The Ghostwriter's Words

Sammy: The Great Schism

Sammy's commitment to The Truth grew primarily from his sense of responsibility for the Schism that led to The Truth separating from The Faith and driving those not captured, executed, or awaiting execution into hiding. Protecting them was the only decent thing to do.

He'd been sitting in his gazebo, peacefully listening to the sound of surf pounding the rocks below while contemplating a decanter of Scotch, as he often did, debating with himself: Was it too early? Did he drink too much? Why did he care since he hadn't believed it was medically possible to matter any longer? The nanobots, the Satan Cells, in his blood and the source of his Immortality, would instantly repair any damage his drinking caused or absorb the alcohol in his system before it could cause him any harm. It also made it challenging to get a decent buzz going. But not impossible if he made an effort, which was part of his contemplation as well. Did he want to get rip-snorting drunk or allow himself to savor some very fine Scotch and relax?

His Zen moment was interrupted when insanity screamed through Virtuality without warning. He'd instinctively ripped his Magick Hat from his nose and immediately known the cause of that insanity. He'd been anticipating Its inevitable arrival for more than a century. Although he'd been safe from It grabbing control of his mind, he'd heard It slice like shards of glass through the brains of so many others for that fraction of a second that it took him to react. Long enough to hear It scream in frustration and rage at Its inability to force Its way into his consciousness. His, specifically, since It had known in that instant who Sammy was and that he was the only thing It had to fear.

Sammy already knew what came next and what to do, but as he'd also anticipated a conversation, more a bitter argument, with the Curia would be an inevitability and futility he'd have to endure before addressing the issue. And he'd explained what he intended, and, as expected, they vehemently disputed his solution since it did not, in their authoritative opinion, perfectly align with the Holy Text contained in The Word of God. And they'd declared long ago that their interpretation of the sacred words was the only truth, of which they were the sole arbiters. The Descendant be damned.

Sammy did ask why they'd bothered to come since they didn't consider him the definitive authority on The Word of God. He had better things to do than listen to their self-important inanities. Such as enjoying the rare, fine Scotch in his decanter, from which he poured several fingers of the precious liquid into his tumbler, neat - "As God intended," to quote his great-grandfather. He tossed the golden nectar back. Then to further express their relative unimportance among his current priorities, he poured himself another, which he intended to savor without being rushed.

Sammy supposed he could have been more patient and less flippant with the Curia when they'd wanted to continue debating. He'd finally told them, "Get out. Go away. I'll deal with your mess in the morning."

When the Curia stormed out, those of The Faith who'd followed them to Sammy's estate and managed to keep their opinions to themselves left without a reason to be afraid. Some, who'd done nothing more than suggest that Sammy's solution might be worth a try, were uncertain what they should do in the face of the Father's fury. Those who stayed and never left Sammy's estate became the founders of The Truth. While those who questioned the Curia, but returned nonetheless, then or later, willingly or not, became victims of the second Culling.

Sammy had felt no need to panic at the time. A few hours of sipping Scotch and waiting for the Sun to set wouldn't matter. The only urgency he'd felt was to have Curia leave so that he could enjoy a few peaceful hours without their noise.