by Rysa Walker
I pulled my gaze back to the front of the auditorium, which featured a semicircular stage with a giant plasma screen. A large Cyrist symbol lit the center of the display, surrounded by pictures of Cyrist mission activities that changed every few seconds.
Tall stained-glass windows alternated with white stone panels along the exterior walls. A few of the windows showed scenes from the Christian tradition, similar to those I had seen in other churches—Noah’s Ark, the Madonna and Child, and so forth. Buddha was in one frame as well, but over half were clearly based on Cyrist history. A good number of these depicted a tall man with short dark hair and a white robe, who was blessing children, curing the sick, and handing out gold coins to the masses. It was several minutes before the obvious fact dawned on me—this was my grandfather in his Brother Cyrus guise.
I sat down to the left of Trey. One of the guys from the Acolyte group plopped down on the other side of me. He continued chatting about the merits of the Baltimore Orioles’ manager with one of the other male Acolytes, who was sitting in the row directly ahead, and didn’t pay us much attention.
Charlayne was on Trey’s right, flanked by the friend she’d been chatting with, who had been introduced as Eve. The girl was impeccably and very fashionably dressed and I suspected that her handbag alone had cost more than my entire wardrobe, even before the last time shift reduced me to a week’s worth of clothes.
I knew it was petty to be jealous that Charlayne had another best friend in this timeline, but that didn’t change the fact that I was jealous. I’d had few close friends in my life, and it stung a bit to see that I’d been replaced. I gave Eve a sideways glance and was comforted by the realization that her mascara was smudged and her nose too hooked to be traditionally pretty, although I suspected that would be cured by a trip to the plastic surgeon within a year or two.
Trey was also looking around at the windows, in between answering Charlayne’s questions. He nudged me with his elbow and motioned very slightly with his head to the panel just behind me. A young woman stood in the middle of a garden, with her arms raised and eyes pointed upward. She wore a white sleeveless gown, belted at the waist, and at one end of the belt there was a large bronze medallion. Dark, unruly curls fell across her shoulders.
Katherine’s words—you look like her, you know—echoed in my mind. She wasn’t kidding.
Trey leaned toward Charlayne and said, “Tell me about the windows—they’re so detailed. That one is Cyrus curing the sick, but who is the woman there”—he motioned toward the panel behind me—“and in the panel across the auditorium?”
I tensed a bit, unsure that it was wise to call attention to the window, but I wanted to hear Charlayne’s answer as well. I had found only the vaguest mention of Prudence in my web searches.
Charlayne gave Trey her best smile, the one that I knew she practiced in the mirror. “That’s Sister Prudence,” she replied. “Prudence is an oracle, like Cyrus, but she’s more… personal. I’ve never seen Brother Cyrus—none of us have seen him personally, except Brother Conwell and his family—so I don’t know about the panels that show him. But the panels of Sister Prudence are a very good likeness.”
“So the artist based the work on photographs?” Trey asked.
“Well, maybe. I think there are some photographs of Cyrus, although I haven’t seen them. But I’ve seen Prudence here in the temple—she ordained Brother Conwell when he replaced his mother as leader of this region, about seven or eight years ago. I believe she ordains all of the regional leaders.”
“Oh.” Trey paused for a moment. “I didn’t know she was alive. You don’t usually see stained-glass windows of living people.”
Charlayne paused for a long moment, as if carefully considering her next words. “We don’t often speak of it outside the temple, but Prudence and Cyrus are both alive. Not just here”—she tapped her chest—“within our hearts, like the other prophets. They are alive. Eternal.”
She nodded toward the window behind me. “That image, for example, was created nearly a hundred years ago—these windows were preserved from the previous regional temple in Virginia. My mother saw Sister Prudence when she was a small child and said she still looks exactly the same as she did back then.” Charlayne smiled at me. “You look like her, you know.”
I gave her a nervous smile in return and wished I’d thought to pick up some glasses or anything else that might have disguised my appearance a bit. Of course, I’d never thought we would run into stained-glass windows of my doppelgänger aunt. Trey adroitly shifted the conversation to some other area of Cyrist doctrine, distracting Charlayne’s attention. Watching him, I realized he was much more skilled at role-playing than I was, and I wished, not for the first time, that he was coming along on my jump to the Expo.
I picked up the hymnal from the row of seats in front of us and began flipping through the pages. I’d attended church with my dad’s parents when we visited them during the summers. It was a small, rural Christian congregation, of no specific denomination, and I’d always found the traditional hymns they sang comforting.
The background music that was playing as we waited for the Cyrist service to start was more modern, almost new age, but there were a few hymns in the book that were familiar to me—“There Shall Be Showers of Blessings” and “I Come to the Garden.” Others were new, and still others were similar to older hymns but had altered lyrics. “There Will Be Many Stars in My Crown” had replaced an old hymn that I remembered singing called “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown?” While I couldn’t remember all of the words, the lyrics from the Cyrist hymnal—you will know I am blest when my mansion’s the best—didn’t really fit with what I remembered about the spirit of the song.
