Hallow

by Renato Carreira

  *

  After some persuasion, Albert Ford accepted to keep watch while they went up to the apartment. Margrit convinced him to hide in the alley around the corner and signal any suspicious presences in the vicinity. A brief explanation informed him about the heretic time-jumpers and about their superior technology and ability to look like anyone they wished. This information both alarmed and thrilled the old man, who suddenly seemed to forget all the grief of his newly found irrelevance and was very glad to be given a real assignment.

  Even if Margrit's real intention was for him to be out of harm's way. She knew very well that telling him to go hide in an alley simply wouldn't do.

  They were going up the stairs and Brother Maxwell started to act strangely. He tripped on steps more than once and had to put trembling hands on the banister to keep him from falling down. How dignified that would be. The chaplain sent back in time to ascertain the identity of someone who, according to all the readings, had great probabilities of being the Divine Mentor, falling on his face and arriving before him with a bloody face. He was also starting to breathe heavily, although they had only climbed two flights of stairs, with one more to go.

  "Are you all right?" Margrit asked, making a pause for his sake.

  "Yes," he replied. A shaking hand took a white handkerchief from a pocket in his baggy pants and wiped the sweat on his forehead. "I just... Never mind. It's not important."

  "If it's something that may prevent us from doing what we came to do and go back home in one piece, I think it's very important," said Margrit.

  "It's possible that..." he started. The words seemed to float around in his head, but uttering them was difficult. "I am afraid."

  Margrit expected a revelation. That wasn't it. It was pretty obvious that the chaplain was almost shitting himself.

  "Of what?"

  "Don't get me wrong," Brother Maxwell said. "I don't fear for my life." Margrit raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I do. But that's not important." She raised the other eyebrow as well. He wasn't fooling anyone with that. Not even himself. "Very well, I'm afraid of dying. Of course I am. But there's something else."

  "What?" asked Margrit, wishing he would spit it out and be done with it.

  "I started to think about..." He pointed upwards with a nod of his head. "Him."

  "What about him?"

  "You said something before that made me wonder... if he could be a disappointment of some sort."

  Margrit couldn't keep herself from smirking.

  "Isn't that heresy?"

  A sad smile appeared on Brother Maxwell's lips.

  "Probably," he said. "Most likely."

  Margrit understood how the task ahead of them could seem daunting for a believer. Meeting the founding figure of one's religion wasn't something that happened every day. It would appear even more daunting for a member of the clergy, especially one who seemed as insecure about his capacities as Brother Maxwell.

  "Look," she said. "Just try to keep calm and test him. For all we know, the readings could be wrong and he could be as irrelevant to our time as any other local-timer."

  "True," said the chaplain, without looking reassured. "But he could also be the man chosen by God to lead us unto eternal bounty. Just like the Lord's Prayer says."

  That was also a possibility. Margrit wouldn't deny it.

  "I have no comforting words left to offer you," she said.

  "I appreciate the effort," said the chaplain. "Shall we get this over with?"

  "Let's go," Margrit agreed. "But try to keep your head steadier. You wouldn't want to drop the probe in front of the target, would you?"

  For a moment, he looked horrified. But he managed to get over it and even managed a timid smile.

  "I'll do my best," he said, almost convincingly.

  They went up the last flight of stairs and passed a door to a short hallway.

  "Oh no," said the chaplain, looking around at the doors visible from where he stood. "What now? Which one could it be?"

  Margrit pointed at one without hesitation.

  "That one."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "His wife gave me his friend's address."

  "You have spoken to his wife?" the chaplain asked, preparing to give her his best appalled expression. But then something else even more shocking occurred to him. "You spoke with the Holy Mother?!"

  The Holy Mother. According to the Narrative, the Divine Mentor's faithful wife and first among his apostles. An example of motherly affection, spousal devotion and a beacon of female perfection. The model of virtue that women from her time tried to emulate their whole lives. It hadn't even crossed her mind that the disgruntled woman she had spoken with in the target's previous address could be the most revered woman in the dogmas. And hadn't he been unfaithful to her? How did that fit with the perfect couple Scripture mentioned?

  "With a possible Holy Mother," she corrected. "It will all depend on the result of your test."

  "A probable Holy Mother, then," said the chaplain. "According to the readings."

  "Readings fail. You should know that."

  "And you should know that faith can give you certainties that logic will never provide on its own."

