Chapter Text
PART ONE: THE LIGHTHOUSE
The Ascension
1912
Coast of Maine
“Are you going to just sit there?”
“As opposed to what? Standing?”
“Not standing. Rowing.”
“Rowing? I hadn’t planned on it.”
“So you expect me to shoulder the burden?”
“No, but I do expect you to do all the rowing.”
Ten minutes. It’s been ten minutes, and already these two are giving me a pounding headache.
They’re obviously brother and sister, judging by the way they bicker. They’re wearing matching bright yellow anoraks to protect against the rain–a precaution I coulda taken too, had I been warned. It was storming fit to flood the world again, and I’m soaked down to the bone. Sure, I saw my share of miserable nights in the 7th, but that was as a boy. Now that I’m pushin’ forty, I’m too old for this shit.
“And why is that?” yells the gentleman over the noise of the relentless pounding of the rain on the surface of the sea, and the creaking boat, and the splash of the oars.
“Coming here was your idea,” the lady yells back.
“My idea?!”
“I made it very clear that I don’t believe in the exercise.”
“The rowing?”
“No. I imagine that’s wonderful exercise,” says the lady drily.
“Then what?”
“The entire thought experiment.”
I decide it’s time to speak up. “Excuse me,” I cut across them, raising my voice to be heard from the back of the rowboat. “How much longer?”
The lady reaches back and shoves a box into my arms without even looking at me.
“What’s this?” I ask her. She ignores me, her attention wholly on her brother.
“One goes into an experiment knowing one could fail,” he’s saying.
“But one does not undertake an experiment knowing one has failed.”
“Can we get back to the rowing?” the gentleman says.
“I suggest you do,” the lady retorts. “Otherwise we’re never going to get there.”
“No, I mean I’d greatly appreciate it if you would assist.”
“Perhaps you should ask him. I imagine he has a greater interest in getting there than I do.”
I stiffen as they mention me. I don’t like their strangeness being pointed in my direction.
“I suppose he does,” admits the gentleman. ”But there’s no point in asking.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t row.”
“He doesn’t row?”
“No, he doesn’t row.”
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
Well, at least one of them did. I ain’t understood a word they said yet.
I look down at the box in my arms, hunching over it to protect it from the elements. I turn it over and I see it’s mine–not something I expected to find here, in the middle of the Atlantic. The brass plate on the top gleams as lightning flickers across the bottom of the clouds.
PROPERTY OF BOOKER DEWITT
7TH CAVALRY, WOUNDED KNEE
This was in my office. How’d they get their hands on it? I shake my head and flip open the latch.
Inside, an odd assortment of items shifts with every rock of the rowboat. Right on top is a pistol; I lift it first, check to be sure it’s loaded, and holster it before the rain can find it. A Colt 1911, military issue, .45. These people ain’t playin’ around.
Two pieces of paper are wedged into the underside of the lid. One’s a postcard for a place called Monument Island, wrinkled and faded, showing a white marble statue of an angel. The other has gibberish scrawled on it, three doodles and some numbers. Sounds about right for these people–they’ve got more’n one screw loose, by the looks of it.
A card sits on top, printed with coordinates to New York. And at the bottom, underneath a fat brass key the size of my hand, is a photo of a young woman. She’s looking over her shoulder, her body blurred with motion. Elizabeth, it’s labeled. I flipped it over idly–and find handwritten instructions on the back. Bring to New York Unharmed.
Unharmed? What the hell do they take me for?
“We’ve arrived,” the lady says suddenly.
I look up. The distant lighthouse, which seemed to get no closer during all that struggle against the storm, suddenly rears up high, towering over our heads. A rickety dock sticks out from the base. The gentleman steers the boat toward the end of the dock, where a splintered, slime-coated ladder juts into the waves. I know as soon as I see that rotted mess of a ladder that they’re gonna make me climb up it.
I shove the contents of the box hastily into my pocket, then stow the box underneath the seat. Maybe they’ll have the decency to return it where they found it, but I can’t take it with me.
The boat knocks gently against the pilings. I reach out and wrap an arm around the ladder, hauling the boat closer. The gentleman and lady seem more’n happy to watch me struggle to my feet while holding the boat in place.
