Testing

I woke up with the light of dawn seeping into the sky outside the window. I laid still for a moment, grunted, then sat up to perform my morning ritual: I focused first on the name ‘Odemsha’, and my mind’s eye filled with a black ocean. Shapes moved indistinctly in this ocean. I then appended the other, critical name: Demishah.

A glowing white signal came from many weeks away in the north-west. Demishah, my prophetised destroyer, hadn’t moved since yesterday, and I could pass through today without worrying about her.

Phew.

So I brushed my teeth, dressed in my habit, and made a breakfast of tea, eggs, bread, and hummus as I waited for Herrat to arrive. Not long after I finished, a knock came at the door, and then the clack of it unlocking.

Vicar Herrat entered the room, sweeping his hand down his habit as if casting off dust. “Good morning, Mephi.”

“Morning,” I said, setting two plates of bread and eggs on the table with the cups of tea. It wasn’t a heavy breakfast, and it would leave us with quite a bit of time before we had to be at our first appointment. We could take a leisurely walk there and probably still be early.

I said grace and we ate.

“I tried praying last night,” I said, taking a bite of the bread.

Vicar Herrat set down his tea. “Very good. You must make a routine of it. I wouldn’t expect a response so quickly, but?”

“No, nothing yet... I mean, it was just last night. Doesn’t it get a little redundant asking for the same things all the time, though? Don’t you eventually run out of new things to talk about?”

“Persistence in prayer is another tile laid in a path of a thousand steps. If you are to pray as a Bishop would, you must practice your prayer as an athlete flexes his muscles. Moreover, it is always appropriate to adore Czjeir for the mercies and gifts he bestows every day—anything calming or beautiful that caught your eye.”

God. I laid my cheek in my palm. “Well, I think I genuinely can thank Him for numbing the Hunger, every day...”

“Begin with that, then.” Herrat took a long sip of tea.

“Prayer as a Bishop is about getting the response, right?” I tinked my fork against the plate, up and down. “So I guess it’d be, start with the thanksgiving, then find something He can respond to...”

“Incorporating Scripture into your prayer is also vital. That is the bedrock of Czjeir’s promises to us, and His principles.”

“Right... I mean, right.” I nodded, wiping crumbs off my hands.

“And Czjeir’s aim, ultimately, is the salvation of all who can be saved. You are merely an agent of that purpose. This is where you are lacking, but you best remember this dynamic.”

“Okay.” I sensed I would get a better illustration of effective prayer from a Bishop than the Vicar, but that the core points would be the same. “Yeah, I’ve been a servant of His from the opposite end for a... while, so I get that...”

Vicar Herrat frowned, then sighed and looked away. I collected up the empty plates and cups, drawling, “I mean, maybe you don’t like it, maybe I don’t even like it, but it’s a pretty intimate thing to be an instrument of His judgement, you know? Don’t sell me too short.”

It was then that a muffled banging sounded throughout the building, alongside the garbled noise of a voice calling. Herrat got up and went to the door; I peered after him curiously. At the front door past the office, quickly let in by Herrat, was a pair of women, one of them in a wheelchair.

“Good morning... I was afraid we’d be be too early. I’m Jattyi, and this is my mother, Nurim.” The younger of the pair, who was pushing the wheelchair, said to Herrat.

“Hello, dear...” the woman in the wheelchair, Nurim, croaked.

“Please, can we ask, are you the Bishop here? The Tax Collector?” Jattyi asked.

“I’m Herrat Amayir, a Vicar. I oversee the Bishop, but I am not him. He’s just over there, Bishop tel-Sharvara,” Herrat nodded to me. I wandered over from my spot by the doorway. “You two are here very early indeed; please, tell us how we can help you.”

“Well, my mother...”

“I heard that Ol’ Tax now that he’s a Bishop turns out is the best healer this side of the Pontifex. I’ll tell you what, little Jattyi and me have come all from Jima to see if that’s true, and the trip weren’t cheap or easy!” She slapped her thighs. “And it’s great to finally meet you, Tax. Done a real good job cleaning up this country and still serving us now in the Church. But see if you can get these puppies moving again... I’ll tithe 20% of all I own to the Church and open every day singing hallelujah.”

Shouldn’t be hard. Heartening to see that the paralysis hadn’t dampened her spirits. I looked to Herrat, the name ‘Pierchival’ already circling through my mind.

Vicar Herrat went silent for a moment, looking at the pair askance. Then he said, “Tell me, have you spoken to the priests in Jima?”

