The Temple, Chicago
Taking the final step up the wooden platform, the Liberator looked out over the gathered brethren from his elevated position at the centre of the temple. In the faint light their dark velvet robes and hoods merged into a sea of barely discernible form.
That his life had come to this point was a miracle of the divine. Every time he donned the velvet robe, thick and heavy, luxurious in every way, he thought of his childhood, spent in third-generation, hand-me-down clothes borrowed or stolen from whichever family his sorry excuse for a mother had befriended for the moment. If he tried hard, he could remember a few images from his earliest years, when he was told they had had a home of their own and a father to look after him and his sister, but all that Walter could truly remember were the constant shifts between the trailers or apartments of whomever his mother had decided was her ‘man friend’ for the time being. He’d had no father; he’d generally wished he had no mother.
That was how the Great Leader had found him. Nineteen years old, addicted to whichever drugs he could afford, preferring the streets to another night in the sorry abyss of ‘home’. Marcianus had met him at a restaurant. Walter hadn’t been in it, of course – it was far too up-market for his lack of pedigree – but he’d paused in a walk down the street to gaze through the window at the well-dressed patrons inside, and had caught sight of him. Walter remembered the man’s inconspicuous appearance, as well as the look on his face as he registered Walter’s presence through the glass. Marcianus had stood up from his meal, exited the restaurant and introduced himself. A moment later he had drawn Walter inside, to his booth, seemingly unfazed by the disgusted looks of the waiters who recoiled at Walter’s grungy appearance. The kindly man had reached out to him, offered him food, invited him to sit and speak; and Walter had sat there in unwashed clothes, still half-stoned, with two men who gave him their food and spoke to him as a friend. And in that moment, Walter encountered the first man who seemed actually to care for him.
My name is Marcianus, the man had said kindly, and this is Simon. And we believe there is more to your life than . . . this. He had pointed to Walter’s dirty appearance and unwashed hair, but, strangely, Walter had not felt offended or judged. He had felt only hope. The man’s voice soothed him, his words encouraged. He had told him of a better meaning to his life, of a spirit that was pure, despite his circumstances. Walter had been completely drawn in and his life had changed. The greatest moment of his nineteen years had come when, not long later, he had been absorbed into the Church completely, initiated and blessed. The Great Leader had even given him a new name, Cerinthus, and with it he had begun a new life.
In the years that had passed, he had ascended higher and higher. Then, when the Great Leader had revealed his vision, had discerned that the End for which they were waiting had already come, the culmination of his life had arrived. Marcianus had chosen him to be the Liberator. He had given him the greatest task a member of the Church could receive. His actions would bring freedom to all the Elect.
Those Elect were now before him, filled with anticipation.
‘Knowers, brethren,’ he began from the platform. ‘We draw ever nearer to the great moment, to our great triumph. In less than a day and a half, the Elect will at last be free!’
His booming voice reverberated off the rafters and walls. The brethren followed the Church’s established etiquette and did not respond to his rallying words with cheers or cries, but the feeling of excitement in the expectant, hushed room was tangible and electric.
‘Hidden so long in the earth, the promise made by our ancestors is about to be fulfilled. They left us a way to accomplish in our day what circumstances did not permit them to do in their own. Their gift to us is the key, the key to unlock the words of life.’
The electricity in the room flared and a few of the brethren could not restrain their cheers of delight. Walter allowed them their spontaneous burst of enthusiasm. Looking down on the crowd, he could see elderly women, young men, even children. The Church did not discriminate. Any who were willing could find the true light, and liberation would be offered to all.
‘And so we rally here, my brethren, awaiting full revelation of the long-concealed, long-awaited words.’
Cerinthus reached into a deep pocket and extracted his own copy of the small journal known as the Book, painstakingly copied by hand onto thick paper pages, bound and tied with a leather cord. He raised it high over his head.
‘The Book shows us our past! But far more than this, it gives us instructions for the final day. When we follow its guidance, when we act, then we will wait no more. It is time for us to be set free from this mortal coil!’
He shouted his words with genuine emotion and urgency. His activities over the past days had been done with one aim: to ensure that the raw materials for this work were ready when the time came. He was satisfied they would be. If the truth required a little lie to ensure it was not hindered, so be it. That had been the cunning foresight of the Great Leader’s new plan. Come out of the darkness and feed the world deception in order to keep it from consuming what is noble and good.
He had heard from their contact in the FBI earlier in the day. The deception was working. The bait was being taken.
His chest swelled and he brought his full energy to the heart of his rallying speech.
‘I assure you, my illumined brothers and sisters, of one thing above all: the light of liberation is ready, and it will offer the release that lifts our souls to heaven.’
Another cry went up in the darkness. Hands came together and applause won out over decorum.
‘The world will hold us captive no more!’ Walter bellowed at full force, raising his arms in a gesture of unmitigated triumph.
And as he did, the people’s cries of victory could not be contained.