it into a tight port on his lower back, allowing it to connect directly to his spinal column.

A cold swell pours into his back and quickly climbs up his spinal cord and into his head. His vision blurs and a white fog encroaches centerward from the border. Just before his entire sight goes white it begins to recede, signaling his body's acceptance of the foreign substance. He can feel it coursing through him now. His muscles are tighter, his mind clearer, and his veins coursing with energy. He feels too big for himself like his soul is straining against the seams of his physical form. It is a comfortable tension as the seams of his body stretch and struggle to contain the real him. He is ready.

#

Dick Larkin shimmies down the length of a pew near the front of the chapel, apologizing to already seated worshippers as he does so. He takes a deep breath through his nose, letting the smells and atmosphere of the room soak into him. He files the sensory input away, deep in his long-term memory, so that he can recall it when pondering the day in his post-salvation future. It is hard for him to get comfortable on the wooden bench and a familiar guilt rises within him as he imagines the people to his left and right judging him for how much of it he occupies. The only thing that keeps Larkin there is focusing on his reason for being there and the desperate hope of getting better.
He can’t help but get caught up in the palpable tension building in the chapel as the crowd grows restless while waiting for the service. His legs bounce with impatience and his eyes dart around his surroundings.
The curtains shift stiffly and Dick catches his breath. They part to reveal Robyn Goldwater, emerging from the barrier with his arms outstretched and a captivating smile on his face. Dick leans forward.

“Thank you all for coming to help me in praising our God and filling our new chapel with love and devotion," Robyn begins. His warm voice reverberates through the still air to meet Dick's ears like honey on his tongue.
With that, the service begins taking Dick on a journey of emotional vulnerability and introspection. Robyn reads inspirational passages from a worn notebook with ratty black leather binding. He leads the entire congregation in prayer and song, but the real climax comes when Robyn takes a hidden stairway up to a pulpit to the right of the altar and a dozen feet above the floor. It is painted a brilliant white with trim embossed in brass that shimmers with the light.

Robyn radiates in the pulpit, the brass framing glowing like an angel's halo. From there he begins telling the tale of how he found God for all of the first-time visitors. Everyone in attendance can’t help but be focused on Robyn while he talks about struggling with addiction and depression until finding God. Robyn explains how, with God's help, he began to heal and rebuild himself anew. He tells them all about building the first chapel to build his spiritual self. He explains his worries about starting to spread the word of God to help others, and, finally, he tells the story of building the chapel they all are currently in.

Dick hangs on Robyn's every word and loses track of himself along the way. His worries and pains erode in the current of the sermon. He feels weightless in the transcendence. There is something bigger out there. Something bigger than his self-consciousness and grief and disgust. It was there, and he is being so generously gifted with an opportunity to peek at it. He can see only a sliver, but he knows that with work it can be further revealed to him. Deep down he knows that he is not ready for a miracle of his own yet, so when Robyn descends to deliver the glowing gifts of God, he stays seated.

After the service, he stands out in front of the chapel and makes a call to Chloe. She doesn't answer and he starts talking before her voicemail starts recording the message. He doesn't notice. The resulting message is a chaotic ramble that veers from raw emotion to logical justification and back again. Its frenetic labyrinth of information, sentence fragments, and tangents could lead any listener astray, but it all boils down to a singular sentiment. Dick is fundamentally changed and he has to let someone know, even if it is Chloe.

#

The church has gone public in an effort to deliver its message even further. Robyn is still unsure about the move, but he places his trust in God and is sure that God used the unanimous vote of the church's elders to help guide his hand. Now it is time for the board's first meeting. A meeting filled with dynastic lenders, monopoly inheritors, and tech-money prodigies. Before heading into the meeting, Robyn isn't sure if any of them have even attended one of his services. He can't help but fear a monoculture of profit is inevitable.