Jattyi went silent in shock. Nurim contrarily said, “Well see we sure have, but our Bishop in Jima ain’t the best, his prayers dun work every time and I was one he couldn’t get God to show up for. But what I hear of Tax, his prayers work every time.”

“Lady Nurim, it may be the case that Czjeir has already given His answer. We are all bestowed various trials, and this may be one you are tasked to shoulder.”

Nurim’s mouth flapped open and closed.

I bristled, shooting a look at the back of Herrat’s head. What the fuck?

“Wha—now, just hold on here, I heard Bishop Tax can fix anything, and we come all this way and you’re telling me... no? You’re telling me Czjeir says no? Cor, he hasn’t even tried! You don’t talk to Czjeir, he talks to Czjeir! Least let the Bishop try!” Nurim slammed her fist on the wheelchair’s armrest.

I agreed entirely. What the fuck was Herrat doing? My muscles were tensed like I were about to pounce on a sinner and rend them apart, except the target this time was Herrat. I mean, screw him! I could march right past him and heal her. In fact, I think I might do that!

My fingers twitched, when I noticed Herrat peering at me—no, analysing me. I froze immediately. The bastard was evaluating me, and whatever I did next would be front and centre in his next report to the Church.

If he fucking said ‘no’, and I was obeying the Church, I had to obey that.

Cringing through my whole body, I forced myself back and nodded. Nausea oozed like a slime through my throat, landing as a pit in my stomach, defiled.

Vicar Herrat held the silence a moment, then nodded and the tension in the room released like a sigh. “You’re right, Lady Nurim. Bishop tel-Sharvara, go ahead and minister to her.”

Jattyi breathed out, placing her hand on her heart. Nurim still huffed, her face red with tears pricking her eyes, but she calmed down a slight when I approached.

Fucking Herrat. This didn’t make up for it.

“Okay. This might tingle a bit. Here—here we go...” I muttered, held my hand over her legs, and administered the healing magic.

The swirling energy might be invisible, but her response was immediate. Nurim flinched as if pricked. “Oh! Oh!” She said, shuffling in her seat. “Oh!” And slowly she pushed herself up, legs bending, holding her weight, until she was standing on her feet. “Oh! Oh!” She squealed hysterically, and jumped up and down in delight. “Oh! Praise Czjeir! I knew it, I knew Tax would do it!” Laughing, she hugged me and planted two fat kisses on my cheeks.

“Guh,” I grunted, trying not to recoil too energetically.

“Oh, mother, please, not too—Praise God!—not too vigorously...” Jattyi peeled Nurim off me and laughed a breathy laugh, the two of them a tangle of limbs. She looked to me with a beatific face, tears staining their cheeks. “Thank you so much, Tax Collector. You’re a miracle.”

Thanks. I nodded, then, unprompted, “Czjeir wouldn’t want His children to suffer.” I don’t know. It was kinda canned. But that sounded pretty Bishop-y.

Herrat looked at me with a stony frown, so I shut up and willed myself to be less conspicuous. The mother and daughter pair calmed down from their celebrating, wiped their faces, then turned to consider the wheelchair. Nurim chuckled, “Let’s take that back to Jima and give that to some poor soul that needs it. Cor, better yet, tell them to come here!”

The couple laughed. Dislodging the wheelchair with a squeak, they pulled it back through the doorway and with a quick goodbye, departed.

Herrat and I soaked in the silence for a moment.

“That was low,” I said.

“Judge me if you wish,” Herrat replied, crossing his hands into the flowing sleeves of his habit.

Fine. I will then, Herrat.

With dawnlight leaking yellow over the sky, Vicar Herrat and I traversed the mosaiced streets for a rather sombre walk to our destination: Saint Hiynar’s Hospital. When I had no specific tasks I was assigned to for the day, like finding a lost child, or convicting a criminal, or helping move displaced heavy objects, and it wasn’t Turisday (food day) or Urelsday (vet day), I usually helped at the hospital.

The receptionist welcomed us in and after a once-over to heal the patients already admitted, we took up positions in the emergency ward to wait for new admittances. With me present, patients rarely stayed for longer than ten minutes after receiving their diagnoses, if they even opted to receive one at all. That made the hospital very empty except for the staff, but in a good way.

Rumours had spread outside of Vish about my healing prowess, as proved by Jattyi and Nurim. Though not constant, there was always at least one patient with a serious illness, madness, or disability who had travelled that saw me during the day, alongside regular sniffles, infections, sprains, and broken bones from Vish.

“Okay, this’ll tingle a bit. It’ll just be a second,” I advised.

My patient, an older man with an aggravating rash on his torso, nodded.