The best thing that can be said about the ladder is that it’s short. I feel one of the rungs crack beneath my boot as I haul myself onto the slippery planks of the dock.
“Shall we tell him when we’ll be returning?” the lady asks her brother.
“Would that change anything?” the gentleman responds cynically.
“It might give him some comfort.”
The gentleman sighs, picking up the oars again. “Well,” he says, “at least that’s something we can agree on.”
“Hey!” I snap, but the oars don’t even pause. I raise my voice and shout louder. “Hey! Is someone meeting me here?”
“I’d certainly hope so!” the gentleman calls back.
“It does seem like a dreadful place to be stranded!” the lady agrees.
I grunt a curse, pushing my soaking hair out of my eyes. It’s no use. Even if I dive into the ocean and swim after them, I’ll never catch up. Not even my voice can reach them now.
Not that I’m gonna do any of that. I’m too hungover to shout.
I step under the shelter of the roof of the tiny boathouse, slipping a matchbook and a packet of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket, wrapped up to keep them dry. If I learned one thing in the army, it was how to smoke in every kind of weather. I shield the cigarette from the wind with my hand, toss the match into the sea once it catches. Then I stand there, shivering, smoking, and stare at the lighthouse.
“Well,” I mutter–not that there’s anyone to hear. “Maybe there’s someone inside.”
Because if there ain’t, I’m out of options.
I like to think I’m the practical sort. There’s only one course of action to take, so–after finishing my cigarette and flicking the butt into the ocean after the match–I take it. I plod down the deck and toward the steps that spiral around the outside of the lighthouse, grateful for the tiny bit of warmth and peace from the smokes, however brief it may be. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve faced a day sober like this, and I gotta say, I ain’t enjoyin’ it.
A lantern hangs over the double doors of the lighthouse, shining warm golden light onto the pools of water that ripple out from under my boots. A piece of paper is pinned to the door with a steak knife. The ink’s running in the rain, but though the red symbol on the bottom corner is smeared beyond recognition, I can still clearly read the inch-high letters in black.
DeWitt–
Bring us the
girl and wipe
away the debt.
THIS IS YOUR
LAST CHANCE!
I roll my eyes. As if I didn’t get the message the hundred times they shouted it through the office door. One job, they promised. One job, and the slate would be wiped clean. And then–
Well. I don’t rightly know what then. Part of me, the part that loathes being sober, is mighty tempted to take to the liquor and gambling and rack up a brand new pile of debt. That part knows how it’ll end, but takes a bit of spiteful pleasure at the thought of blowing my brains out knowing it means the collectors ain’t gettin’ a dime outta me. And another part, more practical…well, it’s saying just to focus on the task at hand.
I raise his fist and pound on the door. No time like the present to meet the bastards.
“Ah, excuse me?” I call. “I’m Booker DeWitt. I guess you’re expecting…me…?”
The door gives under my fist as I knock again. I trail off as I push it open, revealing a darkened, empty room. It’s bare–except for a washbasin, a towel, and a lamp on a little table right in front of me. Above it hangs a huge embroidered message in stark white and red.
OF THY SINS
SHALL I WASH THEE
I step forward, look down. I see my distorted reflection stare up at me. I turn away with a snort.
Good luck with that, pal.
There’s nothing down here but some slime-coated ropes and barrels. But there’s music playing somewhere above, and a golden glow of light coming from the top steps of the spiraling staircase. Another sign catches my eye as I start to climb.
FROM SODOM
SHALL I LEAD THEE
Sodom? The name strikes a faint memory from the scattered masses I’ve attended over the years, but it takes me a moment to remember. Sodom and Gomorrah, the cities of sin.
Religious folk. Delightful. But I keep climbing. They don’t seem like the tolerant sort, but that don’t mean we can’t find some common ground. Namely in the form of cash.
“Is anyone here?” I call as I climb to the top of the stairs. “Hello?”
No answer. The music is coming from somewhere higher up, but I recognize it now. I whistle along to the tune spinning out from the phonograph as I poke around, just to break the silence. This place gives me the creeps.
