Aethos: The City of God

By Brett Stadelmann

“The illustrious city of God,
whether in this temporal stage on its pilgrim’s progress among the wicked, and living by faith, or established in yonder eternal habitation which it now patiently awaits...”
-Saint Augustine, Treatise on the city of God

It was the Breath of God, and to the people of the City it was the core of their world. It warmed their homes and their hearts, it sustained them and strengthened them, and it filled their lives with joy. Known as the Aether to those who studied it, its intricacies remained elusive to all. It was imperceptible to the naked eye, yet its presence was felt everywhere. It was infinitely subtle, yet immeasurably powerful. With it, the City stood as a fortress against the desert winds, and as a bastion of hope and of faith. Its people lived without fear of disease, war, famine, or poverty. Life was perfect.

But as the pious civil officer Nathaniel Grey will soon come to suspect, all is not as it once seemed. When his mentor and most trusted friend is accused and sentenced for an inconceivable crime, he finds himself making a choice that will lead him into the company of witches, his former enemies, who manipulate and pervert the Aether for their own ends. Thrust from his life of comfort and security into the cold and lonely life of an outcast, he begins to see that all he once knew, or thought he knew, about the world beyond the walls of the City, was estranged from reality; he begins to learn that everything he had ever held dear, that everything he had ever held to be sacred and immutable, was only an illusion; and he begins to fear that the true nature, and source, of the Aether may be vastly far removed from everything he had been led to believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Stadelmann
• Release date: Oct 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370027736

Brett Stadelmann

Brett Stadelmann is a novice author residing with his wife and two miniature dachshunds in the south-eastern suburbs of Melbourne, Australia.Passionate about science, philosophy, art, the history of religion, and the wonders of the natural world, he pours his passion and interests into his work, exploring themes such as physics and cosmology, the origin of belief, the potential dangers of taking arguments from authority at face value, and the search for happiness and satisfaction in the world in which we find ourselves.His first novel, "Aethos", is just such a story, a personal journey from credulous beginnings to an uncertain future. Its first part, "The City of God", is now available. Check it out!

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Dedication

To my wife:

the heroine of my life,

my greatest supporter,

my harshest critic,

and my best friend.

Prologue

"The illustrious city of God, whether in this temporal stage on its pilgrim’s progress among the wicked, and living by faith, or established in yonder eternal habitation which it now patiently awaits..."

-Saint Augustine, Treatise on the city of God

The City had been a shimmering jewel in the bleak desert.

Its finely manicured features contrasted starkly with the desolate landscape. Behind austere, sand-weathered walls, skyscrapers erupted into the sky, dotted with rows of tiny squares which shone day and night. Endless towers of glass and steel reached for the heavens, interspersed with sombre, oppressive buildings with dark walls and small windows, as well as light, architectural constructions that rose above open courtyards. The City’s universities—towers of learning and research—encouraged new generations to continue, and to improve upon, the works of the old. Lush, green grass covered the many parks and gardens. Crystal clear water rushed from every fountain. Ancient churches and cathedrals stood solemn and proud, carefully restored and lovingly maintained.

From a distance, the City appeared only as a gentle white glow, like the full moon rising over a clear horizon, but this was a sight witnessed by few. There was no reason to leave. Every citizen was employed, and in return for their dedication and diligence the City sustained them. Unemployment, homelessness, poverty, disease… these were nothing but long-distant memories, of interest only to historians and scholars.

The people had good reason to be proud of what they had made for themselves, but they also had good reason to be thankful. Within the walls of the City they were not just given protection and prosperity; they were the beneficiaries of something far greater. They were, in fact, living under the greatest kind of care and protection possible: they were watched over by God. From a source deep within the City, a powerful energy continuously emanated. This energy was imperceptible to the naked eye, but everyone knew of its existence. It was mysterious, sublime. It resisted almost all of their attempts to understand it, but through perseverance they had learned to tap into it, and it now powered all of the technology on which they depended, from the smallest light bulb to the heaviest machines of industry. In the cloudless desert winters, it warmed them; in the long summers, it staved off the relentless heat. It had become such an integral part of their lives that they could no longer live without it. Their very existence had come to depend on it completely, but this dependence was far from their thoughts. To them, this energy was a sign of their elevated position in God’s eyes, and it was a symbol of God’s grace; which is why they had come to refer to it as Aether, the Breath of God.