I administered the magic and healed him. Rubbing his smoother torso, he exclaimed, “Ohh! That’s much better!”. Another mundane success. As was routine, the doctor saw him off as Herrat and I took our positions back in the ward to wait for more patients.

The sun tilted slowly down and the light outside seeped orange. I leaned against the wall beside Vicar Herrat, staring absently outside, and thinking.

Herrat’s little stunt this morning was disgusting. Using God’s name to convince innocent people they deserved to suffer. I could still discern a sinner from a mile off, and those girls were spotlessly average. And, hell, I had compunctions even over the suffering of sinners.

Moreover, it was disturbing. Clearly, it had been a test to see whether I would obey a ludicrous demand—but after eight months of good behaviour there was surely no need for me to prove something like that. I could only imagine that Herrat had become desperate to find some infraction against me, so that... what? What exactly? The Church would restrict me further? Or...what?

A shudder ran through my spine. The thought crossed me that I needed to get out of this program. If Herrat hated me more than I thought, and wasn’t kidding about wanting me thrown in a pit, I might need to take my situation more seriously. That is, I might need to be more proactive about fighting the Hunger... somehow.

I mean, I was already being proactive and productive, but something more... direct.

The clock on the wall ticked, and turned 5pm.

“That’s enough for today,” said Herrat.

“Alright,” I replied, kicking off the wall.

We said our goodbyes to the reception staff and departed to the streets. Though scenic, with larks in the occasional trees amid the mosaic decorations, my lingering discomfort with Herrat prevented me from feeling much peace. We soon reached the penitentiary.

I was let into the lounge by Herrat, retrieved the Book of the Scriptures, and seated myself with the book open. The routine of the past eight months had me well trained. Herrat joined me quickly.

“Now, we move on to the book of Excruciations,” said Herrat.

We had finished Etudes 3 last night. “Yeah,” I said, tracing my thumb down the page.

I took a breath. “And the prophet said: Man is not made to suffer, but the flesh attracts pain. Suffering comes to a man by man, by nature, by Shien, and by God, the temper of each defines them: by the man, cruelty, by nature, contrivance, by Shien, loathing, and by God, judgement.

“The cruel heart of the torturing man is blackened before God’s eyes. It sups upon pain, exploiting the weakness of flesh for its own gain, lacking the elegance of Czjeir’s divine Justice, being instead begat by base hatreds of Shien. For it is only under Shien’s eye that the cruel man prospers to inflict his cruelty; remember the days of Kittja and Kitthaya, when Czjeir oversaw the children. In these days, there was no cruelty of man against man. Czjeir’s mercy instead presided, which stayed the cruel hand before it became cruel; there was no torture, and there was no crime that betrayed Czjeir’s heart. Such is the divine way of man with man. The same will come at the resurrection, when Czjeir’s governance is reinstated over all the souls that Love Him and heed the words of the prophet.

“The contrivance of natural suffering is the old curse of Shien. Before the children of Czjeir, when it was only Czjeir and Shien, was the world, made for Shien. Imperfection was created with the movement of the wind, to flatter Shien, who was greater than the imperfect world. Indeed, Shien could only inhabit a world of imperfections, for imperfections were within Shien. It was when humanity became flesh broken from Czjeir that they became wrapped in Shien’s imperfections, and subject to the tyranny of moving winds. The curse is Shien’s burden upon all of humanity. One who hates a cursed brother hates himself, for the curse consumes all and strikes like a viper; but one who loves a cursed brother loves Czjeir. Remember the days of Kittja and Kitthaya, when Czjeir oversaw the children. In these days, there was no contrivance of the curse; for Czjeir’s mercies staved the curse. The same will come at the resurrection, when all are released from Shien, and no longer under the curse.

“The suffering of Shien is a holy hatred against which there is no purchase. With the heat of beatific love, Shien despises the fickle children of Czjeir, and envies their childhood, such that he would draw all into suffering. Under the governance of Shien, we are inflicted with ghouls; Shien would make all the world ghouls, and this is the divine hatred whose only protection is the love of Czjeir. We run to Czjeir to flee from Shien; we love Czjeir for he is all that is not Shien. This is Shien’s second curse, the vile curse, the curse of the spirit, and the curse of the Judgement. Love Czjeir with all your heart and heed the words of the prophet, so that Czjeir will say at the resurrection, ‘This is My Child, and Shien shall not touch them.’