Give me that old time religion
That old time religion
That old time religion
It’s good enough for me
There are beds up here, desks and things, though none of it looks well-used. More a waystation for travelers like me–though I feel far from welcome. I pause to study a map of the United States, plus the Injun lands out west, all the way out to the ocean. Someone’s put thumbtacks in it, wrapped ‘em around with red yarn, made a shape across the country almost like a bird. Looks like the thumbtacks are in major cities, New York and Boston and Charleston and New Orleans, all the way out to some of them new states in the desert. Can’t see why anyone’d want ‘em, but I reckon folks want to see everything between New York and California under the flag.
There’s a phone under the map. I lift the receiver, take a listen. But the line’s dead. Truth be told, it’s a miracle if it ever worked this far out into the water. I put it back–and as I do, I spot a yellow note on the bottom corner of the map.
Be prepared.
He’s on
his way.
You must
stop him.
-C
A chill runs through my blood. I don’t know any “C”, and there’s no way they can be talking about me. They expected me. They hired me. But I can’t deny a sinking feeling in my gut.
This was a mistake. This job was a mistake.
Dammit, DeWitt, you fool. What’ve you got yourself into?
There’s nothing for it but to keep going. Up, and up, and up. The lantern’s left behind, with only the light from the windows to guide me, grey and dull and spiked with flashes of lightning. There’s another sign on the stairs.
TO THINE OWN LAND
SHALL I TAKE THEE
It ain’t a Bible verse, I don’t think. None of these are. I try to put ‘em out of my head–they don’t mean nothin’. Just religious nonsense.
Beside the sign, there’s a bloody handprint on the wall.
I tense, freezing where I stand. I reach out and press a finger to the blood. It comes away clean–dried, then. But that don’t mean anything. Blood dries pretty quick.
Maybe it isn’t blood. Maybe it’s paint….
But deep down, I recognize it for what it is: a warning. I reach for my gun as I climb the last of the steps, keeping low.
I realize suddenly that the phonograph is silent now, spinning with a soft hiss, playing dead air. I keep my eyes on the room above as I ascend, glimpsing a little more with every step.
Overturned furniture. Broken dishes and scattered food. Shattered glass. And–
I suck in a sharp breath.
There’s a man tied to a chair. A sack over his head, belted around his neck. The sack, his clothes, and the floor are all soaked in blood. Blood and brains splatter on the wall behind his head–likely from the big bullet that shot right through the sack, into his forehead, and through his skull.
And around his neck is a sign, scrawled in his blood.
DON’T DISAPPOINT US.
“...Shit,” I breathe.
There are bloody tools on the table, but I don’t look. I don’t look at the man neither. I don’t wanna know who he was–if he was anybody at all. I think it’d be worse if he wasn’t. Just some poor bastard used to make a point.
The point’s been made. If I fail, I ain’t gettin’ out of this alive.
IN NEW EDEN SOIL
SHALL I PLANT THEE
These people are out of their goddamn minds.
There’s a cigarette in the ashtray that’s still smokin’–whoever was here, they’ve been gone for only minutes. It’s time to get goin’.
One last flight of stairs. I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find at the top–until I realize from the water on the steps that it’s leading me outside. There’s an overhang that shields me from the worst of the rain as I emerge onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the ocean. In the distance, back the way I came from, I can see the strip of gray that must be the mainland.
The storm has calmed somewhat–now it’s just thick gray rain. From what I understand, it ain’t unusual for it to rain every day like this in Maine. At least I ain’t in it anymore. As much as I’m dyin’ for a wash in warm water, I’ve dried off a bit now.
I circle the balcony, but there’s no one here, and nowhere for anyone to hide. There’s just the light, like a big glass diamond on the other side of the windows. And doors–but they’re locked. There ain’t even a handle to force ’em. An angel grows from the iron frame of the door, standing vigil over three brass bells.
I reach into my pocket and grip the key. But even if it matched this door, there’s nowhere to stick it.
I’m not sure what to do next–until I see something scratched onto the bell. An engraving, and it looks familiar.
Wait a minute. That card….
My hand, still in my pocket, can feel the card brushing against the knuckles.