The Aether came into the world in the Great Square, at the very heart of the City. It was a grand place, paved with stone, filled with divine sculpture and fountains, with deep history etched into every surface. It was a place for people to sit in contemplation of their faith; it was a place of serene beauty. The Square sat in front of the City’s tallest building, the Ecumenical Centre, which was the religious and legislative heart of the City and the meeting place of the Council of Priests. Beneath the Square, deep underground, a power station worked tirelessly to harness the energy released by the Aether. If people listened hard enough, anytime day or night, they could hear the reassuring hum of the power station’s workings.

At the centre of the Square was a forty-foot-tall white soapstone statue of a man wearing simple robes, his arms outstretched as though to embrace the world. This was the people’s most sacred Symbol; an image of the Prophet, whose life of struggle and salvation had brought faith to the new world and reconnected the estranged people to God. He looked down upon the City as a silent guardian, benevolent and watchful.

The statue had stood for hundreds of years, but it was not until the discovery of the Aether that the people’s faith had been made visible. At thousands of locations throughout the City, windows that faced towards the statue had been fitted with high-tech overlays that made visible the miracle of the Aether pouring out like a fountain of light. It was a constant reminder that God was always with them, in every part of their lives. It brought meaning and reassurance. Their survival depended on vigilance, keeping their faith strong, keeping the City free from disbelief; but there was no doubt in anyone’s heart that this city was the most sacred place in the world. They were watched over, cared for, protected, day after day, night after night. They were safe from the godless peoples of the world—those who lived beyond the City walls, those who might wish them harm, and those who might seek to abuse the power of the Aether for their own ends. Here, they were safe from everything, for this City was the final refuge of hope and of faith.

On this particular night, a massive crowd of people had gathered in the Great Square—the rest of the City would be watching from the comfort of their own homes—to witness a momentous event. The aged High Priest, after a long and prosperous career, had recently announced his decision to step down. Somewhere inside the Centre, the Council had convened to vote for a successor.

The people looked towards a wide stone balcony high above the Centre’s main entrance, where a heavy cast-iron lantern was hanging beside two large wooden doors. Soon, the lantern would come to life with a bright orange flame, indicating that a decision had been made. Shortly after, the doors on the balcony would open and the High Priest would emerge to announce the Council’s decision. The air was heavy with anticipation, as the people waited with hushed reverence to find out who would be chosen to lead them into a new era.

The quiet anticipation was building to a clamour. Something was happening—the lantern was not yet lit, but the people could feel a change in the air. They became aware of a low rumble, like the sound of rolling thunder.

The rumble grew into a loud roar. Waves of uncertainty rippled amongst the crowd. The roar became deafening. The ground beneath their feet began to shake. Windows smashed all around the Square. Chaos erupted as people began pushing against one another, desperately trying to get to safety. The ground warped and cracked. Sections of the Square fell several feet in an instant. Chunks of masonry started to fall from nearby buildings. People scrambled desperately for cover as the rubble rained down, while those who had already fallen were trampled, their screams inaudible over the sound of the mayhem.

The roar ceased. There was a moment of deathly silence, the people looked about, bewildered and horrified, and then a terrific flash erupted from the main entrance of the Centre. The steel doors flew outwards like cards, followed by a roaring flood of orange flames that exploded into a blinding ball of fire, knocking every last person to the ground. As the fire curled upwards into a ball of black smoke, the lights all around the Square went out.

Then there was darkness.