The incidental music trailed off just before Brother Conwell entered from the left of the stage. He wore a dark, well-tailored suit with a white mandarin collar and a long clerical scarf across his shoulders. It was gold brocade, with large, white Cyrist symbols on each end. A CHRONOS key hung from a white ribbon around his neck. I should have expected it, but for some reason the sight of the medallion, bright blue against the white and gold, caught me by surprise.
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Charlayne’s friend was watching me and I hoped my expression hadn’t been too telling when I spotted the medallion. She gave me a quick smile when I caught her eye, and I turned back to Brother Conwell, trying to keep my gaze focused on his face and not on the glowing blue disk resting just above his abdomen.
“Welcome Brothers and Sisters on this glorious spring morning.” He flashed his beaming smile across the general congregation and toward the back of the auditorium. “We would also like to extend a special welcome to you and your family, Madame President. You have been missed greatly during the past few weeks, but I’m sure that your trip abroad has done much for the advancement of our great nation and of The Way.”
Patterson gave a smile and a slight nod to the congregation. Conwell then raised his arms to direct us to stand for the opening hymn. The lights dimmed and a recessed section of the stage rose up gradually to reveal a large choir and musicians. The hymnals were apparently a relic from earlier days or else were simply placed there for casual reading before the service because the lyrics to “Morning Has Broken” began to scroll across the plasma screen, superimposed over serene images of nature.
Two songs and a moment of silent meditation later, Conwell began his sermon. It was fairly short and very similar to the Cyrist messages that I had read online, with a strong emphasis on self-improvement and at least half a dozen very explicit references to tithing in the half hour or so that he spoke. Conwell had a charismatic aura that was much more apparent in person than in the snippets I had watched online, and I found myself smiling at a few of his anecdotes, despite my predisposition to dislike him.
The responsive reading, however, was really creepy. I had read the Cyrist Creed online and it was printed on the inside back cover of my handy pocket copy of the Book of Cyrus. While i
t seemed a bit out there, it wasn’t that different from stuff I’d read from other religions that believe they have a lock on divine wisdom and a reserved seat in the VIP section of the hereafter. There was just something about having the words chanted aloud by several hundred people that made them more… tangible, I guess.
The lights dimmed as Brother Cyrus moved to one side, and the backdrop lit up to reveal a group of individuals and families of various races and ages whose faces beamed as they exclaimed, “We choose The Way, so we are the Blessed,” with those words floating across the bottom of the screen. The pictures shifted to a large offering plate overflowing with gold coins, which struck me as oddly similar to a leprechaun’s pot of gold, and the caption changed to “As we give to Cyrus, so shall we prosper.”
The same group of faces, now a bit more serious, declared, “We choose The Way, so we may be Chosen,” just before the video slowly morphed into an apocalyptic background, with dead, blackened trees stark against a red sky—and the voices continued: “As humans have failed to protect the Planet, the Planet shall protect itself.”
The screen then flashed back to the group of Cyrists, whose expressions ranged from determined to angry. “We choose The Way, so we are Defenders. Enemies of The Way will face our Wrath and Judgment.” And then the last line of the Creed, “We choose The Way, so we may be Saved,” showed the group with triumphant faces, standing before a lush and verdant garden—the earth restored, a virtual Garden of Eden. Trey was apparently unnerved as well, because his hand sought out mine for a brief squeeze before the lights came back up.
The service concluded with announcements—the quarterly executive meeting in the annex following the service, two upcoming weddings, and a retirement party—as young men at each end of the aisle passed the collection plate. That was another thing that I probably should have anticipated, but it wouldn’t have really mattered since my very last dollar had vanished with my backpack on the Metro. I gave the guy on my left an apologetic smile as he handed me the collection plate and then passed it along to Trey. He put a rather generous donation on top of the stack of bills, checks, and envelopes, and was duly rewarded by the beaming approval of Charlayne and Eve, who were already whispering to him about the youth meeting after the service.
I toyed with the idea of following Conwell, who was almost certainly headed toward the executive meeting that he had announced, but I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. A copy of the Book of Prophecy would be nice, but based on everything I had read online, the temple leaders didn’t just leave those lying around. Tidbits were doled out to members and initiates; few had seen the actual book.
I suspected that there would be some interesting financial tips handed out at the executive meeting, but we stood zero chance of getting into that little soiree, especially if Patterson was attending. It looked like I would have to make do with what we could tease out of the Acolytes.
Trey and I followed Charlayne and her friends out of the auditorium, with Charlayne practically glued to Trey’s side. I stopped off at the first ladies’ room. Eve and one of the other female Acolytes did the same. I wasn’t sure if they were following me or just needed to pee, since they entered the first two stalls inside the door and went straight to business. I entered the stall at the opposite end and took my time, hoping they would leave without me. They didn’t, and there was a look of impatience on Eve’s face as I stopped by the sink to wash up.
She turned to the other girl and said, “I hope there will still be some decent pizza by the time we get there.” I smiled politely and followed the two of them out the door and down a long corridor, to a large and cheery sign welcoming us to the Youth Center.