I pull it out. Doodles and numbers–but I recognize them now. A scroll, a key, and a sword, matching perfectly the engravings on each of the bells. And beside them, numbers. One, two, two.
I ring the first bell once, the second bell twice, and the third bell twice.
The whole lighthouse shudders.
“What in the world–?!”
I clutch onto the railing for dear life as the very sky seems to burn red–some light, somewhere on top of the lighthouse, is flashing. A foghorn sounds, so loud I shout and clap my hands over my ears–once, then twice, then twice again, in the same pitch as the bells. The red lights flash in time, and I could swear there are more of them in the clouds, in the distance, shining red beams down onto the sea.
Silence. I risk uncovering my ears, and I hear a metallic, clunking sort of sound, like shifting gears. Then the foghorns sound again–
The giant bulb in the lighthouse spins, then lifts up–
A platform rises to fill the empty space, metal shifting and turning to reveal a cushioned chair–
The doors swing open with a melodic, metallic jingle. I wait, hands hovering near my ears, but nothing happens. All is still again.
“All right,” I say to myself, pretending like this ain’t the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m glad my voice ain’t shakin’, even if ain’t nobody here to hear it. I step cautiously into the little glass room. Nothing happens; the metal floor is solid.
I look around, but there’s nothing. No kinda switch or lever. And part of me knows there ain’t gonna be. There’s only one place left to go.
Looks like they want me to sit in their fancy chair….
It’s some sort of trap–it has to be. I can’t help but think of the man tied to a chair below.
But there ain’t no use draggin’ me all the way out here just to kill me. Ain’t no use scarin’ me first, either. Whatever it is, it’ll get me one step closer to gettin’ this thing done.
Nothing else for it–but I know damn well that it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done as I climb into the chair and settle in.
It’s not unlike a barber’s chair. Not too shabby a place to sit, honestly. I look around the room of glass, leaning forward, wondering what sort of mechanisms are holding me in place.
“So,” I mutter, “ now what–the hell?!”
My arm pressed against the armrest–and a metal cuff swings out and closes onto my wrist. I brace myself to pull it loose, and another one seizes my other wrist.
“Make yourself ready, pilgrim,” recites a woman’s recorded voice from somewhere overhead. “The bindings are there as a safeguard.”
“What? No–no no no–”
But it’s too late. More bindings latch around my ankles, my chest, and finally my forehead, and no matter how I struggle, I can only watch, helpless, as metal plates rise from the depths of the lighthouse, sliding up and in, enclosing me like the closing petals of a flower. I can hear the pneumatic hiss as they bind together.
“No…this can’t be good….”
There’s a window right in front of me–more like a porthole, generously placed right at my eye level. I glimpse my reflection, briefly–and then the seat rocks. It tilts. I’m shaken like a rabbit in the jaws of a dog, and I feel the comforting weight of my gun slip out of my pocket.
“No no no no–!”
But I can only watch helplessly as it rattles across the floor and tumbles into the churning gears below.
“GODDAMMIT!”
I feel the whole pod shaking, and something’s glowing below. Heat–fire–some kind of propulsion? Whatever it is, I don’t want to be strapped to the goddamn thing….
“Ascension,” says the recorded voice. “Ascension at the count of five…count of four…..”
“No, no, no no no no–”
“...three…two….”
“No–!”
“Ascension,” chants the voice. “Ascension. Ascension–”
The whole pod is shaking–and rising. I can feel the force of the ascent dragging me down. Clouds are flashing past the porthole–what the hell is this thing?
“Ascension. Ascension.”
I can see the ocean, grey and flat at this height, stretching as far as the eye can see.
“Ascension. Ascension.”
“Just stay calm,” I tell myself through gritted teeth. “Stay calm, stay calm–”
“Ascension. Ascension.”
The device has its mantra and I have mine–but I can’t bring myself to close my eyes. I don’t even know if I’m breathing.
The voice changes its tune.
“Five thousand feet…ten thousand feet…”
More clouds–thick, gray, obscuring everything–the force of the thing is going to rip my heart out through my throat–
“Fifteen thousand feet….”
The clouds are white now–the shuddering pod rips a yell from my lungs–
A blinding light.
