“Brother Habit, we don’t know. Would you ask God and tell
us what he says?”
Whereupon Father roared out, “God in heaven! Thou
knowest our question! Tell us thine answer! We thy children ask
thee for bread, O Father! Do not give us a stone!”
Then he gripped the pulpit—the dictionary stand, which
trembled under his hands—and continued glaring upward. Zeck
knew that when Father looked upward like that, he did not see
the roof beams or the ceiling above them. He was staring into
heaven, demanding that all those hurrying angels get out of his
way so his gaze could penetrate all the way to God and demand
his attention, because it was his right. Ask and it shall be given,
God had promised. Knock and it shall be opened! Well, Habit
Morgan was knocking and asking, and it was time for God to
open and give. God could not break his word—at least not when
Habit Morgan was holding him to it.
But God took his own sweet time. Which was why Zeck was
sitting there on the front row, with Mother and his three younger
siblings beside him, all perched on chairs so wobbly they showed
the slightest trace of movement. The other children were young,
and their fidgets were forgiven. Zeck was determined to be pure,
and his wobbly chair might have been made of stone for all the
movement it made.
When Father stared into heaven this long it was a test. Maybe
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it was a test given by God, or maybe Father had already received
his answer—received it perhaps the night before when he was
writing this sermon—and so the test was from him. Either way,
Zeck would pass this test as he passed all the tests laid before
him.
The long minutes dragged. One itch would fade, only to be
replaced by another. Father still stared into heaven. Zeck ignored
the sweat trickling down his neck.
And behind him, somewhere among the seventy-three
members of the congregation who had come today (Zeck hadn’t
counted them, he had only glanced, but as usual he immediately
knew how many there were), someone shifted in his seat.
Someone coughed. It was the moment Father—or God—had
been waiting for.
Father’s voice was only a whisper, but it carried through the
room. “How can I hear the voice of the Holy Spirit when I am
surrounded by impurity?”
Zeck thought of quoting back to him his own sermon, given
two years ago, when Zeck was only just barely four. “Do you
think that God cannot make his voice heard no matter what other
noise is going on around you? If you are pure, then all the tumult
of the world is silence compared to the voice of God.” But Zeck
knew that to quote this now would bring down the rod of
chastisement. Father was not really asking a question. He was
pointing out what everyone knew: That in all this congregation,
only Habit Morgan was really, truly pure. That’s why God’s
answers came to him, and only to him.
“Saint Nick is a mask!” roared Father. “Saint Nick is the false
beard and the false laugh worn by the drunken servants of the
God of frivolity. Dionysus is his name! Bacchus! Revelry and
debauchery! Greed and covetousness are the gifts he instills in
the hearts of our children! O God, save us from the Satan of
Santa! Keep our children’s eyes averted from his malicious,
predatory gaze! Do not seat our children upon his lap to whisper
their coveting into his stony ear! He is an idol of idolatry! God
knows what spirit animates these idols and makes them laugh
their ho, ho, whoredoms and abominations and braying
jackassery!”
Father was in fine form. And now that he was bellowing the
words of God, striding back and forth across the front of the
sanctuary, Zeck could scratch the occasional itch, as long has he
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kept his gaze locked on Father’s face.
For an hour Father went on, telling stories of children who
put their faith in Santa Claus, and parents who lied to their
children about Saint Nick and taught their children that all the
stories of Christmas were myths—including the story of the
Christ child. Telling stories of children who became atheists
when Santa did not bring them the gifts they coveted most.
“Satan is a liar every time! When Santa puts a lie on the lips
of parents, the seed of that lie is planted in the hearts of their
children and when that seed comes to flower and bears fruit, the
fruit of that lie is faithlessness. You do not deserve the trust of
your children when you lie for Satan!”
Then his voice fell to a whisper. “Jolly old Saint Nicholas,”
he hissed. “Lend your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul
what I’m going to say.” Then his voice roared out again. “Yes,
your children whisper their secret desires to Satan and he will
answer their prayers, not with the presents they seek, and
certainly not with the presence of God Immanuel!—no, he will
answer their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with
the poison of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood.
He will drive out the hemoglobin and replace it with hellish lust!”
And so on. And so on.