  "Hmm," said Margrit. Was that the same person who had shared his uncertainties with her minutes before? It was too late to debate doctrine, anyway. And she knew it was never advisable to discuss it with a clergyman who had been studying the Narrative most of his life.

  They approached the door and she knocked.

  Several seconds went by. Nothing happened.

  She knocked again. The result was the same.

  "We know you're there," she said. "We saw you looking out the window."

  They waited some more.

  "Go away!" came the voice of Walter Jenkins, potential divine being.

  Brother Maxwell placed a hand on Margrit's arm and squeezed. She looked first at the hand, then at him, mouthing "what?".

  He seemed taken aback and removed the hand promptly, trying to overcome his agitation.

  "Come on, open the door," Margrit said.

  "Go away! I've called the cops!" said the target, raising his voice.

  "Who did he call?" asked the chaplain.

  "Local-timer Security Staff," explained Margrit.

  "Oh, I see," said Brother Maxwell. "Perhaps we should go and try a different approach."

  "I think he's bluffing," she said.

  Brother Maxwell stared at her for a while until he finally understood what she meant.

  "You think he's lying? But that will go against—"

  "I know," said Margrit. "That's why I say it's not a good idea to take everything in the Narrative literally."

  "Heresy," considered Brother Maxwell. But he knew that was hardly the place to discuss theology. Or the time.

  "We're here to protect you," she said. "That woman from last night wasn't the only one looking for you. There'll be more. They may be on their way as we speak."

  A pause.

  "Yeah," said Walter Jenkin's voice from the other side of the door. "You don't say. How do I know you're not trying to kill me as well?" he asked.

  "If I was trying to kill you, why would I have saved your life? That makes no sense."

  Another pause. This time, they could hear two different muffled voices on the other side of the door, exchanging unintelligible words. Immediately after they went silent, the small dot of light in the door's peephole was blocked by something. Probably by someone's head.

  "Who is that?" another voice asked. It belonged to the owner of the apartment. The friend.

  "I am Brother Maxwell. I mean you no harm," the chaplain assured.

  "Brother?" said the man on the other side of the door.

  "Will you open the door or not?" Margrit asked. "There's no time to lose. Your lives are at stake. There might be another murder attempt soon."

  A pause, followed by the sound of a lock opening. The door was pulled back and the man called Zachary stood in f
ront of them. A disturbed looking Walter Jenkins was further inside.

  "There was one just moments ago," Zachary said, stepping aside and letting them in before locking the door again. The target went through a door and they all followed. The room wasn't big, but it looked even smaller filled with boxes and piles of random objects, with narrow tracks allowing passage between them. Margrit realized, with a certain amount of awe, that she couldn't recognize most of the things around her. There were books. She knew books, of course. They existed in large quantities back in her time and were seen as the best way of archiving information since the Calamity had obliterated most of the planet's optical archives. She could see a primitive screen on a desk. A computer terminal. A type of electrically powered information processing device using a series of metal and silicon circuits to allow treatment of binary data. It could even be connected to the infamous 'internet', the planetwide information network that looked like the best of ideas for a couple of decades until it started being used for reprehensible ends by governments and gave rise to global rebellion, followed by war and culminating in the Calamity.

  Brother Maxwell was standing next to her, looking around in amazement.

  "Creation," he whispered. "Look at all these things." He saw an object that had been dropped on the floor, near his feet. He bent down and picked it up, turning it around in his fingers, examining it. "Fascinating."

  Zachary took it from him and placed it over a table.

  "There was one what, moments ago?" asked Margrit, remembering his words when he opened the door.

  "A murder attempt," he clarified.

  "Oh no," said the chaplain. "We should have come earlier."

  "He's still alive and looks well," Margrit said, turning to look at him and pointing Walter Jenkins. "There was no harm done."

  She heard something coming from the target. It sounded very much like a whimper. Either the chaplain didn't hear it or he didn't care, because his expression when he focused his gaze upon Walter Jenkins was one of pious admiration.

  "I am very pleased to encounter you, Walter Jenkins," he said. He was clearly trying to moderate the reverential tone in his voice, but with only relative success.

  "What's going on here?" the target asked, not impressed by the reverence directed at him and even feeling somewhat disturbed by it. "Why are people trying to kill me?" He thought for a second before asking: "Are they even people?"