Part One

Of the Night

Chapter 1

"Rebellion is as the sin of Witchcraft."

-The Book of Samuel

The day began normally enough for Officer Nathaniel Grey. He woke early, and after a hasty breakfast he left his apartment, walking the few blocks to the office by foot and arriving at the doors to the Ecumenical Centre just as the first rays of day graced its highest floors. The Civil Office was on level three, and at the opening of the elevator doors he made his way briskly to his cubicle, collecting a percolated coffee on the way. He drained it as he caught up on some leftover work from yesterday, and then the mid-morning call came for the day’s assignments. There was nothing unusual about them, at least not until the evening. It would probably be a late night, with the Council planning to convene at sunset, but that was still a long way off.

He wrapped up the last of his office work as quick as he could, and then he was out, out into the city, with the pavement under his feet and the city air in his lungs. As usual, this was when his day truly began. His familiar beat took him far from the heart of the city, greeting with a wave or a Good Morning. the familiar faces of shop front owners he passed every day, people whose faces he knew as well as his own after ten years on the job. Before the morning was done, he had attended two false-alarms caused by faulty security systems, and one case of an actual break-in at a small convenience store. He stopped long enough to make a full report, even though it was clearly just the work of mischievous kids—all they took were a few bars of candy—and the window repair men were done and gone before he was. For lunch he ordered a mushroom lettuce cup from a favourite hole-in-the-wall, a place called Rivers even though there were no rivers within a hundred miles, and ate it across the road by the eastern office of the monorail network. The Chief Engineer came out to chat, just as he always did, a man by the name of George Crusher, whose favourite pastime was boasting about how recent upgrades had improved the efficiency of the network another fraction of a percent, as if that made any difference to the average person. The Rail was an enjoyable ride though. Nathaniel rode it every day, just as he did on this day, in an anti-clockwise trip from east to west.

From there, his beat led him back towards the city’s heart. In the afternoon he dropped in on Mrs. Higgins, the elderly owner of the city’s oldest still-running bakery, who at eighty-four had seen her share of High Priests come and go, and in return for one of her delicious raisin scones he listened patiently to her opinion on the impending succession, which was then followed by her opinion on the weather, which in turn was followed by her recipe for the perfect tomato soup. He was no meteorologist, and cooking was a skill he could never hope to master, but he listened all the same—her raisin scones were worth it.

Evening came on just as he once again approached the tall visage of the Centre and took his post at the south-eastern edge of the Square. It had gradually filled during the day; but as the evening darkened the crowd swelled up to proportions the Square had never seen before, leaving him standing amongst a sea of people. Night endured—the slow passage of time marked only by a handful of notable events: children running past in a game of tag, something Nathaniel quickly put a stop to; the crying of a baby, and its mother’s attempts to quiet it down; a group of people starting up a hymn, which went on for a good ten minutes before fading away awkwardly; a woman fainting from being on her feet for too long, and the swift arrival of Medics to care for her.

Then at last there was a change… but it was not the change that Nathaniel had expected. The ground began to shake, windows smashed all around, screams filled the air, and then the face of the Ecumenical Centre exploded. The flash blinded him. His hands flew up to shield his eyes. A blast of searing wind slammed him to the ground and wrenched the air from his lungs.

His consciousness began to fade, but his lungs continued to fight. They took in a wheezing breath and at once the air choked him with sharp granules of dust.

He rolled over onto his hands and knees, coughing, trying to find breathable air and drawing in desperate breaths. He opened his eyes and they were attacked by grit and dust. He shielded them with his hands and squinted through his fingers.

He saw nothing but murky darkness. A high-pitched whine filled his ears, making it impossible to think. His head pounded and his mind was numb, but through all of this he could make out the escalating sounds of people screaming.

He fumbled around as he tried to get a sense of where he was. He felt a smooth edge where the ground met with a step or the wall of a fountain, and a scattering of cold and jagged objects. A powdery residue covered everything.