In Zeck’s mind, the clock that kept perfect time went round
the full forty minutes of the sermon. Father never repeated
himself once, and yet he also never strayed from the single
message. God’s message was always brief, Father said, but it
took him many words to translate the pure wisdom of the Lord’s
language into the poor English that mere mortals could
understand.
And Father’s sermons never ran over. He wrapped them up
right in time. He was not a man who talked just to hear himself
talk. He labored his labor and then he was done.
At the end of the sermon, there was a hymn and then Father
called upon old Brother Verlin and told him that God had seen
him today and made his heart pure enough to pray. Verlin rose
to his feet weeping and could hardly get out the words of the
prayer of blessing on the congregation, he was so moved at being
chosen for the first time since he confessed selling an old car of
his for nearly twice what it was worth, because the buyer had
tempted him by offering even more for it. His sin was forgiven,
more or less. That’s what it meant, for Brother Habit to call on
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him to pray.
Then it was done. Zeck leapt to his feet and ran to his father
and hugged him, as he always did, for it felt to him when such a
sermon ended that some dust of light from heaven must linger
still on Father’s clothing, and if Zeck could embrace him tightly
enough, it might rub off on him, so that he could begin to become
pure. Because heaven knew he was not pure now.
Father loved him at such times. Father�
��s hands were gentle
on his hair, his shoulder, his back; there was no willow rod to
draw blood out of his shirt.
“Look, son,” said Father. “We have a stranger here in the
House of the Lord.”
Zeck pulled free to look at the door. Others had noticed the
man, too, and stood looking at him, silent until Habit Morgan
declared him to be friend or foe. The stranger wore a uniform,
but it wasn’t one that Zeck had seen before—not the sheriff or a
deputy, not a fireman, not the state police.
“Welcome to the Church of the Pure Christ,” said Father.
“I’m sorry you didn’t arrive for the sermon.”
“I listened from outside,” said the man. “I didn’t want to
interrupt.”
“Then you did well,” said Father, “for you heard the word of
God, and yet you listened with humility.”
“Are you Reverend Habit Morgan?” asked the man.
“I am,” said Father, “except we have no titles among us
except Brother and Sister. ‘Reverend’ suggests that I’m a
certified minister, a hireling. No one certified me but God, for
only God can teach his pure doctrine, and only God can name his
ministers. Nor am I hired, for the servants of God are all equal in
his sight, and must all obey the admonition of God to Adam, to
earn his bread by the sweat of his face. I farm a plot of ground. I
also drive a truck for United Parcel Service.”
“Forgive me for using an unwelcome title,” said the man. “In
my ignorance, I meant only respect.”
But Zeck was a keen observer of human beings, and it
seemed to him that the man had already known how Father felt
about the title “reverend,” and he had used it deliberately.
This was wrong. This was a pollution of the sanctuary.
Zeck ran from Father to stand a few feet in front of the man.
“If you tell the truth right now,” Zeck said boldly, fearing
nothing that this man could do to him, “God will forgive you for
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your lie and the sanctuary will be purified again.”
The congregation gasped. Not in surprise or dismay; they
assumed that it was God speaking through him at times like this,
though Zeck never claimed any such thing. He denied that God
ever spoke through him, and beyond that he could not control
what they believed.
“What lie was that?” asked the man, amused.
“You know all about us,” said Zeck. “You’ve studied our
beliefs. You’ve studied everything about Father. You know that
it’s an offense to call him ‘reverend.’ You did it on purpose, and
now you’re lying to pretend you meant respect.”
“You’re correct,” said the man, still amused. “But what
possible difference does it make?”
“It must have made a difference to you,” said Zeck, “or you
wouldn’t have bothered to lie.”
By now Father stood behind him, and his hand on Zeck’s
head told him he had said enough and it was Father’s turn now.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Father to the stranger.
“You’ve come to us with a lie on your lips, one which even a
child could detect. Why are you here, and who sent you?”
“I was sent by the International Fleet, and my purpose is to
test this boy to see if he is qualified to attend Battle School.”
“We are Christians, sir,” said Father. “God will protect us if
that is his will. We will left no hand against our enemy.”
“I’m not here to argue theology,” said the stranger. “I’m here
to carry out the law. There are no exemptions because of the
religion of the parents. ”
“What about for the religion of the child?” asked Father.
“Children have no religion,” said the stranger. “That’s why
we take them young—before they have been fully indoctrinated
in any ideology.”