  "They are," said Margrit, sounding almost entirely certain.

  "Why do they look like people we know?" asked Zachary.

  "We have no explanation for that," said the chaplain.

  "Where do they come from?" asked Zachary.

  "From the future," said Margrit, looking from one local-timer to the other, mildly curious about their reactions. Walter Jenkins looked annoyed by her answer. His friend kept a neutral face and said:

  "Bullshit."

  "What?" asked Brother Maxwell, confused.

  "A local-timer colloquialism for something that can't possibly be true," Margrit explained. "Do you have a theory that makes more sense?" she asked Zachary. "I'd love to hear it."

  He looked thoughtful for an instant and eventually gave up, lowering his eyes to the clothes stretched on the floor behind the sofa.

  "What is that?" asked the chaplain.

  "That's what's left of her," said Zachary.

  "Of the attacker?" Margrit said. "What did you do?"

  Zachary lifted the object he had taken from Brother Maxwell's hands.

  "We... I... I strangled her," he said. "With this." He stretched the chord hanging from the cylindrical object, before dropping it on the table in disgust.

  "Wasn't she armed?" asked Margrit.

  "We were lucky," said Walter Jenkins.

  "Did she look like someone you knew?" Margrit asked.

  Suddenly, Zachary seemed to have lost his voice.

  "She looked exactly like Sarah," Walter Jenkins said. "My wife. Ex-wife."

  A gasp from Brother Maxwell.

  "The Holy Mother?" he said, terrified.

  "What?" asked Walter Jenkins.

  "Nothing," said Margrit.

  "What did he say?" asked Zachary.

  "We'll get there. One thing at a time."

  "Was that Sarah?" the target asked, pointing at the clothes on the floor.

  "No. I don't think so," said Margrit.

  "But you're not sure," said Zachary.

  Margrit thought being sure of things was severely overrated.

  "These people are probably using some sort of transmutation device," she guessed.

  "Can you use it as well?" asked Zachary. He still looked doubtful about the veracity of their claims.

  "No."

  "Why? Aren't you also from the future?"

  "We are. But from a different future." She could see confusion take over his entire face. "We come from your future, but they come from our future."

  "My head hurts," complained Walter Jenkins, suddenly, before crumpling down on the chair in front of the computer.

  "And you must take into account the whole 'parallel reality' factor," said Brother Maxwell to Zachary's benefit. He didn't look too thankful for the added information.

  "I'd rather not take that into account," he said.

  "Probably for the best," said Margrit.

  "Could that mean" Walter Jenkins pointed at the discarded clothes "that Sarah is dead?"

  Margrit exchanged a brief glance with the chaplain.

  "We can't be sure," he said.

  "We don't know how this works," clarified Margrit. "I know the one who tried to kill you last night stole her identity from a woman they found dead in that bar. I can't say if death is a requirement. You should probably prepare yourself for the worst."

  Walter Jenkins grew even paler.

  "Why is this happening to me?" he asked, apparently forgetting that they were discussing the possible death of someone else. Someone who had been very close to him, in fact.

  "We're here to tell you just that," she said. He looked at her, hopefully at first, but immediately looking like he had suddenly decided he preferred not to know, after all. But he had no choice. He would hear it, whether he liked it or not. Margrit almost felt sorry for him, but the feeling lasted no longer than a second. Because what she knew of Walter Jenkins, and she had grown to know quite a lot during her mission, was incompatible with something resembling sympathy. Luckily, the chaplain took over. The moment had come for him to do what he had been trained to do. More or less, at least. Being the only chaplain available at the time probably meant the extent of his competence hadn't been taken into account.

  He approached the target, taking something from inside a pouch under his large shirt, a pouch that looked very much like Margrit's own. It was a book. With a purple cover in a material that looked like leather but was actually entirely synthetic. It wasn't too thick, but the words contained in the pages with golden edges were the pillar over which the secular and religious power of the Church had been built. The eight-pointed star decorating the cover was also perfectly identifiable. But not by Walter Jenkins, as he looked at it, completely unaware of the tremendous irony.

  Brother Maxwell pulled a chair and sat down in front of the target, holding his copy of the Narrative between them, while both Margrit and Zachary looked.

  "Walter Jenkins," he started, adopting a solemn tone of voice. "I have come to ascertain if you are indeed, as our readings have shown, the Divine Mentor, chosen by God among your equals to guide mankind unto a future of eternal bounty."