The meeting is held in a windowless room in the church's basement. Robyn is running late. He had to build himself up before heading to it, staring himself in the sweaty face no more than six inches from the mirror. He feels hollow without the familiar pressure of his Godwire plugged into him. Cravings for its cool rush through his veins and the swelling of confidence that comes with it makes it hard for him to focus on the task at hand.

He is suddenly facing the tall, dark door of the meeting room. It shocks him into the present. He pushes the cravings for God's presence down, tries not to focus on the ever-ticking clock that announces his tardiness and pushes the door open. The action reveals a claustrophobic room with a circular table at its center. Seven members sit around this table, and Robyn realizes, to his dismay, that he doesn't recognize a single one of them. It is a controlling body of his church that came from the outside like a parasite. But it is God's will.

The atmosphere of the room turns hostile as an ongoing conversation cuts off abruptly. Every member of the board turns to focus on Robyn. It's difficult to tell them apart from one another. They wear non-descript suits of dull monochromatic shades that are punctuated with assigned splashes of color through slightly vibrant ties or pocket squares. Each member has a crisp new haircut that frames tense grimaces and drooping jowls. Their eyes are piercing but dull as if they have forgotten joy after decades of its absence. The void behind them chills Robyn. The weight of his missing Godwire has never felt heavier.

"Mr. Goldwater, I do hope that you're aware of your tardiness," one of the directors to Robyn's right begins. She is leaning forward on her elbows, fingers interlaced to support her chin. Wrinkled skin is pulled taught against her skull and silver hair is contained in a neat bun.

"Should we expect this going forward?"

Robyn isn't sure how to approach the situation, he still needs to orient himself. He knows that he can handle the board, but he needs to acclimate. Needs to bury his cravings for the Godwire for just a little longer. For now, he shakes his head.

“I would expect as much,” says a sullen young man near the center of the table.

“Luckily, we had a matter to discuss that did not require your particular expertise.” The nasally grating voice comes from a young man. Robyn thinks the man couldn’t be even half his age. He has to remember that all are capable of serving God equally.

“Regarding?” It is a struggle for Robyn to hide the frustration and fear that underlines his question.

“Television,” says another of them.

The young one takes over. “We’re thinking broadcasts can really help elevate your message. Just imagine what that power could do for you and your brand. The projections are almost limitless.”

The idea fills Robyn’s head with doubt and worry. Could that really be why God guided these people to him? Could it be the destiny of his humble church? He does not voice these concerns, but says “How would that work? Surely that would be expensive.”

A few of them smirk or chuckle and Robyn feels their condescension coming off them like radiation. Then multiple of them speak up in turn, weaving a befuddling maze of metrics, percentages, case studies, and restructuring plans. Afterward, Robyn is aware of two absolute facts: none of them understand or love God, and that his dedication to God will allow him to keep them from killing his church. He suspects that God likes them no more than he does, but in his wisdom, He was able to see the value they carried all the same. It is a gift, and Robyn feels in his heart that he will be guided away from any pitfalls within it.

Despite his faith in God, Robyn still has anxiety over the plan. The board instructs him to completely shut down his chapel and services for an entire month to make time for renovations. While the chapel is empty the entire interior will be gutted to be replaced with stained glass windows, marble facades, gold trim, a gilded altar, televisions, an audio system, room for a choir, and five times as much sitting room. It is entering a gestation of plaster and wiring and power tools as a modest heartfelt chapel only to emerge as a metamorphic church.

“Will that be all?” Robyn asks, still reeling slightly from the news and its rabbit hole of consequences.

“Almost,” one of the bodies in suits responds. Robyn has stopped trying to distinguish them from one another. They are an entity. They are an amalgamation of ideas, priorities, and morals too alien for him to comprehend. Only with God’s strength does he have any hope of navigating them successfully.

Robyn doesn’t respond so another voice fills the void. “We have questions regarding this vault of sorts that you have at the center of the chapel,” it says.

The question sobers and focuses Robyn like a splash of cold water on his face. “What about it?” he says with a countenance of stone.