“So you can indoctrinate them in yours,” said Father.
“Exactly,” said the man.
Then the man reached out to Zeck. “Come with me,
Zechariah Morgan. We’ve set up the examination in your
parents’ house.”
Zeck turned his back on the man.
“He does not choose to take your test,” said Father.
“And yet,” said the man, “he will take it, one way or another.”
The congregation murmured at that.
The man from the International Fleet looked around at them.
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“Our responsibility in the International Fleet is to protect the
human race from the Formic invaders. We protect the whole
human race—even those who don’t wish to be protected—and
we draw upon the most brilliant minds of the human race and
train them for command—even those who do not wish to be
trained. What if this boy were the most brilliant of all, the
commander that would lead us to victory where no other could
succeed? Should everyone else in the human race die, just so you
in this congregation can remain … pure? ”
“Yes,” said Father. And the congregation echoed him. “Yes.
Yes.”
“We are the leaven in the loaf,” said Father. “We are the salt
that must keep its savor, lest the whole earth be destroyed. It is
our purity that will persuade God to preserve this wicked
generation, not your violence.”
The man laughed. “Your purity against our violence.” His
land lashed out and he seized Zeck by the collar of his shirt and
dragged him sharply backward, toward him. Before anyone
could do more than shout in protest, he had torn Zeck’s shirt from
his body and then whirled him around to show his scarred back,
with the freshest wounds still bright red, and the newest of all
still beading with blood from this sudden movement. “What
about your violence? We don’t raise our hands against children.”
“Don’t you?” said Father. “To spare the rod is to spoil the
child—God has told us how to make our children pure from the
moment they achieve accountability until they have mastered
their own discipline. I strike my son’s body to teach his spirit to
embrace the pure love of Christ. You will teach him to hate his
enemies, so that it no longer matters whether his body is living
or dead, for his soul will be polluted and God will spit him out
of his mouth.”
The man threw Zeck’s shirt in Father’s face. “Come back to
your house and you’ll find us there with your son, doing what the
law requires.”
Zeck tore away from the man’s grip. The man was holding
him very tightly, but Zeck had a great advantage: He didn’t care
how much it hurt to pull himself free. “I will not go with you,”
said Zeck.
The man touched a small electronic patch on his belt and
immediately the door burst open and a dozen armed man filed in.
“I will place your father under arrest,” said the man from the
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fleet. “And your mother. And anyone in this congregation who
resists me.”
Mother came forward then, pushing her way past Father and
several others. “Then you know nothing about us,” said Mother.
“We have no intention of resisting you. When a Roman demands
a cloak from us, we give unto him our coat also.” She pushed the
two older girls toward the man. “Test them all. Test the youngest,
too, if you can. She doesn’t speak yet, but no doubt you have
your ways.”
“We’ll be back for them, even though the two youngest are
illegal. But not till they come of age.”
“You can steal our son’s body,” said Mother. “But you can
never steal his heart. Train him all you want. Teach him whatever
you want. His heart is pure. He will recite your words back to
you but he will never, never believe them. He belongs to the Pure
Christ, not to the human race.”
Zeck held himself still, so he could not shudder as his body
wanted to. Mother’s boldness was rare, and always chancy. How
would Father react to this? It was his place to speak, to act, to
protect the family and the church.
Then again, Father had said several times that a good
helpmeet is one who is not afraid to give unwelcome counsel to
her husband, and a man so foolish that he can’t hear wisdom from
his wife is not worthy to be any woman’s husband.
“Go with the man, Zeck,” said Father. “And answer all
questions with pure honesty.”
*
Zeck got into a hovercar with the man. There was one soldier
driving; the rest of the soldiers got into a different vehicle, a
larger one that looked dangerous.
“I’m Captain Bridegan,” the soldier said.
“I don’t care what your name is,” said Zeck.
Captain Bridegan said nothing.
Zeck said nothing.
They got to Zeck’s house. The door was standing open. A
woman was waiting inside, with papers spread out on the kitchen
table, along with a pile of blocks and other paraphernalia,
including a small machine. She must have noticed Zeck looking
at it because she touched it and explained, “It’s a recorder. So
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other people can hear our session and evaluate it later.”
Captured lightning, though Zeck. Just another device used by
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