  The target couldn't have looked more befuddled. It was very clear, judging from his face, that he didn't understand what had just been said to him and, no matter how much he tried, couldn't change that pathetic state of affairs. Margrit imagined herself going back to her time and being asked over and over to narrate the glorious moment in which the chaplain had taken the first step of the Revelation. It didn't look that glorious. With the candidate's perplexity, Brother Maxwell
's voice quivering halfway through the sentence and the random piles of boxes and things surrounding them inside the crowded room, she would most certainly be forced to polish her tale somewhat. Something she was more than willing to do and feeling up to the task. Finding the target and determining his identity was only part of the job. Making sure it looked as epic as Church officials and common people were expecting was another, and not less important.

  "Can you say that again?" asked Walter Jenkins. "I didn't get it."

  "I did," said Zachary."And I don't think repeating it will help."

  "What is a Divine Mentor?" asked the target.

  Brother Maxwell did his best to sound solemn once more.

  "The Divine Mentor is a man chosen by God and elevated to divinity," he explained, still holding the Narrative like it could reinforce the veracity and importance of what he was saying, something it clearly wasn't accomplishing with that audience.

  "Why?" asked Walter Jenkins.

  "Sorry?" said the chaplain, completely surprised by the one word question.

  "Why was he elevated to... You know. Why?"

  It was somewhat baffling that someone who had, in theory, spent a large part of his life thinking about such matters, didn't have an immediate answer.

  "Well," Brother Maxwell looked at the Narrative, almost hoping it to scream out a reply. "God, in His infinite wisdom, saw that it would be good."

  "I see," said Walter Jenkins, not looking even mildly convinced. "And why would it be me?"

  "That's a very pertinent question." He looked very happy to be able to answer without hesitation. "We come from a society built around the teachings of the Narrative—"

  "The what?" asked Zachary. Brother Maxwell turned his head to him and lifted the book. "Oh."

  "In the Narrative," he went on, turning to Walter Jenkins again, "we are given a comprehensive description of the Divine Mentor's life after the Revelation." He predicted more questions coming and decided to move ahead of them. "The Revelation is the moment in which the Divine Mentor was visited by heralds who disclosed his divine fate to Him, shortly before the Consecration, the moment in which God manifested and anointed His chosen one as the guiding beacon of mankind."

  "Where did the heralds come from?" Walter Jenkins looked like a man well-aware of uttering that sentence for the first and possibly last time in his life.

  "The future," answered Margrit, deciding she should. Brother Maxwell looked at her and nodded. No opposition there.

  "Ah," said Zachary.

  Walter Jenkins looked from the chaplain to Margrit and back to the chaplain.

  "I still don't get why you think I'm this Mentor person," he said.

  "All will become perfectly clear in a moment," said the chaplain. Walter Jenkins didn't look so convinced. "The absolute truths of the Narrative remained mostly undisputed for centuries, as they should be. But, a century before our time, the vicious seed of heresy started to grow among the more naive and easily influenced of our brothers and sisters. It all started when a small group of dangerous subversives began spreading a lie founded upon the desire to sow anarchy and disorder, to overthrow the Archbishop as our illuminated leader, completely ignoring everything the Church accomplished in the past, in our past, that is, restoring humanity to prosperity and well-being after the destructive Calamity that left our world entirely unrecognizable.

  "Calamity?" said Zachary.

  Brother Maxwell opened the Narrative and flipped through the gilded pages until he found what he was looking for. He read:

  "And the heralds told the Divine Mentor of the great Calamity that had shattered the land and of the comfort the people derived from the divine valor of His word."

  He was hoping reading that verse would be enough to settle their curiosity, but it didn't happen.

  "When you say 'calamity', what exactly do you mean?" asked Walter Jenkins.

  "Well..." started the chaplain, once again looking for words and finding the process to be very difficult.

  "The destruction of civilization as you know it," helped Margrit.

  "How?" asked Zachary.

  "We can't say," replied Margrit.

  "Because telling us about future events could change the future?" asked Zachary, surprising Margrit.

  "Exactly. How did you—?"

  "That's such a cliché."

  She didn't recognize the word, but decided to let it go without clarification.

  "And when will it happen?" asked Walter Jenkins, forgetting for a moment that he was being hunted by people wanting to kill him and that there was a possibility that he wouldn't be alive to watch his world being destroyed.

