I was never trained in religion. My parents didn’t believe in it. And Mongolia had its own history, placed as it was between the Buddhist, Taoist, Islamic, Russian Orthodox, and animistic spheres. A sort of crossroads for faiths of every kind. And through it all, the ancient magic of the steppes was constantly blowing.
I was raised to be agnostic, to look first for the laws of physics and science before any credence was given to the spiritual. That creed led me to electronics, gave me my trade.
Had taken me to the stars.
And Ashanti.
Where the universe found me. A blank canvass upon which it could compose, and finally paint. The rough sketch was, of course, the Harrowing and Cleansing, and with the gift of the Prophets, it colored between the lines, shaded, and added the subtle tones of composition that created the masterpiece that was the Irredenta.
The tool for the redemption and renovation of the universe, for its cleansing and rebirth into purity.
I do remember, however, that messiahs are always given one last test before they are granted the final revelations. For my ancestors out on the steppes, it was usually starvation and deprivation that preceded spirit visions, soul flying, and holy trance. For the Buddhists it was meditation. Fasting for the Muslims. Jesus was tempted by the devil while exiled in the desert.
Now I face my desert, my darkest moments.
I have half of the adults left who descended to Donovan from Ashanti. Ten of the children are dead or missing. Shyanne and Tamil betrayed us and stole the airtruck.
The universe tempts me to recant. Taunts me with the possibility that my people really are dying on Donovan, and doing so in a way that they cannot be reincarnated.
Worst of all, it has taken my Prophets from me. An act akin to stabbing out my eyes. Leaving me in a black haze of darkness where all I can do is reach out with feeble fingers in an attempt to find my way. But flail about as I might, my groping hands find only nothingness.
For all of its appearance as a lush forest full of life, spiritually Donovan is a desert. A parched waste devoid of reassurance. A land of thirst for those desperate to slake their longing for salvation.
What better place to test me?
I am panicked, frantic, and adrift.
Three of the First Chosen are murdered by that Corporate demon, their meat preserved in refrigeration in the kitchen. They await the sacrament of feasting, the moment they will be ingested, their souls to follow the path to regeneration.
My First and Third Will, along with their teams, are missing. Presumed dead. Which, I realize, is another test. I have no proof that they are really dead. The universe might produce them, like a rabbit from a hat, the moment I declare my lack of faith.
Svetlana, my second wife, has died from a fall. Perhaps it was the universe discarding her. That she’d fulfilled her duty, bringing as many of the dead back to life as she did. The children I sired from her will grow, become new vessels in which the dead can be reborn.
Vartan worries me. I’ve always been suspicious of his true commitment. More so since Shyanne and Tamil got away with the airtruck. I can’t help but suspect Vartan allowed that to happen through omission if not direct knowledge.
In the end, I suspect that Vartan will have to be purified and reborn. But for the moment, I need him. He’s the only person I have with any security training. He knows how to use a rifle.
If, somehow, the Supervisor is alive, she will come here. She must. She’s the kind who does not leave unfinished business.
There is no telling why the airtruck hasn’t flown up out of the forest. This morning we’ve not heard gunfire. Perhaps Donovan has dealt with the Supervisor in its own way. Or something’s wrong with the airtruck. The uncertainty is maddening.
Meanwhile, I must assume Aguila is alive. And she’ll be coming for the radio.
But why take away my Prophets? Blind me like this? What’s the point of leaving me to grope about? What am I supposed to learn?
I look up, state emphatically: “I have faith.” I repeat: “I do not doubt!”
In my deepest soul, I believe it. Let the belief run through my veins with each beat of my heart. I will not waver. I am the repository of souls. The chosen one.
I stare at an empty cafeteria, seeing the bare tables where the Prophets once lay.
The place is so quiet. Only the hum of the air conditioning and refrigerators can be heard in the background.
The children are being kept safe in the barracks dome. I have people on watch to the north and south.
But I am not alone. I never am. The dead are with me. Living in my tissue. Waiting patiently in my loins. I am their repository.
Through me, they shall live forever.
I hear the steps, two people. One is having trouble. I can hear the sliding, half stagger.
When Marta pushes the door open, she has Shimal Kastakourias’ arm over her shoulder. The woman is having trouble walking.
I wait, watch with ever growing excitement as Marta brings Shimal close, lowers her to one of the chairs at the table.
“What happened?” I ask.
Shimal stares up at me, her dark eyes panicked. “It’s been getting worse, Messiah. At first, it was simple things. Dropping stuff. Stumbling.”
I glance down, see Shimal’s right hand. It trembles, twitches. My amazement and delight increase.
“Then, this morning”—Shimal swallows hard—“I was having trouble. Kept slurring my words. It’s better now. But I just fell over. Marta said I should come to you.”
Shimal blinks, the wobble of her head barely visible.
Marta, gaze stony, says, “She thinks she’s turning into a Prophet.”
I close my eyes, lean my head back. A surge of relief spills through my breast, fills me with delight.
Of course.
That’s the lesson.
What the universe takes, it will replace.
My soul rises on a wave of rapture.