“Well, what is in it?”

“You do not need to know.”

“Oh no?”

“No. It is my sanctum. It is where I commune with God.” A part of Robyn desperately wants to show them - to show everyone. But he knows the world is not ready yet. There is still much more work to do before then to prepare the world for God’s arrival and whatever comes after. Even he was not ready to fully know God in that way.

“Mr. Goldwater, must I remind you that we are on the same team? We members of the board have invested heavily in your movement, especially when it pertains to these updates and expansions. We have a right to scrutinize every element of this operation. Every element.”

His jaw clenches hard enough to hurt his teeth at the blatant threat. It is almost a snarl - one that is not lost on the ones in front of him. “It is impossible and that is final. God chose to speak through me, and as such I am the only one allowed in the communion vault. I also will require no less than three visits to the vault every day, so ensure your construction workers know that I am not to be perturbed and the vault is not to be disturbed in any way. Understood?” Robyn can hardly believe the strength welling up in his breast when he finishes.

The board members do not know what to say, so they do not say anything. Instead, Robyn excuses himself and walks out of the stuffy room feeling amazing. He knows that he is strong enough to overcome the tests God challenges him with, but he also feels confident in his conviction and ability to defend his faith. He feels the presence of God within him, and it is continuing to push him forward down the path of fate.

#

Dick Larkin hangs up the phone. He is smiling. He does not know that he is but he has to be. His body and his spirit insist. In the years since he joined the church, he has become a new man. He feels more than ever before. Not all of the feelings are good, but now he knows that that is okay. Each is a thread in the tapestry of his life, and they all have a role to play in this bigger picture.

He owes it all to the church, to Robyn Goldwater. He knows it. Now he is almost ready to start passing it on to others. He has the local community center reserved, has fliers all over the city, and even takes care of catering. Nothing expensive, but some juice, coffee, and snacks to help everyone feel comfortable. He just needs to wait for the day to come.

The week leading up to the group session goes by in a frenzied blur. Dick thinks only about the session. What to say, what to wear, how to smile, he goes over it all countless times. He wants to be the Robyn Goldwater to his group. They will be his own flock that he will nurture and repair just as Robyn did for him. Through them, he can repay God and earn his miracle.

Dick arrives at the venue early. He wears a faded blue polo, now a few sizes too big, black athletic shorts, plastic sandals, and his nice watch. He hopes it will show those who attend some of his progress. He is a regular person just like them, but he has been successful as well. He knows that he is overthinking it, but he continues just the same.

A chill sweeps over Dick’s skin when he sets his holy book and sketchpad of notes down on a podium. He prickles with electric anticipation. The podium sits at the front of a sterile white room with brick walls, burning phosphorescent lights, and a creaking ceiling fan that shambles in wobbly rotations.

He sets himself to assemble a half-ring of chairs facing the podium. They are cold metal folding chairs that ground his trembling hands. The metal links of his watch clink as he checks the time. An hour until the food shows up, and people a half hour after that. He reads his notes a couple more times while waiting.

Some people come early, others a little late. They are an eclectic group. Dick’s nerves build. By the time he starts, almost two dozen people arrive and sit down. He clears his throat awkwardly to claim the room’s attention. They all look at him; he sees the pain, loss, and anger in their eyes that led them all to him, to this moment.

“Ah, welcome everyone, welcome,” he starts the meeting. “I, um, really appreciate all of you taking the time to come, and I hope that I can guide you all, ah, to the healing of Hemiology. Um, I’m not a preacher or holy man, but I am someone that religion has helped a lot. So, I’ll just start with my experiences, I think.”

Dick feels that his introduction was clumsy, but he tries to not let that bog him down. He feels that he will improve as he goes on, and he does. His emotions serve as a guide. The assembled group feels the genuine passion and emotional pain underlying every word. In those words, they find comfort and solace. Each is able to identify their own familiarity with the story. They feel seen by it, and warmth worms into their hearts and leaves open paths for Hemiology to follow.