  "We can't say that, also," Margrit replied. "But I think there are more pressing matters. Brother Maxwell, you should probably continue your explanation."

  "Quite," he agreed. "These heretic rumors were disregarded by the majority, of course, but, still, they left a hint of doubt inside the hearts and minds of the members of our community whose faith was less resolute. The problem was that, from these small beginnings, heresy started to spread, taking more and more people in its clutches, until there were enough of them to organize themselves and start opposing the Church actively. They opposed the teachings of the Narrative, saying it lacked truth, and, instead, valued only empirical knowledge, adopting as their scripture a set of archaic documents containing random facts from the world that existed before the Calamity."

  "Our world," said Zachary.

  "Precisely," said the chaplain, before moving on. "Religious authorities were forced to act to keep this menace from spreading even further and measures were taken to crush heretic cells, sometimes through the use of violence. Regrettable perhaps, but entirely needed to set an example."

  Margrit remembered well what she had been taught as a child about this 'religious cleansing'. They had convinced her that it had been unavoidable. That violence was justifiable, even when directed to people guilty only of following a different set of convictions, even when directed against innocent men, women and children. That everything was kept under control at all times and that the only lives taken were a result of senseless resistance from the heretics. And she had believed all of that without questioning. But the years passed and brought with them a colder and more distanced look at the facts, forcing her to call the cleansing exactly what it had been: a massacre. But she would never share this opinion with anyone else, of course. People who didn't share their opinions were less likely to find themselves in tight spots. And who had ever heard of a timenaut with an opinion that differed from the official version of recent history?

  "So," said Zachary, interfering once again. "Religious persecution. It's nice to see that the future kept the best sides of mankind intact."

  Brother Maxwell nodded, but Margrit was better equipped to recognize sarcasm when she saw it.

  "Did it work?" asked Walter Jenkins, less concerned about the well-being of people who wouldn't even be born before a long time passed.

  A shadow covered the chaplain's face as he admitted the truth:

  "At first, it looked like it could work, but it soon became clear that it was too late. The heresy had already spread too far. They had cells in regions out of our reach and repression caused them to take arms and fight back, while still tricking naive people to join them."

  People that changed sides and changed opinions because of the massacre, Margrit thought. It was completely understandable that the official story left out that particular detail.

  "So a new approach was required," Brother Maxwell continued. "To destroy the heresy, we would have to fight them with their own weapons. Proving empirically, beyond any doubt, that the story in the Narrative was entirely true and not just, as they claimed, a myth. The time travel program was started, applying technology that had already been giving its first steps, and turned into the great endeavor of the Church. It would allow us to make sure the Revelation took place, by sending our own people to perform it, and also to document the Consecration
and bring back irrefutable evidence."

  "How could you know people in your future wouldn't try the same thing? Didn't you risk messing up events?" asked Zachary.

  "Forwards time travel is complicated," Margrit said. "No one was sent into the future to check that. The Church made the decision and accepted the risk."

  There was silence for a while. When Brother Maxwell was about to continue, Walter Jenkins spoke.

  "I see why you're here," he said. "Okay. But why me? I still don't get that part."

  "I understand that this possibility of divinity may be shocking and uncomfortable, but I beg you to please try keeping an open mind," said the chaplain.

  Zachary snorted at the mention of uncomfortable divinity, but only Margrit seemed to notice.

  "I am speaking with people who claim to have come from the future and taking them seriously," said the target. "Doesn't that count as keeping an open mind?"

  "I supposed it does," said the chaplain, after pondering longer than a question like that justified. "I am not sufficiently versed in the technical details, but I'm sure Agent Lorne here will be able to enlighten you."

  He turned to Margrit and the two local-timers did the same, expecting her to say something relevant. She didn't feel at all like lecturing them on advanced localization techniques. Instead, she pulled her marker out of the pouch, opened it and showed them the screen and the keyboard.

  "We use these," she said. "They point the way. They pointed at you."

  She closed the marker again and returned it to the pouch. They kept looking at her, expecting her to go on, but she didn't and they eventually gave up.

  "So, basically," Walter Jenkins started, threatening to sum up the whole matter, "you've come to inform me that I'm some sort of Future Jesus?"

  A popular deity before the Calamity that had been almost entirely forgotten. Margrit didn't know much about the man, but she hoped he made for a more imposing god-figure than Walter Jenkins.