He forced himself to his feet, swaying in the disorienting dark. The ringing in his ears faded, revealing the pleading cries of people all around him. This sensation stabilized him. His mind turned to the torch he kept on his belt, and he flicked it on, but it revealed nothing more than a grey cloud that surrounded him and obscured everything.

He looked down at himself. His uniform was scuffed and covered in dust. He unslung his backpack from one shoulder and took a small hand-held scanner from a pocket on the side. Green grid-lines covered its screen. He switched it on, and the black space between the lines came to life, showing a vast field of small dots that represented the life force of the people all around him.

Between the scanner and the torchlight he started to get his bearings. He stumbled forwards through the rubble, toward the sounds of people crying out for help, using the scanner to guide him.

Before his eyes, the dust began to settle, gradually revealing a vast field of devastation. Masses of people sat huddled in groups and many more lay sprawled across the ground, every one of them covered in ash. Other torch beams appeared across the landscape as people tried desperately to resuscitate the fallen, or to rescue those who were trapped beneath debris. The scene shocked him—the mountains of rubble, the cries of trapped and injured people, the motionless bodies that lay everywhere.

Yet even as he stood there in shock, something even more unthinkable caught Nathaniel’s attention. Having found his bearings with the help of his scanner, he turned towards the direction of the statue of the Prophet, and lifted the scanner upwards. It was instinctive, searching for the reassurance that the fountain of light always brought, but something was wrong. At the heart of the Square, over the thousands of red dots that filled the Square, where a hanging cloud of dust now obscured everything above, and where the scanner had always shown a fountain of light, there was nothing.

He waved the scanner left and right, searching for the light, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him. The Fountain was gone.

"It can’t be," he thought.

He saw a vision in his mind of the statue, somewhere behind that cloud of dust, with a deep crack running down its length. The depth of the devastation became surreal. Even the worst of the disaster around him lost all importance. The wailing of people faded from his thoughts.

He lowered the scanner in dismay, but as it passed over the crowd his attention was caught by a single red dot that was racing across the Square. He watched it move through the masses, hardly different from those around it; but it carried a faint shimmer like it was laced with gold, and to his trained eyes it virtually leapt off the screen.

"Son of a witch," he thought.

Without a second’s hesitation, he gave chase. He leapt over piles of debris and jagged stonework, and dodged between stumbling and terrified people. The signal was close, but between the carnage and the dusty air its source was invisible. It moved startlingly fast, soon leading him from the Square, through empty alleys and across deserted back roads. He struggled to keep up. Again and again he almost glimpsed his target and each time it would vanish around another corner like shadow into shadow. The sounds of the disaster fell further behind, until the only sound was that of his feet hitting the pavement, and the only light was the beam of his own torch cutting through the darkness of the streets.

The city was as still as death. Its many streetlights were dark. Lifeless monorail cars hung frozen in the air like giant metal cocoons. The windows of every building, which usually shone all night, watched him pass with vacant stares.

He halted at the end of a brick-walled alleyway. Looking left and right, he saw no sign of movement in the street before him. A stitch gripped his stomach but he ignored it, lifting the scanner in full expectation that the creature had eluded him.

The signal was right in front of him, not fifty yards away. He threw himself back around the corner, and peered around more stealthily.

The signal hovered in the direction of the building across the street, in which an archway gaped like a monstrous mouth at the centre of a sheer brick wall. There was no sign of movement in the street between here and the archway, but even in the darkness that now reigned he could make out the tall statues which stood as guardians just inside. They were a reminder of custodians past, and above their heads, now buried in the dark heights of the alcove, hung a sign that announced this buildings purpose, a sign that had shone every day of Nathaniel’s life, until now. He had no need of the sign, however, for he knew the city streets like he knew the veins on the back of his hand.

The Library, he said under his breath as he jogged quietly across the street.