Dick ends up going for too long because it feels so natural. By the time the group disperses, they have stayed an hour over their rental and need to quickly leave when the next group arrives.

On his way out through the parking lot, Dick is swelling with pride and excitement. The memories he explored during the meeting have left him with their lingering sting, but sharing brings its own flavor of relief.

Before getting into his car, Dick notices a young woman from the meeting sitting on the curb. She sits hunched over, chin in hands and gaze focused on a wandering bug.

“Aiofe, right?” he says after getting nearer. She turns and nods with a meek smile after realizing who spoke. “Mind if I…?” She shakes her head so he lowers himself to the curb with a grunt of effort.

Some time slips by.

“What did you think of the meeting?” he asks.

Aiofe avoids his gaze, her mouth pulled to one side awkwardly.

“It’s okay, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I’m just not sure how to apply it to my own…everything,” she waves her hands with exasperation. Nervous, she starts talking much quicker, “I mean, what you went through was obviously awful and super sad. I’m so happy for you that Hemiology helped - I just don’t know if it can help me too since my problems are so different.”

He chuckles softly at the familiarity of her distress. He worries that it comes off as cruel, but she seems to find it disarming.

“I understand,” he starts. “I don’t know your situation and I won’t ask you to share it with a near stranger. But, I want you to know that I’m not a blueprint or guide. Everyone’s experience is unique, as is their journey through it.

“I like to think I’m more of an example. I’m proof that making it through is possible and of how helpful Hemiology can be for doing that. If there’s anything I know enough about to teach, it is that.”

She smiles and looks away, embarrassed. “That makes sense. Do you think that, maybe, I could be helped?”

“Of course. That’s what these meetings are for.” He feels a swelling warmth of pride and purpose. This must be how Robyn always feels; it must be what the presence of God feels like. It feels like nothing else.

#

He stands before God on what seems the most important day of his life. It is the five-year anniversary of Hemiology moving to television and is to be its biggest broadcast yet. A new church, high-definition cameras, and a crew twice as big as before. He checks the time - fifteen minutes.

Robyn drags his hands down his face. There is sweat there, cold and thin. He has been sweating more recently. He can’t stop grinning a wide, wild grin. The eyes of God stare out at him between metal bars. They’re large, cold, and atypically still. Robyn feels them drawing him in, a petrifying siren’s call. He blinks to end the spell.

“This is it. Oh, I can’t believe that we are here, Lord.” He lets out a deep sigh. “They’re all out there. Your people, my people, they’ve heeded our call. We’ve led them to water and now they are prepared to drink.”

He lets out a euphoric chuckle. One of God’s hands raises up and curls around a bar of its cage. A raspy huff emanates from some part of it: weak and pained in essence. Robyn stands without noticing.

“Your guidance is to blame of course. I would be nothing without it. I would still be a scorched addict cooking on the pavement and selling fake pot to college kids if I wasn't dead already. But now look at me! What you’ve made me!” His voice reverberates throughout the vault, its smooth timbre being lost to metallic echoes.

“And just look at what I’ve built with it! I turned a barren field into a place of worship, a feeling into a universal truth, and a message into a movement. I couldn’t do it without you, Lord. Just…look at it. Look at what we have built!”

He pounds his chest, beaming radiantly while circling the cage. On one side is a port connected to a clear tube that winds serpentine to a thick needle at the base of a series of ridges Robyn guesses to be God’s divine equivalent to a spinal column. There is a handle to the left of the port, and as Robyn pulls it the tube fills with a golden liquid. God rattles and groans, struggling to turn in its claustrophobic confines.

Robyn shushes it, his eyes following the thick fluid as it crawls towards him. “It feels wrong to take so much from you, but this broadcast must be the biggest. Hemiology depends on it. It is time for us to go global, for our sect to become what you always wanted it to be: an empire of salvation.”