  Zachary snorted again. This time, more audibly.

  "There is a test that must be performed," said Brother Maxwell, ignoring the question and not having a clue as to what would constitute an acceptable answer.

  "What sort of test?" asked the target, starting to feel apprehensive.

  The chaplain placed the Narrative on his lap and removed from his pouch a device similar to a marker. It was also black and made from the same material, but it was shorter and narrower. A major difference were the two small black disks attached to the end of wires coming out of the side. Walter Jenkins stared. Margrit wondered if he was trying to find similarities between that and the weapons used against him on two separate occasions.

  "What are you going to do with that?" he asked. His look of apprehension wasn't going away. On the contrary, it seemed to be increasing exponentially.

  "Don't worry," said Margrit. "It's not painful." Only then it occurred to her that she had no idea if it was painful or not. She had never witnessed the procedure and knew nothing of its intricacies. "Is it?" she asked, turning her look towards the chaplain.

  He looked back at her and it was clear to Margrit, and also somewhat alarming, that he too didn't know.

  "I...," he started. "I'm sure it isn't."

  Walter Jenkins didn't look reassured. And who could blame him?

  "You simply attach these two diodes to the subject's temples and initiate a certification sequence," the chaplain said, doing his best to be as informative as he could without going into the details he had forgotten from his training or had never managed to master. He held one diode in each hand and lifted them to Walter Jenkins' head. But the head was promptly moved away.

  "You're not attaching that to anything of mine until I'm sure of what he does," he said.

  Brother Maxwell seemed taken aback.

  "That goes against standard operational procedure," he said. The argument was completely wasted on that particular subject. Walter Jenkins couldn't care less about what was or wasn't standard operational procedure. The chaplain turned his head to Margrit, expecting to receive some help from her.

  He probably didn't get what he was hoping for.

  "You could try it on yourself first," she said.

  "I'm not trying it on myself." There was something very similar to outrage on his face.

  "Ah!" Walter Jenkins exclaimed. "You won't try it on yourself. You must have your reasons."

  But the chaplain wouldn't admit it.

  "I won't try it on myself simply because I have to operate the terminal," he said, visibly glad for having an excuse. "Since I'm the only one capable."

  Margrit found the excuse flimsy, to say the least. She couldn't think of a reason preventing Brother Maxwell from operating the terminal with the diodes connected to his own head. But the two local-timers didn't seem to notice the fault in his reasoning.

  "Your friend can do it," she said, nodding towards Zachary.

  "What? Leave me out of this," said Zachary.

  "It's safe," Margrit said. "Almost certainly."

  "Come on," Walter Jenkins said. "It will be okay."

  "You do it, then."

  Margrit was getting tired. They were wasting precious time and it was possible that more heretics were coming to put an end to the target's life. They couldn't afford to have the local-timers bickering like children. She moved forward and took the diodes from the chaplain's hands, sticking them to her temples.

  "Go on," she said.

  The chaplain hesitated, but a steadier look from the agent was enough to hurry him up. He pressed several keys and looked at the screen, expecting a result. There was a loud beep.

  "Oh," he said.

  "What?" she asked.

  Both Zachary and Walter Jenkins came closer to look at the device. The chaplain seemed insulted by this intrusion and tried to block the screen from view with his hands.

  "I may have inputted the wrong sequence," he admitted, visibly embarrassed. Margrit shook her head. And this was the chaplain they sent on the most important assignment of all, she thought. The only one they could have sent, after all.

  Brother Maxwell restarted the process. This time, he concluded with a convicted exclamation:

  "Ah!"

  A short pause and a series of numbers started cascading down the screen until they were replaced by a single line of text.

  Identification sequence complete - Positive identification percentage: 6.79%

  "There you go," said the chaplain, addressing Walter Jenkins. "No pain whatsoever."

  The target looked at Margrit, awaiting a confirmation.

  "No pain," she said. The diodes had grown warmer, but nothing that could be considered uncomfortable, even by the most squeamish of subjects. She took the diodes and placed them on Walter Jenkins' temples herself.

  "And you're not Future Jesus?" asked Zachary.

  "No. Only 6.79% of me is," she said.

  "Now I almost want to have a go," he said. "Just for the sake of it."

  "Too late," Margrit said. "You've had your chance."