“The suffering of God’s judgement is the divine torture of the schism. In becoming disparate from God, we become less like God, and such, less like My perfection. It is a great offence to see purity rot into a cretin no longer recognisable as Myself; this is not Me, and when comes the Judgement of Shien, I do not raise My voice. You are as ugly as Shien claims. Such is the important of the path of Arete, of Beauty, and of Charity, such that I can find My Children in Myself.

“Do not say; God has cursed you, until the day of Judgement comes.

“Suffering comes to man; but man is not made to suffer. It is gods who are made to suffer, and take on the pains of Man. This is the hallowed Archetype. When the Anointed Pontifex comes, he will suffer, perfect without tempering, but tempered as if by fire...”

The text continued. I read for the rest of the chapter, which talked (like most chapters did) about the Judgement, and the qualities of the Anointed Pontifex, who, as far as I could tell, was a figure with an unparalleled connection to Czjeir who nonetheless endured terrible pain.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t get it. Not to sound conceited. I was chosen by Czjeir and I endured terrible pain. But to imagine someone like Madjea being tortured... no, the ‘Anointed Pontifex’ would be even more joined to Czjeir than Madjea, and even more transcendent in manner. To imagine a person like that was quite difficult.

“And what do you make of these verses, Mephi?” Herrat asked.

I stretched out my fingers, cracking my knuckles. “Well.. it seems to cover all forms of suffering, and say it’s mostly Shien’s fault. I suppose that’s true. But what makes me curious is when it’s Czjeir’s judgement causing suffering; that just being different from Czjeir is enough to garner pain because He... kind of just hates you.”

“Because He cannot see Himself in you,” Herrat corrected, very semantically. “But the Pontifices assure us that we are more like Czjeir than we think. Very few are truly alienated.”

“I know the type...”

“Very few,” Herrat snapped, “for we have the path of Arete to reform those who have earned that displeasure.”

“Do you think everyone really engages with that, though?” I laid my chin in my palm.

“It is not up to us to judge whether a penitent is successful upon the path, as only Czjeir can discern that. But ensuring they stay upon it, is all we are called to do. It’s to the penitent’s own detriment if they don’t engage, or only make a gesture while despising the path in their heart.”

“Yeah. ...You’re right.” I closed my eyes. “I know I used to be like that... hating things just because they weren’t as screwed up as me.”

“But that has changed, you say.”

“It took... a long time.”

I tapped my finger on the table, staring across to the kitchenette. I took a breath.

“I want to try fasting.”

“Fasting? ...You, Mephi? Are you even able to do so?”

“I couldn’t before. But with the Church’s help, I mean, the way I am now, I might be able to.”

Herrat planted his fist under his chin. “I cannot dispute the benefits of a holy fast. It is common for Bishops and Pontifices to fast, yes... but your diet makes you an exceptional case. You understand this, Mephi?”

“O-of course I do. That’s why I think it’s a good idea. I think...” I stammered, shuffling my hands. “You said before that Czjeir might have been engaging with me through art, and, yeah, that’s an idea, but one way I know He’s communicated with me is through the Hunger. The whole thing is set up... to point me towards people He wants dead, and it forces me to kill them. As long as I have that, I’m... a tool. And I know the Church hates it, but it was like that for Attaran too.

“And, and, I’ve just had this thought, for a long time really, that if I want to get away from that, I need to resist it—and I mean that actively, by not indulging it. It feels like a monster I can actually fight that way, like, it gets angrier and more vicious when I don’t feed it, but now that it’s duller... maybe I’d have a shot at actually winning.”

Herrat ran his hand down his neck. “And if you are fasting, nobody is being condemned in that pit.”

“Yeah. It’d be over.”

Herrat craned his head down in thought, tapping his forehead with his thumb. “There are variables to this proposition... variables the Church knows better than I...” He looked up. “But I will discuss this. I do not think it is without merit. How long would you be fasting, initially?”

“W-well, I was just thinking, however long until the Hunger is dead.”

“This sounds unwise. If ‘the Hunger’ is such a strong enemy, it would seem sensible to take it in bouts.”

“But if I can get rid of it all at once, nobody else has be damned, at all,” I pointed out.

“I will speak with the Church about it.” He looked over to the kitchenette, sternly. “Still, you best have a dinner tonight. You can start fasting once, or if, you get approval.”

“Right. Alright.” I said, and got up to prepare dinner.

The night proceeded uneventfully, with myself spending some time drawing until Herrat left, then reading and producing some art on the cloth roll, my usual nightly routine. I eventually settled into bed, and sighed.

Hey. Thanks for holding back the Hunger. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m right about this whole ‘fast’ idea. It’s not cheating or anything, right? Stop me if I’m wrong? But please let it go well.

With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I soon drifted to sleep.