A glass cylinder protruding from the port begins to fill. Robyn brushes it with one reverent finger. “It is all necessary. We need it.” God’s eyes dim and its weight slumps forward against the bars.

The cylinder is full. Robyn pushes the handle back in and the remaining fluid in the tube drains backward. God’s body shivers, some part of it clicking staccato beats like colliding bones. Robyn removes the cylinder and lets his finely embroidered robes slide off him. Their color is drowned in the darkness, but in the light, they are a brilliant kaleidoscope of vibrant crimson and rich violet.

The robes’ removal reveals a vest of straps and buckles. The back of the vest houses six casings connected with wiring to a button housed where Robyn’s right palm meets the wrist. Five of the casings hold filled cylinders identical to the one he so carefully holds. The sixth clicks into place easily enough; Robyn winces as doing so wiggles the connected needle embedded in the flesh of his back.

He dons his robe and checks his watch. Three minutes. “I know this is your wish, and I love you for it, but draining you so does burden me, Lord.” He grows soft. “Sometimes I worry that I have misunderstood your message or have been led astray by others. That I’m too weak to be your vessel.”

God’s body vibrates with weak breaths.

“But don’t worry, Lord. I know that you are always guiding me along your bright path. If I took a stray step, surely you would gently lead me back.” He turns to leave. “I love you.”

God’s lids fall closed, its body barely moving with the labor of existence.

#

It cost Dick and Aiofe a small fortune to attend the first service in the new cathedral, but as they walk in they know that it was worth it. It proves worth the years of saving their own money and fundraising others for them to be there. And even better is that they are there together as a couple.

They find seats, hand in hand, as close to the altar as they can, about two-thirds of the way up the cathedral. They sit, squished between a family of immigrants and an elderly couple, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand. They made sure to come early for good seats, so they waited for just over an hour for the service to finally begin.

“I can’t believe we made it,” Aiofe whispers while they wait.

He nods but does not speak. His eyes soak in the altar and floating pulpit in front of them.

“Are you nervous?” she tries again. She could not be happier at the moment. She is with someone special and is about to witness what will likely redefine her entire life. But the arduous road to this point also revealed along the way just how much more it mattered to Dick. She has been little more than his shadow, a mere accessory leeching off the thrill of him achieving a dream. Just being in his orbit is intoxicating, compounded by her real love for him. So, she always tries again.

“Nervous?” He doesn’t look. All of his senses are committed to downloading as much of the scene around him as possible. His eyes meander and weave around the grand architecture and ornamentation at the front of the cathedral-like an aesthete. The tabernacle is flanked by rich mulberry drapes that cascade two stories like waterfalls of wine. The altar serves as a white marble stage for a vibratory dance of light colored by tall stained glass windows lining the vestibule’s funneling walls. Disembodied fragments of conversations and exclamations float by him like fading spirits. He basks in the buzzing excitement, high on tension. His nostrils flare to inhale the sublime presence of spiced incense burners - subtle enough to lie under the space’s visual beauty but bold enough to highlight and accentuate it.

“Dick.”

“What?” He looks at her, the picture of innocence. His expression is that of a child seeing their favorite characters on a big theater screen for the first time. She tells him it was nothing and lets him re-envelop himself in the moment. Aiofe tries to follow his example but is not quite able to forget herself completely.

It is hard to tell how much time passes before Robyn is announced at the front of the cathedral. His arrival is precluded by the lights dimming and a large electronic screen displaying “QUIET” in stippled bulbs. The stillness of hundreds of held breaths is broken slowly by the whirring of television equipment and a delicate piano.

A man emerges from a hidden doorway in the layers of the altar. But he is not Robyn, Dick is sure of that. He wears a plain fitted suit and carries a wireless microphone in one hand. The piano stops.

“Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin I want to thank all of you for coming out to help make the five-year anniversary of Hemiology’s jump to television truly special. It is only with your faithful assistance that we have been able to reach so many with God’s message.