  Walter Jenkins sat down again and breathed in deeply.

  "Are you ready?" asked Brother Maxwell.

  "I am," he said.

  The chaplain reset the identification device and inputted the sequence. Margrit and Zachary were both behind him, looking over his shoulder, but, this time, he didn't seem to bother enough to prevent them. The numbers kept moving for a seemingly longer time until they finally stopped, leaving the screen black, with the single line of bright characters in the middle.

  Identification sequence complete - Positive identification percentage: 99.99%

  "This is..." started Brother Maxwell. He didn't finish.

  "Almost perfect," concluded Margrit. "Negligible error margin."

  "What does it mean?" asked Zachary, while Walter Jenkins looked at all of them in turn.

  "Yes," he said. "What does it mean?"

  By the time he finished the sentence, Brother Maxwell was already kneeling in front of
him and touching his forehead to the floor.

  7

  Walt Jenkins was trying to get used to his new role as religious guide of future people. If he thought about it, it couldn't really be that hard. Unless they expected him to be nailed to a tree or thrown in a blazing fire. Martyrdom wasn't really his thing.

  The strange Brother Maxwell figure was still kneeling in front of him. He didn't know how to react to that, but he guessed he could get used to it if he made an effort. The woman, however, didn't look too impressed, staring at him with a raised eyebrow and not looking too convinced by what had just happened. Zachary, standing next to her, looked just like Zachary. Perhaps with a slight sarcastic smirk on his lips, but it was still him.

  "Guide us, oh Divine Mentor," said Brother Maxwell, raising his head from the floor while remaining kneeled, "for yours is the light, the truth and the glory, by God's divine commandment and for the eternal benefit of your flock."

  His flock. All of a sudden, he had a flock. Who would have known? It certainly never crossed his mind when he woke up. It proved, without a doubt, that the world was still perfectly capable of surprising him.

  "Rise," he said, testing his messianic voice. It sounded too much like his ordinary, everyday voice. He would have to work on it. But it worked. The man from the future got up and stood in front of him, clearly waiting for him to say something else. If he understood correctly, he was some kind of priest from a religion built around him. The Holy Church of Walt Jenkins. Did it even have a name? If it didn't, could he make a suggestion?

  "My Church," Walt said. "Does it have a name?"

  "It is the only true Church," answered Brother Maxwell. "That is the only name it will ever need."

  Oh well. A slight disappointment. Not grandiose, but still adequate, Walt thought.

  "Well then," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Now that it's all settled, what happens next?" He would need time to think of a way to turn his now certified divinity into profit, but, until it happened, he would play along.

  Brother Maxwell and the woman looked at each other. Zachary kept smirking.

  "We have to wait for the Consecration," the future priest said, not too sure of himself.

  "How long will it take?" Walt asked.

  "I can't say. We can't rush a manifestation of the Almighty."

  "You can't possibly be expecting this to really happen," said Zachary, in an interval of all the smirking.

  "Why not?" Walt asked.

  "You are! You're really expecting the skies to part and God's gigantic holy finger to point directly at you while a thunderous voice says: Him! He's the one!"

  Walt thought about it for a second. No, he wasn't expecting that. But what was he expecting? The story seemed absurd and the most reasonable thing to do would be to admit that those two, Maxwell and the woman, were a couple of lunatics sharing a particularly farfetched delusion. But they had provided him with an explanation for all the bizarre things that had been happening to him during the previous days. Bands of old hobos chasing him around. People stealing his acquaintance’s faces, trying to murder him and turning to smoke after they failed. He thought about Sarah. Could she be dead? He wished she wasn't, but he wasn't capable of feeling much more than that. Perhaps it was only the shock. Yes, that was probably it. After all, the other explanation would be that he was a terrible person.

  "Just do what seems right," said Brother Maxwell. "Let events follow their course."

  "What seems right," he repeated. What did seem right? There was something he thought he should take care of. "I have to make a couple of phone calls."