He entered the archway and followed the brick-walled entryway into the Library’s main atrium, a wide-open space with a vastly high ceiling. Normally lit by an army of lamps and chandeliers, it was now dark beyond measure, swallowing up the beam of his torch completely. The only familiar sense was the musty smell of books.

He checked the scanner again, but the reading had changed. The red dot had vanished and now the entire screen glowed pink.

"Dammit," he thought. You’re here, somewhere.

He listened into the darkness, but his ears met only silence. He put the scanner away and carefully drew his pistol out of its holster, holding it out before him and unclicking the safety mechanism. He crept out from the shelter of the entryway, and when it faded away into the darkness behind him he was left alone. Shadows moved about just beyond sight, forming into solid shapes when they entered the beam of his torch. First came scattered islands of desks, decked out with computers and table lamps, followed shortly by the rows of ancient bookcases, crammed with books, which extended away into the darkness.

He cast the torchlight down one row, then the next. Then he saw it, a dim figure standing barely within the reach of his torchlight, shrouded in shadow. The form was difficult to make out—shadows shifted eerily about it—but it was clearly human. Two points of light hovered where eyes should be.

His anger took over and he forgot the danger this creature posed. He raised his weapon and took aim.

Don’t move! he commanded, his words echoing around the darkness. I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of witchcraft. If you have any weapons, drop them on the ground in front of you.

The witch remained still. His hand trembled. A noise to his left made him look just in time to see a second shadowy figure rushing towards him. He spun to face it, and fired. There was a momentary flash of light—his torchlight glinting off of an unseen blade. The shadow rushed past him like the wind, and then an instant later a cold heat pierced him, followed by a devastating awareness of the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest.

The creature that had attacked him melted back into the shadows. He heard his weapon and torch clatter to the floor. His vision blurred, and he stumbled backwards.

The first dark figure swept towards him and caught him as he began to fall. It lowered him onto the floor and held him down. He tried to get up, to fight back, but his body refused. He gasped as the witch drew the cold blade from his chest. He felt his heart slowing down. His vision blurred. The witch’s face came close to his, catching the light of his torch lying somewhere nearby. His eyes refocused, and with the last of his strength he looked into the demon’s face.

It was an unexpectedly feminine face. Beads of sweat dotted the high cheeks and freckled nose, pink lips were pursed above a slender chin, fiery-red hair hung loose about the shoulders; but even these striking features were lost as he looked into the deep green eyes. They shone like stained glass windows lit from behind by the midday sun. He forgot the room around him, forgot his pain, and forgot his danger. His awareness slipped away until there was just him and this creature, floating in empty space. The green light of those eyes reached out in a brilliant flash and enveloped him.

"What’s happening to me?" he thought, and yet he felt detached from these words, like they were no longer his own.

He struggled to think clearly. A muddle of thoughts raced through his mind, most of them unintelligible, but out from the midst of this mayhem emerged a single clear thought:

"She’s trying to invade my mind."

The terror that this induced gave him a burst of lucidity and strength. His arms found life, and with everything that he had he gripped her by the shoulders and pushed, but this pitiful act scarcely lifted her off by an inch. His strength had already left him, and his arms fell back limply onto the ground. As the final remnants of awareness bled away from his mind, the last thing he knew was the blazing green of those eyes, rushing in like a torrent as his consciousness faded to black.

Chapter 2

"... and to what place soever he came, he did so open the fountains of sacred scripture, that he watered their souls with the heavenly dew of his sermon."

-Pope Gregory I

Nathaniel awoke sharply with the clear sense of danger at the front of his thoughts. He held himself still and glanced around, but as his vision focused it revealed no sign of his enemies in the dim space that surrounded him. The darkness had lessened. Narrow windows high upon the walls now glowed orange from behind, and his eyes could make out the atrium’s high ceiling.

He grabbed his scanner, directing it left and right.

Shit, he cursed under his breath. They’re gone.