The shaking stops. The force tearing me apart melts away. I’m floating, blinking in the sudden light as it resolves into fluffy white clouds, bright sunlight–and, in the distance, an angel.
“Hallelujah,” says the recorded voice.
I can’t agree more.
Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.
I don’t know what I’m looking at as the pod floats gently downward, and the more I stare, the less sense it makes. The angel is a statue–the same statue from the postcard, Monument Island–but it’s colossal, as tall as a skyscraper. And it’s…floating. There’s no other word for it. I shot straight up over an empty sea, and yet, up here, I can see rooftops–hundreds of them. Windows. Bridges. Roads. And the angel.
A city in the clouds.
How could there be such a thing?
“Wh…what…?”
I can’t speak. I wonder if a vessel in my brain burst during the flight, and this is all just a hallucination. If so…it’s a mighty pleasant one.
I never believed in heaven–and certainly never thought I’d see it. But this…the beautiful buildings floating on clouds, the marble angel bathed in sunlight, the distant glimmer of the ocean…. If not for the airship drifting lazily across the sky like a fat gray bumblebee, this is exactly how I pictured it.
The pod starts to sink. I imagine plummeting fifteen thousand feet back into the ocean in this tiny metal cage–but even that thought can’t scare me. I’m too stunned, left breathless and stupefied by the ascent. I sit back and watch the city slowly rise as I sink.
A rooftop comes into view. A flag flutters at the peak–an American flag, I think, but not like any I’ve ever seen before. I sink lower, lower, taking in the domed peak of the roof, the brass bell gleaming in the sunlight, a billboard fixed onto the outside. It shows the face of an old man–a man who looks oddly familiar.
FATHER COMSTOCK, it reads. OUR PROPHET.
The pod drifts down, down, down–
And then, with a crash that jostles my teeth in my skull, it lands squarely onto solid ground.
Something shifts–more gears turn–and I sink beneath the rooftop where I landed. Huge windows slide past as I descend, showing glimpses of the beautiful city.
And then, after a brief plunge into darkness, I see the sun pouring into a vast space crisscrossed by rafters, the light silhoeutting a giant, swinging pendulum. As I sink past a rafter, I catch a glimpse of words carved into them, the letters glowing as if they were made of light from the sunlight shining through.
WHY WOULD HE SEND HIS SAVIOR UNTO US
IF WE WILL NOT RAISE A FINGER FOR OUR OWN SALVATION?
I’m just dazed enough that the words seem to make sense.
Gears. So many gears, turning, turning, turning.
More glowing words slide by.
AND THOUGH WE DESERVED NOT HIS MERCY
HE HAS LED US TO THIS NEW EDEN
Someone’s singing–several someones. Sweet female voices rise from below. It’s a hymn I’ve never heard before, slow and plaintive and oddly hopeful.
A LAST CHANCE FOR REDEMPTION
Darkness. Sinking through darkness. Only the gentle voices, growing louder, convince me that I’m not dead yet.
And then–
The pod slows, then settles gently onto the ground. The restraints release, and I pull myself free and stumble out of the chair as the pod walls unseal with a hiss. They fall away, and I stand, stunned and shivering, in what is somehow the strangest place so far.
A massive window of stained glass illuminates the chapel, showing a picture of the same old man from the billboard, preaching to men and women on a sunlit hill.
AND THE PROPHET SHALL LEAD THE PEOPLE UNTO THE NEW EDEN, reads the scrolling stonework above the window.
Candles cover the windowsill, and every other available surface–those, at least, that aren’t buried in water. The whole floor is flooded with enough water to cover the tops of my boots as I splash into the room. But it’s not the muddy, debris-clogged water of a true flood–it’s clear, and clean, and pure. A few pink rose petals drift across the surface. I lean down and scoop some into my cupped hand, taking a sip. It tastes as beautiful as it looks.
To the right side of the window that blocks my path, there’s a gentle waterfall flowing over the rim of a stone wall. The only place to go is left, toward an archway carved with still more verses from a Bible I definitely ain’t read.
THE SEED OF THE PROPHET
SHALL SIT THE THRONE AND DROWN IN FLAME
THE MOUNTAINS OF MAN
The Seed of the Prophet. Ha.