The inside appeared to be a combination gym and recreation room, with several smaller rooms arranged along the outer walls for classes or meetings. Trey was seated at a long picnic-style table with Charlayne and the rest of the group that had sat near us during the sermon, and I saw that he’d not only saved me a seat but had also snagged me a slice of pizza and a diet soda.
I slid onto the bench. “Thanks.” Eve and my other companion from the restroom gave a loud sniff, almost in perfect unison, and headed over to the collection of pizza boxes at the end of the table to see what remained.
“No problem at all, cuz,” Trey said. I gave him a look suggesting that he was overdoing it a bit, and he flashed me a quick grin before turning back to Charlayne. “So I’ve read most of the Book of Cyrus, and it’s really interesting and all, but I don’t think it really gives me an idea of what Cyrists do. What you believe. My mom says that you don’t accept everyone for membership—that not everyone is eligible to be Chosen. Is that true?”
Charlayne looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, yes and no. Anyone at all can attend our services—I mean, you’re here today, right? And you could attend the Acolyte meetings and you could become a church member. Then, over time, we would know if you were Chosen. Not everyone is Chosen. You’d have to go through several years of classes, and you would find out whether you could open your mind to The Way. And you’d have to commit to our rules—they’re pretty strict on some things—and then…” She shrugged.
“So is everyone here Chosen?” I asked.
“Oh no,” she said. “We’re still Acolytes. We aren’t independent yet. Most of us are still in school and even after… there’s no guarantee you’ll be Chosen.”
“But the Creed—‘We choose The Way so we may be Chosen’—all of you repeated it in the service?”
“Yes.” She nodded, with a patient smile. “‘We choose The Way so we may be Chosen.’ ‘We choose The Way so we may be Saved.’ We aren’t assured that Cyrus will protect us, but those who choose The Way may be among those who will find mercy at The End. Those who are Chosen may be saved. Those who never listen, who ignore the warnings in the Book of Cyrus, have no chance at all.”
I thought that it seemed like a pretty weak promise compared to other religions I had studied, but I nodded and returned her smile.
Trey took another bite of his pizza and then asked, “So how would you know? I mean, what tells you that someone is Chosen?”
“It varies for each individual. Most people are identified by their gifts—by the degree to which God blesses them once they begin to follow The Way. That’s how my parents became Chosen. The members of the board and Brother Conwell examined their ledgers before they joined and compared it to their ledgers afterward, and decided that God had shown them favor.”
Eve, who was now seated across from Trey, picked a piece of sausage off her pizza and gave me a sideways look. “But there are some who are identified by their talents—who can do miracles, who can prophesy. Sometimes they are Chosen very young. Brother Conwell, for example, was Chosen when he was thirteen. His daughter was even younger when she first read from the Book of Prophecy. They were predestined to be Chosen, so their names are written in the Book itself.”
“I’m still a bit confused. Exactly what it is that Cyrus promises to save the Chosen from?” Trey asked. “From hell?”
The dark-haired boy next to Eve, who had been one of those arguing about sports before the service, laughed. “Cyrists don’t believe in an afterlife. Your rewards are in this life. Cyrus can save the Chosen from The End. The world is going to end, you know—and pretty soon, based on the prophecies we’ve been given. The Chosen will live on, when everyone else dies. They will be the future.”
That gave me a bit of a shudder and it must have shown in my expression, because Eve gave the boy a long, hard look. “Really, Jared. Is this a conversation we should be having at lunch? With visitors?” She turned back to me with a reassuring smile. “All of this would be covered in eschatology classes—the leaders know a lot more about The End than Jared does, believe me.”
“The thing that I like to focus on,” Charlayne said to Trey, “is that The Way gives us the tools for a happy and successful life here and now. And contrary to popular opinion, Cyrists do know how to have a good time. We’re plann
ing a trip to Six Flags next weekend if you’re interested.”
“That’s a good idea, Charlayne,” Eve said. “Why don’t you give Trey the info about the trip? Get his email so that we can contact him. And Kelly, if you’ll come back to the office with me, I can get the two of you a couple of membership kits that will answer a lot of your other questions. Our Acolyte meeting needs to start in a few minutes and that is, unfortunately, for Acolytes only, so…”
Charlayne gave Eve an annoyed pout. I wasn’t sure whether she was irritated that Trey was going to have to leave or simply didn’t like being ordered around, but she reached over and stacked our empty plates onto her own without comment. Trey joined her, gathering the soda cans to take to the recycling bin, while I stood to follow Eve.
I had assumed that she was taking me to one of the small rooms along the perimeter of the gym, but she headed toward the exit at the far side. I glanced back at Trey a bit nervously but followed her. We took a left into a hallway that looked to be nearly the length of a football field, lined on both sides with office doors and the occasional framed piece of artwork. I could see glass double doors opening to a side street at the end, just below a lighted Exit sign.
It looked like the street we had crossed when we were coming in from the parking garage—and I thought that Eve might be heading out to one of the smaller buildings I had seen. We had only walked a few feet down the corridor, however, when she pulled a small access badge out of her handbag and waved it in front of a reader next to a glass door on the right. The door beeped softly and she pushed it open, leading me into a second, more dimly lit hallway.