He sat up carefully. His muscles ached, and a sharp pain reasserted itself in his chest. He looked down to see a tear in his uniform, and then he delicately pulled his collar out to examine the wound. A dark scar had already begun to close over where the blade had pierced his skin. It was as sore as hell, and as he sat up it began to bleed. He wrenched the medkit from his pack, and with a smear of skin glue the bleeding stopped. With some effort, he got up, and picked up his pistol and torch, holstering each of them. He then took out his scanner, and holding it out before him he turned around in a full circle, just to be sure. Still, there was nothing.

He made his way outside, finding that the street before the Library’s archway was lit up by a fire that had engulfed the upper few floors of a nearby building. Deathly silence filled the air. Darkness still permeated the city, and as he made his slow and sombre way back towards the scene of the disaster he was forced to rely on torchlight once more.

He arrived in the Square to find it lit up by half a dozen portable spotlights, mounted on the backs of trucks, casting an eerie white light on the continuing rescue effort and revealing the terrible reality of the devastation. The features of the Square had been erased. Walkways were now mazes of twisted stone. Long-revered sculptures had ceased to exist. Walls had fallen away from buildings, exposing offices and apartments. The face of the Ecumenical Centre was nothing but a blackened skeleton. A sea of debris covered the ground, and frozen waves of rubble rose and fell across the landscape.

It was a scene of hopeless desolation, and yet the worst damage exceeded all else. Nathaniel had feared that when the dust cloud had cleared he would look up to see the statue of the Prophet broken and cracked beyond recognition, but its benevolent image was gone. Its platform remained little more than a scattering of large rocks that barely resembled fragments of the original majestic formation. The Prophet’s face lay buried among the stones at his feet. The reason why the fountain of light had vanished was now painfully clear.

Nathaniel froze, his eyes locked onto the empty space where the statue used to be, unable to grasp the sight before him.

Tearing his eyes away, he surveyed the scene once more. Groups of searchers littered the ravaged landscape, still seeking out survivors buried under the rubble, but it seemed for the most part that the rescue effort had been completed. A great mass of people filled the far side of the Square from the Centre, where the surrounding buildings had suffered less damage. Comrades in the civil service moved quickly through the crowd, tending to the wounded. People sat huddled in groups, munching on rations and wrapped in blankets despite the warmth.

It moved him to see his people banding together to take care of one another.

"But the danger’s not over," he thought. I have to make a report about the witches. The people need to know who’s responsible for this.

Scanning the crowd, he spotted a group of civil officers huddled together in debriefing. He headed towards them, and as he drew closer he saw that they were all reporting to an officer at the group’s centre. Two chevrons on his epaulette were all that differentiated him from the others.

Officer, Nathaniel asked, interrupting the group’s conversation, who’s in charge here?

The man looked up in surprise. His eyes darted across to Nathaniel’s shoulder, his eyes widening as he saw Nathaniel’s three chevrons. He threw up a hasty salute.

Thank God, he said. Officer Greaves reporting in, Sir.

Reporting in? Nathaniel asked. Where is your commanding officer?

Missing, Sir, Greaves replied.

What about the Commissioner? Nathaniel asked. And the Chief Inspectors?

The man gulped. He glanced up in the direction of the Ecumenical Centre.

Also missing, Sir, he replied. Since it began, I’ve been the ranking officer on site.

Nathaniel looked in dismay at the destroyed face of the building. The explosion had charred the walls black and shattered every window. The front doors, having been thrown from their usual resting place, lay somewhere amongst the rubble. The high balcony, which had served as the place of inauguration of every great High Priest in over a century, as well as the place of every great pronouncement, was all that had survived unscathed.

The High Council? he asked. The Church Guard?

We’ve found no survivors, Sir.

Then who’s in charge of the rescue effort?

Brother Joshua, he replied, gesturing over Nathaniel’s shoulder.

