Sublime Messages

Third Interlude

Grady—or as he was known amongst the others, Temple Grady—was trying not to question his life choices. He'd seen such things! Things that'd convince literally anybody to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew. It wasn't so much that he doubted The Messenger . . . no. The Messenger was a god incarnate, creator divine on Earth. No, no. Grady did not doubt The Messenger's worth, nor did he doubt that The Messenger had been tasked with some greatness neither he nor any of the others could properly understand. It was only . . . well . . . he felt so bad about what he'd had to do. He'd been raised—oh, but that was the problem! The Messenger and his daughter had told him, had told all of them, that their raising hadn't mattered, that it'd all been lies. Grady knew that, and yet here he was, questioning. He wasn't worthy. He wasn't as true to the cause as the others were, and yet he wanted to be. Oh, how he wanted to be! Because this, he knew, was right. What they were doing, here, what The Messenger had been sent to do, to create . . . well, if Grady questioned the process, it was due to a weakness within himself, not because The Messenger's methods were incorrect.

Still, those young people, their suffering. Oh, when he'd watched them take the eyes from that teenaged boy! That'd been the moment he'd sensed a tiny doubt, a crack in his otherwise firm faith. He'd thought of the anguish of the adolescent as that spoon pushed into his eye socket, the horrible squelching and worse screams turned to grunts, then to whimpers. Pitiful pleading. At least by the time she'd gone for the other eye, the young man had become too delirious to comprehend. But Grady had been so invested in what was going on that he'd balked when The Messenger's Daughter had asked him for a bowl. She'd had to insist three times before he'd been able to move, and that hesitation of his—surely it'd been noted. In fact, Grady was certain he'd seen a look in Temple Chester's eye, a calculating look. And Temple Cheyenne had been speaking surreptitiously with The Messenger's Daughter. Grady was sure he'd seen them glance at him as he'd passed by on his way from the room.

A crack in the temple allowed distortion to creep back inside; that's what Grady and all the others had learned, had come to understand. He couldn't let the parasites back in. He'd been so worthless when they'd consumed him, so alone, without hope or purpose. Finding The Messenger had been literally life-changing. The things he knew, now, and the things he'd been privileged to see! Miracles, The Messenger called them, and Grady was as convinced as the others his newfound idol, the self-created, was right.

What had Grady been before he'd found The New Faith?

His life had been mundane enough. He'd grown up the fourth son of a petty criminal father and a loving though permissive mother. A day without fighting hadn't existed, whether it'd been his parents, his siblings, or some neighbor or other family member going at it. Grady had been roughoused and dogpiled by his brothers too many times to count; broken arms and head stitches were a weekly occurrence. He and his brothers had become so familiar at the nearest clinic that they'd been subtlely questioned about abuse more than once. In spite of all that, though, Grady had been if not entirely loved, moderately appreciated. He'd been the cleanest of his brothers, the most helpful. As he'd grown up, if there'd been chores to do, he'd done them without even being asked. His grades in school were mediocre, but he'd tried his best and never gotten into the sort of trouble that his older brothers had. College hadn't been an interest or an option for him, so after high school he'd floundered a bit, worked retail and a few odd jobs for family acquaintances. He'd loved music. Hard rock had always been his outlet, metal, too. So attending local concerts and gigs had been the only thing that'd really drawn him out of his mostly quiet, mostly dull existence, and that'd been where they'd found him, at a summer music festival out a ways past Santa Fe.

The two that'd found him—Alanna and Tim—they'd just sort of approached him, had drinks with him while the music played. Hung out with him for the weekend festival, invited him to their tent, introduced him to others, and though Grady had always been rather awkward in social settings, they'd made him feel so interesting, paid him lots of attention, included him and laughed at the stupid things he'd said. He'd felt that he fit somewhere, maybe for the first time, ever. And when their time had drawn to an end, as they'd been getting high together, someone had suggested he come with them, that they were recruiting for an amazing opportunity, looking for awesome people with open minds and hearts, God-loving, God-trusting people, God-fearing people. Youth preferred but not necessary. They'd found meaning in life, they'd said; they'd discovered time-bending, mind-altering transcendence, a paridisical elation unlike anything he'd have hope of experiencing if he didn't come along with them.