“However, do not forget that you reap what you sow. Our service today will include an offering period for our Lord to witness as well as secure drop boxes by every exit that will be formally presented to Him after the service is over. Now, please make sure to follow the signs on either side of the altar to make sure we have a good show and please welcome our voice of God and reason, Robyn Goldwater!”

An orchestra comes to life to fill the space as the first man disappears and the signs switch to “APPLAUSE.” Dick and Aiofe cheer and applaud as excitedly as anyone else in the congregation. A trap door opens on the floor of the altar and Robyn is thrown out of it like a gymnast. His flamboyant robes ripple in the air around him and he lands on his feet with arms outspread. The crowd’s cheers turn to an uproar.

Robyn soaks it in for a moment. The signs flip to “QUIET” and the congregation eventually obliges. The service begins in earnest, with Robyn reading the sermon he delivered during his very first time long ago, in what was little more than a hut. Dick hadn’t even heard of Hemiology at the time, but he still feels a wistful nostalgia listening to the words. He looks over at Aoife and is thrilled to find her seemingly just as affected as him. He puts a hand on her thigh and gives it a squeeze.

From there the service moves on to singing two hymnals, and Dick is almost brought to tears. By the time the third hymnal begins, most of the congregation is standing. They yell to be heard above the orchestra and hold each other’s hands.

The music dies as Robyn ascends a small curve of stairs to reach the floating pulpit. A crane with a camera attached to it swings over the front rows to find optimal framing. Some people shift to try and see around it but the pews are so clogged that they make no headway. A spotlight clunks on somewhere in the cathedral’s rafters, illuminating Robyn with a heavenly glow.

“What is fear? Hm?” He pauses to let the question draw in the faces looking up at him. “What is fear? And I mean real fear. You may be thinking that it is being afraid of not being able to afford rent, or dying alone, or even being mugged in the street.”

Dick leans forward and it feels as though the rest of the world melts away around him. He is transfixed - caught in an ephemeral connection with Robyn. Robyn is talking to the congregation but only speaking to him.

Aiofe is also drawn to Robyn but in a different way. She feels no connection to the speaker himself but instead to his message, his confidence, and the community around her. She allows herself to become part of something bigger than herself for the first time she can remember. It is one of the greatest gifts she has ever been given.

“But real fear is bigger. It weighs one down, dragging them into the depths of sin until they sink into damnation. What is this fear? I can feel you all wondering. Your souls yearn for the answer. It is only natural after all. It is what has brought you all here, to Hemiology, to me.

“This fear is the fear of anhedonia. Of a listless life lived without purpose or cause. The mortal coil that we inhabit is a trial constructed by God which we must overcome to join him in salvation. Only through keeping our faith in the faces of avarice, fear, and sloth can we prove our devotion. But you all know this, my flock.”

Proud chuckles rattle throughout the congregation. Dick feels the energy build in his chest and the air of the cathedral. He could go and run miles on end. He could scale the cathedral itself if it got him closer to God.

Robyn takes a long inhale to revel in the building effluvia of excitement. His heart thunders in his chest, loud enough to clog his ears and frame his vision in a thick, black, undulating border.

“I am so proud to see all of you, my children, before me. You have all come to overcome this most debilitating of fears, and I can see among you multiple children that God has seen fit to challenge further. Whether you face physical or mental trials I see you, as does God.”

The congregation is stirring now. Whispers race from mouths to ears and some slowly rise in anticipation.

“And I am most delighted to tell you all that today marks your passing.” Robyn raises his arms, showing his palms to the restless crowd below. “God has given me the ability to cure you of your afflictions, and you all have been found worthy!”

The crescendo of the speech is a starting pistol for the congregation. Half of the congregation rises and charges the pulpit while the others are rooted to their pews and watch on in surprise. The rushing crowd crashes into the wall below the pulpit like a wave.

