He was aware of a crowd that had gathered inside the door as he spoke, gawkers from outside the building, drawn to his words like moths to a flame. Praise God, who had given him the soul of an orator; never was he more grateful for that skill than now. “Yes, the Prophet dreamed of unity. But you can’t enforce unity-not with terror, not with hate. You have to earn it.”
Silence, thick and heavy. A window pane, weakened during the riot, chose that moment to fall inward; it hit the floor with an accusatory crash and shattered into a hundred pieces.
“Go home,” the Patriarch commanded. “Go home! Pray for guidance. Beg for forgiveness from your God, and for a new and purer communion with Him. You’ve seen the evil we fight with your own eyes now; you’ve felt it in your hearts. May you be stronger than ever in your faith for having known it.”
No one moved. A curtain in the balcony caught fire, and he heard the men upstairs crying out instructions to one another as they worked to smother the new flames before they could spread. Still he remained where he was and stared at his faithful, his very presence a reminder of what their God stood for, and what He expected of them.
Finally, with a curse, one man stirred. Throwing down the crowbar he carried, he whipped about and strode from the building. Then a second man. A third. The fourth put down the vase he held on the stand beside him, oh so carefully, and then stepped into the aisle and bowed to the Patriarch before he, too, hurried out. The Patriarch drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. Thank you, God. Others were moving now, exiting the building in twos and threes. The anger and hatred that had welded them into a mob had dissipated, at least for the moment; though he harbored no illusion that it was gone forever, the Patriarch was grateful for the brief moment of victory.
Be with them, God, now and always. Guide them. Protect them. Nurture their human spirit.
More were leaving now, too many to count. Now that they were separating it was possible to judge their number, and to asssess the contingent of priests and worshipers who had tried to stop them from defacing the temple. So few, he thought, gazing down at them. Most were spattered with blood, and more than one lay moaning on the floor. He noted at least two broken limbs, a handful of equally serious injuries. So very brave. It never ceased to amaze him what courage men could show when their faith was threatened. Any faith.
The Prophet was right, when he said that faith was the most powerful force on Erna. He looked at the pagan emblems on the wall and shook his head sadly. If only we could harness it in unity, as he intended.
All of his people had left the temple; he made sure of that before he stepped down from the dais, his long silk robes dragging in blood as he made his way out of the sanctuary. One man stepped into his path, and for a moment he thought there might be some kind of confrontation. But the priest bowed deeply, as one might to a great lord.
“Thank you,” he whispered. His voice was shaking; his forehead was streaked with blood. “Thank you for stopping it.”
The Patriarch looked back at the idol on the altar. A human figure with eight sets of arms and four pairs of male and female genitals crouched upon a square stone pedestal. A face was set into the lowest crotch, tongue extruded, and a tiny human form had been thrust into the mouth headfirst; the twisted legs appeared to be struggling as he watched. There were scars on the statue where crowbar assaults had chipped out pieces of the stone, and thick black paint dripped down its head to pool on the altar beneath it. Like blood, he thought. Just like blood.
He turned back to the priest, revulsion thick in his throat. I didn’t do it for you, he thought darkly. Knowing that this man would never understand what had happened here today, or its importance. To them it was a simple assault, terrifying but finite; to him it was but one more battle in the war for men’s souls.
The siren of an ambulance wagon was drawing near as he exited the temple. He strode through the throng of gawkers as though they were ghosts, and like fearful wraiths they parted, making way for him. His carriage had pulled to the curb a good two blocks away, out of reach of the mob, but he did not signal for it to come closer; after the smoky confines of the pagan temple the short walk in the night air felt good. Hate-wraiths fluttered overhead, spawned by the violence of the night, but for now they kept their distance. In time they would gain more substance and learn to hunt men.
Created by my people, in the name of my God. His face flushed hot with the shame of it. Will they never learn?
As he came up to the carriage, the driver looked at him; though he would never dare to question the Patriarch, it was clear he was brimming with curiosity.
“Riot’s over,” the Holy Father said shortly, as he climbed up into his seat. “Davarti’s safe. For now.” He lacked the energy to go into more detail, but fell back against his seat as the carriage pulled about and started back. The man would hear enough details when word got back to their own Church; no need to rehash it all now.
How many other riots would there be, he wondered, before this madness ended? The horses pulled the carriage about and started back toward the Cathedral; an ambulance wagon rushed past them, headed toward the temple. How many other assaults on the innocent would his people commit, wielding the name of his God like a standard? A year ago such raids were nearly unheard of; now they were commonplace. Why now, after so many years of peace? What was the catalyst for such a change? He had asked himself that a thousand and one times, and still he had no answer. There was no one thing he could point to, no single person or happenstance to blame. Violence was spreading like wildfire among his people, and he didn’t know how to combat it. Where had it come from, this fever of destruction? How could he manage to tame it?
The headache he had experienced previously was blinding by the time they reached the Cathedral’s stable; he lay back in his seat with his eyes shut, trying to deny the pain. His soul might be that of God’s tireless statesman, but his body was seventy-two years old, and sometimes the strain of all those years was almost more than he could bear. Especially now, with his life’s work falling to pieces around him. That made every year count double.
“We’re here, Your Holiness.” The coachman offered an arm to help him dismount; after a moment he took it. At least this riot had been cut short, he thought. At least this one night he wouldn’t dream of blood and shattered glass and broken idols, as he had during the other riots. One small thing to be grateful for.
There was a servant waiting for him outside his chambers. The look on the man’s face made it plain that he had bad news to deliver. With a dry smile the Patriarch greeted him. “Some new problem, is it? Don’t worry, my son. There’s not much you can say to me now that will make this night any worse.
“Vryce is back,” the man said quietly.
For a moment he just stared at him. Then, with a deep sigh, he rubbed his temples again.