Nathaniel turned, and saw to his surprise that the doors to Joshua’s chapel were open. Indirect light from the truck-borne spotlights painted the familiar stone walls a pale grey. Dark cracks ran over them. Shards were all that remained of the many windows. Carvings had fallen from high upon the walls, lost among the girdle of rubble that now encircled the building.

People were busily going in and coming out through the open doors.

"Thank God," he thought.

He made for it at once.

Wait! Greaves called. What should I—?

As you were, Officer. Nathaniel called over his shoulder.

As he approached the doors to Joshua’s chapel, a booming voice could be heard issuing forth. Small orange lights were visible through the doorway, shifting about like leaves dancing in the breeze.

He entered, and the voice grew louder until it drowned out every other sound:

... thousands more still unaccounted for. The full extent of the damage to our foundations and the sub-strata is still being assessed, but there remains little doubt that it will be devastating beyond belief.

Still struggling to distinguish the source of the voice from amongst the field of lights, Nathaniel nonetheless recognized it as belonging to Joshua. The voice continued:

The Ecumenical Centre, which was at the epicentre of the tremor, lies in ruins. Many of our leaders were inside when the disaster occurred. The entire Council, including the High Priest himself, is still missing. Though the search continues, at this point the worst is feared.

It was a cold and grim assessment of the event Nathaniel had witnessed. His eyes began to adjust. He could make out the archway where the vestibule—the chapel’s wide entryway in which he now stood—gave way to the tall ceiling of the nave. The lights were candles, held by the multitudes of people that were packed into the vestibule and amongst the pews and the central walkway of the nave.

Nathaniel squinted along the walkway, still struggling to see the source of the voice.

We should take some solace from the fact that the devastation was largely restricted to the Centre itself, minimizing the potentially far greater destruction and loss of life. The loss to our faith, however, may turn out to be much greater. As well as the Council, we have lost our most sacred Symbol: the statue of the Prophet, the Redeemer, which has watched over us our entire lives. Our divine connection has been severed. God’s Breath no longer flows into the city.

At last, Nathaniel caught sight of the small figure of Brother Joshua, standing behind the pulpit in the furthest recesses of the dim space. Joshua was only his first name, of course; the more appropriate title would be Brother Nolan, referring to his Family Name, but Joshua would never hear of it. It was one of a number of aspects that made him seem more genuine and approachable than most of the clergy.

The desire to assign blame, Joshua continued, and to call for retaliation, will be strong; but such thoughts will only work against us. Even now, chaos threatens to overtake the city. I have already received reports of mobs storming the streets, searching for scapegoats. Terrible deeds are being committed in the pursuit of vengeance. Fear grips us; panic threatens to unravel the fabric of our society. We are all afraid, but the tragedy is behind us. The threat is no longer present. Anger is prevalent, but where should our anger be directed? Where are these villains? And finding them, shall we crucify them before the eyes of God? An evil action can only beget a greater evil. Nothing will change what has happened. Everything we hold dear has been lost; this fact must be faced. A darkness settles upon us, and it is now, at this very moment, that we must find the courage to choose our own path, to choose carefully how we are to respond. It is a time for mourning, and it is a time for calm reason. The Statue will never stand again as it was. Though a new statue could be built in its place, the heart of our city will remain cold and lifeless. Though passion and faith may spur us on, the abundant source of energy that sustained us is gone. Without God’s Breath, our way of life can no longer be sustained.

He paused, and Nathaniel became aware of the strength of the crowd’s silence as the people hung on every word.

Are we guilty of taking that blessing for granted? Around our necks, we all bear the Symbol of our faith, but do we bear it blindly? We believe that the Symbol protects us from evil, but it hasn’t protected us from ourselves. In our science, we have become isolated. In our vanity, we have become careless. If we are to rise above this disaster, we must first look clearly at the cause. We must reflect deeply. There are many things which we must question. Truths have been denied us; secrets have been kept, even by the very people trusted to protect us. The reality of our place in this world has been concealed and manipulated for reasons which defy the very essence of humanity. Now it is time for these truths to resurface.