Robyn calls down and watches them clamber on top of one another to reach him. The camera crane swings over the congregation for an optimal shot. The most faithful begin to reach him and he lays his hands on them as they come. The vials of God begin draining into him, burning in his veins with a pressure that threatens to burst him open.

Dick’s leg bounces with excitement. He has a white-knuckled grip on the pew in front of him. His heart is racing while trying to convince himself to join the frothing crowd. It was what he came so far for.

Aiofe watches on in panicked fright. Both of her hands are wrapped around Dick’s upper arm. She wants nothing more than to flee. But she can see that Dick’s eyes are wide with excitement. She can feel him wanting to take off toward the pulpit.

“Please don’t leave me here,” she says while trying to hold back tears. People start running over their pew from behind, almost pushing them to the floor. “Dick, please.”

A large man falls between them while clambering over the pew, pushing Aiofe away. She lands on the floor and screams for Dick. She reaches for him but he is gone. More and more bodies rush above her, blocking out the light and stomping on her. Her screams and tears go unnoticed. She manages to pull herself under the seat of the pew where she clamps her eyes shut and holds herself, crying softly.

Dick melds into the unstoppable wave of flesh rushing the pulpit. He is floating, his body driven by God’s divine spirit. He reaches the writhing mass of bodies all pushing and pulling one another. Miracles flash over his head like artillery fire.

He has to fight and claw his way up the pile. He is struck and strikes others. He is pulled down and pulls himself up by grabbing those above him. He chokes on the heavy musk surrounding him. By the time he reaches the summit he is covered in blood, both his own and foreign, and his clothes have been reduced to mere rags. But Dick does make it.

Robyn is even more beautiful up close. His expression is pained, but they lock eyes and Dick knows a connection forms between them. Robyn’s palm reaches his forehead and his vision goes white.

The energy of God flows into him. He is flooded with memories and the pain of decades. Divorce. The death of his brother. Boiling tears run down his cheeks, scalding the skin they glide down. It overwhelms him. It is filling him up too much. The nights alone. The slow suicide by self-destruction. The painful looks of old friends who see what he has become.

Robyn is losing control. He cannot stop the flow. His body is locked in place, his hand stuck on a man’s head. The man’s face is burning. It is too much but he is unable to move. The man screams, raspy and cracked.

A flash of light supernovas between the two of them followed by a crack of thunder. Dick is thrown off the pile of people, landing flat on his back on the hard floor with a snap of his spine shattering. Robyn is thrown in the opposite direction, rolling down the stairway to the pulpit.

His robes are wet with the remaining God fluid that is draining from the shattered cylinders on his vest. The crowd comes around the corner, their eyes like ravenous dogs. Fear grips Robyn's chest followed by the shame of growing afraid of his own flock.

Robyn is able to scramble to his feet before the crowd reaches him. He slips and stumbles his way behind the dais, panting and dragging his hands along the wall in search of the safety represented by the communion vault door. Only God can save him.

The metal door of the vault is cold on his skin when he finds it. His head is pounding, his mouth is dry; his vision is tunneling. Robyn collapses on the floor of the vault. The rampant footsteps of the mob are closing in.

The flames in his veins have turned to ice. It clogs him from the inside. He is unable to turn and close the door. He went too far. God has forsaken him from the cage in the corner. Robyn’s head rests on the metal floor. Just barely he can make out the motionless galactic eyes of God staring at him.

Robyn is hit by the metal door as the mob storms in and throws it open. He can no longer see God. He listens as the crowd pauses to discover the alien in its cage. But their frenzy is not tampered for long. They rush the cage, growling like beasts.

An electric snap reverberates in the vault and Robyn is splashed with warm blood from behind. Dark chunks of flesh splat onto the ground in front of him. He wants to scream, but he feels himself slipping out of consciousness.

Robyn hears the final grunts of God highlighted by the wet sounds of rending flesh as he slips away.