  He walked to the table over which Zachary's phone rested, lifted the receiver and dialed a number. He waited. No one was picking up. The phone in the house he had shared with Sarah had caller ID so it was possible his ex-wife was refusing to speak with him. Or she could be dead. A cold stab touched the right side of his torso. Was that what regret felt like? He put the receiver down, lifted it again and dialed another number. This time, someone answered almost immediately. While he listened to the voice on the other side of the line, he looked back and saw the woman looking out the window, Brother Maxwell flipping through the pages of his book and Zachary staring at him, his smirk having disappeared without a trace. He felt the same cold stab on his side again, this time with greater intensity. It wasn't regret, after all, but something else. Something even more unpleasant. He understood the words that were being said, but, somehow, it was like he wasn't there, listening to them. He felt like he was miles away and had nothing to do with that. It was strange thinking that something could be so much more disturbing than discovering that he had been the basis for the founding of a religion in a post-apocalyptic future. He replied with single syllable words, mostly, feeling that the matter demanded a much more heated response. But he couldn't do it. When the conversation was finally over, he put down the receiver and turned around.

  "We should go," he said.

  "Where?" asked Zachary.

  "I don't know." He felt pale. Could a person feel pale? "Somewhere. It doesn't matter. But we should go. I need fresh air."

  "Is there a mount somewhere around?" asked Brother Maxwell, lifting his eyes from a page. He decided to add: "Oh Divine Mentor."

  The woman, standing near the window, rolled her eyes almost audibly.

  "A mount?" said Walt. "You mean a hill?"

  "Yes. An elevation of some sort. The designation is not important."

  "I'm not sure. The city is pretty flat. Is there a hill somewhere?" he asked Zachary.

  "Only hill I can think of is the old cemetery," he said. "It's not much of a hill, but it's definitely higher than the everything else."

  "A cemetery," said the woman. "How dramatic."

  Everyone ignored her and Walt felt it was well deserved. He looked at Brother Maxwell again.

  "Why are you asking about a hill?"

  "Perhaps there is somewhere we could go, oh Divine Mentor," he said. "No guarantees, of course, but the Narrative mentions that the chosen one gave a memorable sermon on a mount."

  "No. Sorry, but no." It was Zachary. They all turned to him, waiting for clarification. "I think I've been taking this time travelling story as well as anyone could, but that's just ridiculous."

  Brother Maxwell seemed offended.

  "Watch your tongue," he said. "It's the holy word you're talking about. And you're in presence of the Divine Mentor himself." He gave Walt a look like a puppy expecting a pat on the head. He'd have to get on without it.

  "Your holy book says Walt gave a sermon on a mount?" Zachary asked.

  "Yes. Shortly after the Revelation," said Brother Maxwell.

  "That's the ridiculous part," said Zachary.

  "Do not insult the Divine Mentor! Lest the Lord strike you where you stand!" said Brother Maxwell, standing up and raising his voice. He didn't need long to realize how ridiculous he looked and seemed to calm down immediately. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Why is it ridiculous?" asked the woman, looking interested.

  "Well, that's in the Christian holy book as well," said Zachary. "It's part of the story of Jesus. He gave a sermon on a mount. Everyone knows about that, even people that aren't into religion. Christians make a big deal of it."

  "Hmm," said the woman.

  "Merely a coincidence," said Brother Maxwell.

  "You can't really think it's a coincidence," Zachary said to him.

  "What I think is not important. The only thing that matters is what is written here," and he lifted the book. "And that cannot be questioned. It would be heresy."

  "Zachary may be right," Walt said.

  Brother Maxwell turned a look of utter terror towards him.

  "But..." he started.

  "Maybe someone got hold of a copy of the Bible and pinched the Sermon on the Mount story."

  "No, Divine Mentor. That can't have happened. No copies of this Bible have survived," Brother Maxwell said. His tone was pleading with him to stop saying thing
s that compromised his own divinity.

  "Maybe a survivor of this Calamity you mentioned remembered the story from having heard about it," Walt suggested.

  "No, Divine Me-Mentor..." stuttered Brother Maxwell. "That is..."

  "Heresy?" said the woman. "Are you accusing the Divine Mentor of heresy? Isn't that an even greater heresy?" She seemed amused by it.

  "You know how it is," said Walt, trying to be conciliatory. Could that be his godly nature starting to take over his actions already? "These holy books are all meant to be taken metaphorically, anyway"

  Brother Maxwell opened his eyes and his mouth very wide and looked livid. He couldn't even speak. Behind him, the woman suppressed a giggle.

  "That's settled then," Walt said. "We're going to the old cemetery."

  "What about the people trying to kill you?" asked Zachary.

  Walt sighed, recalling his phone call.

  "No one will expect us to be there," he said. "The same can't be said about your place."