Must be in Revelations–but I don’t remember it. In my delirium, it almost seems funny.
I wade through the water and pass under the arch like a man in a dream, and I’m not so convinced that I ain’t still in one. The candles, the flowers, the subtle smell of incense and roses…and the singing. I don’t recognize the hymn, but as the chorus repeats, I start to catch the words.
Will the circle
Be unbroken
By and by
By and by…?
More candles. More water. More of that old man–a statue, another window of him with a wife and child, with a bunch of pews pointed at it.
OUR LAMB
THE FUTURE OF OUR CITY
I have no idea what these people are gassing on about, but it doesn’t matter. I’m slowly waking from the dream, and while the dim light and the soft singing and the cold water is definitely helping with the hangover, it’s also starting to make me uneasy. It’s…too perfect. Too ethereal. I almost want to scream just to anchor this world around me, in some small way, back down to the gritty, bloody reality that I know.
Will the circle
be unbroken
By and by,
by and by?
The lighthouse, the body and the warning–it doesn’t even feel real anymore.
I turn a corner and glimpse someone else standing in the water, dressed in white, hands folded in prayer. I call out to him, desperate, afraid for some reason that he won’t be able to hear me.
“Excuse me!” I wade over to him, panting. Water splashes on his white robes, but he doesn’t even look up, his head still bowed in prayer. “Where am I?” I ask him.
“Heaven, friend,” he replies, his warm voice echoing across the walls. “Or as close as we’ll see ‘til Judgment Day.”
I back away from him, turn toward the next archway.
Best keep such questions to myself, lest I wanna get made.
Is a better
home awaiting
In the sky,
in the sky?
They must be messin’ with me. But this–this whole thing. The candles, the singin’. This ain’t the world I know. Heaven? This ain’t heaven–can’t be. Not if Booker DeWitt came walkin’ in.
But this place is…strange. Magic, almost. So quiet, and near endless, ‘less I’m just turnin’ around in circles.
Will the circle
be unbroken
My old life doesn’t feel real anymore. Or the trip to Maine, or that storm, or the light house. Not even the ascension feels real.
By and by,
By and by?
There’s a little alcove off to one side–somewhere to kneel, rows of prayer candles. My best guess is it’s like one a them confession booths. But instead of a cross or what have you, there’s a massive stained glass window, showing a woman dressed in blue.
AND IN MY WOMB SHALL GROW THE SEED OF THE PROPHET
Two statues of the same woman kneel in prayer to either side. And there’s a sound underneath the ripple of water–a recording. I pause, listening. A woman’s voice, repeating the same message over and over again.
“Love the Prophet, because he loves the sinner. Love the sinner, because he is you. Without the sinner, what need is there for a redeemer? Without sin, what grace has forgiveness?”
Nonsense. I turn away, and I spot something sparkling in the water nearby, in front of a long row of prayer candles. It’s a coin–a nickel, I thought, but it’s bigger’n I guessed it was, and heavy too. Bigger’n any silver dollar I ever seen. One side has some kind of statue, an angel or maybe Lady Liberty, it’s hard to tell in the light. The other has yet another set of scroll, key, and sword. They must have different money here–I slip it into my pocket, just in case. For a moment, they got my head so turned around, I’m worried about the stealin’. But I can’t be in a strange place with empty pockets.
Is a better
Home awaiting
I keep going, shaking the cobwebs from my head.
In the sky
In the sky?
There’s a window up ahead–another damn sword, lighting a staircase leadin’ down. The water tumbles like a river as I follow the stairs in a wide spiral, passing another window with a key, a third with the sword, unhelpfully labeled in Latin.
Will the circle
At the end, a huge hall, underground, flooded to the knee, spreads out in front of me. Candlelit, so dark I can’t see the ceiling up above. And dozens more people in white. Most are crowded up in front, but some of them are still making their way up, heads bowed and hands folded, taking odd ritualistic steps like a bride on her wedding day, all in perfect unison.
Be unbroken
I wade forward–there ain’t nowhere else to go.
By and by
The singing up above starts to fade.
By and…
There’s a man up ahead, talking to the crowd. His voice rises over everything, echoes around the chamber.
“...and every year, on this holiest of days, we recommit ourselves to our city, and to our prophet, Father Comstock.”
Nobody seems to take note of me. I hover at the edge of the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the way through.
“We recommit through sacrifice and the giving of thanks, and by submerging ourselves in the sweet waters of baptism.”
Baptism. At that word, I draw back. I ain’t gettin’ between none of these fools and their baptisms. Not ever again.
The preacher keeps going, in full swing, while the crowd nods along, hands raising.
“And lo, if the prophet had struck down our enemies at wounded knee and not railed against the Sodom beneath us, it would have been enough. If the Prophet had just railed against the Sodom beneath us, but not accepted the three golden gifts of the founders, it would have been enough. If the Prophet had just accepted the three golden gifts of the founders, and not prayed for our deliverance, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had just prayed for our deliverance, and not led us to this new Eden, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had just led us to this new Eden, and not purged the vipers of the Orient, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had just purged the vipers of the Orient, but not suffered the sacrifice of his beloved, it would have been enough! If the Prophet had just suffered the sacrifice of his beloved, but not expelled the Vox Populi, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH!”
I can’t take this anymore. I’ll find another way through. I turn around–
“Is it someone new?”
I turn, slowly. All those figures in white are turning too, staring at me. They part so the preacher can look at me. He’s the only one in black, old and balding, but I don’t like the look of his eyes.
The sight of him hits me like a blow to the gut. I don’t recognize him–do I? I don’t know–but he makes my skin crawl.
“Someone from the Sodom below?” asks the preacher, raising his arms. “Newly come to Columbia to be washed clean before our Prophet, our Founders, and Our–?”
“I just need passage into the city,” I cut across him. This preacher is giving me the creeps, and I ain’t gonna let him use me as some kind of trained monkey for his performance.
He laughs. “Passage to the city? Brother, the only way to Columbia is through rebirth in the sweet waters of baptism.” He holds out a hand in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Will you be cleansed, brother?”
I freeze. A scrolled banner over his head declares THIS PATH OF FORGIVENESS IS THE ONLY WAY TO THE CITY, right above the grated door I know leads out. I seen this before–folks insisting on a baptism before you can come in their church, or marry, or whatever else they want their way on. It don’t mean nothin’--especially if it’s forced. I know that.
But I don’t like this. Not one bit.
“Come and let us wash the trickster from you!” he calls, gesticulating to the applauding crowd. “Praise be the prophet, praise be the Lord! Come, let us wash the Sodom from your soul!”
It’s either this or turn around and get back on that rocket, I tell myself. Might as well get it over with.
But I know damn well I’m walking into another trap as I step forward.
The crowd cheers. “Praise be to the Founders! Praise be to the Lord!” they cry out. The preacher laughs.
“Come!” he calls. “Come and be cleansed! Hallelujah!”
And he grabs me by the arm.
“Hey!”
But he’s stronger than he looks. He drags me close, grips me hard in the chest-deep water, and dips me like we’re in a waltz.
“I baptize you in the name of our Prophet, in the name of our Founders, in the name of our Lord–!”
And I go under. I fight him–I can’t help it–but his grip is like iron. Under the water, I can hear his garbled voice. He won’t let me up. I tug at his hands, but it ain’t workin’. He’s going to let me drown–
I’m hauled up again, gasping in a mouthful of air.
“--and make him born again, in the bosom of Columbia!”
The crowd is cheering. I cough and splutter, wiping my face. I’m soaked to the bone - be lucky if everything in my pocket ain’t dissolved into mush. I tug my arm out of the priest’s grip–or I try to. Trouble is, he won’t let go.
He doesn’t even look at me. “I don’t know, brothers and sisters,” he calls to the crowd, unrestrained glee in his voice. “But this one doesn’t look clean to me!”
“No–!”
But he dunks me again. This time I’m not ready for it–I get a mouthful of water. I try to shout, to break free, but those iron hands are holding me under.
It’s going dark. I’m going to die.
That baptism. In the river. Maybe I shoulda….
Darkness rolls in like thunderclouds, and I got no choice but to let it have me.