Nathaniel listened intently, but he struggled to see the point Joshua was trying to make. Joshua’s sermons often began strangely, with their true meaning becoming clear in due time. Certain that this was the case, Nathaniel listened on.

Long have we been separated from our roots, Joshua continued, and in that time they have become something foreign and unfamiliar. Before word of the Prophet came to this city, this chapel already stood, not as a house of the Prophet but nonetheless as a place of worship. The former inhabitants worshipped the natural world that surrounded them, plants and trees alike, and the skies that watched over them: the sun and the moon, the wind and the rain. When God’s Truth arrived here they abandoned their ways, and to this event we owe the greatness of our history, but in spite of their misled beliefs they had a great respect for the world. In our hearts, can we not, too, find a place to respect the world as our ancestors did? If we forgive them their ignorance, then perhaps we can allow ourselves to see that not all of their ways were wicked. After all, aren’t the sun and the rain, the moon and the stars, all God’s creations? Our ancestors paid them great respect, but we who consider ourselves faithful have all but forgotten them. We declare our faith aloud, but our minds are occupied by things of our own creation. We spare no thought to the things which existed here before.

He paused again, but this time the sound of whispers overtook the silence, whispers of concern and confusion.

Our air has become stale, he continued, but, rather than addressing the cause of this, we have simply built machines to recycle it. Now, our air is artificial, fake, here where God’s Breath was so strong. Perhaps the Aether has been taken away to encourage us to return to the real Earth, the Earth that God made for us, and breathe real air. I have breathed this air. It’s alive; it’s something marvellous and beautiful. Our people once breathed the air of the forest, once ate the food it provided. We are self-sufficient here, sealed away in a prison of our own design, and yet our lives have become stagnant. We thought we had achieved a balance, but we’ve forgotten that as living beings we are a part of the wider world. We must return to that world. In isolation, we can no longer possibly hope to exist.

Nathaniel found himself imagining the scene Joshua was describing, and it felt like a place of hope, far from the tragedy they now faced; but a part of him felt an inexplicable discomfort about the direction the speech seemed to be headed.

Dark times are ahead. We must be strong. We must be calm. Giving in to fear and panic will ruin us. Terrible things have happened, but these things are only the beginning. There can be no escape from the storm that is brewing on our horizon. The city will sustain us no longer. The Aether has left us and it may never return. We have suffered a great loss, but we must not lose faith. Our churches still stand, our rituals still reassure us, the Book will still guide us, but if we peel away the layers of our faith, if we lay these things aside, where will that lead us? At the end of our journey, nothing will remain but our relationship with God. With no one to lead us, we can only hope to guess what it is that God wishes of us. With no other options left to us, we must turn to alternatives previously inconceivable. Humility is our only hope. If we are to survive, we must turn to the wild, not as conquerors, but as refugees. We must tread in the steps of the Prophet; we must find the forests that once sheltered us; and we must start a new life, build a new home, alongside the peoples of the wild.

The final words echoed briefly, before a deep silence settled in. The priest shuffled slowly off to the side, disappearing from view, and the silence began to fill with soft chatter. The general tone was not one of agreement—Nathaniel heard many murmurings of discontent as he tried to push his way towards the pulpit. He hardly disagreed with them.

He found the priest to the side of the nave, near the door to the church office, listening to reports of the continuing search for survivors and issuing orders. A long scratch ran down the side of his face. His grey hair was ruffled. His robes were torn and covered with dust. Grey bags hung under his eyes and deep frown-lines crossed his forehead.

He looked up just as Nathaniel came to stand before him. The stern face broke, as a wave of recognition turned it to a warmer shade.

Nathan! the priest exclaimed, Are you alright? Were you anywhere near the Centre?

It was disarming, the way Joshua would seem to be personally concerned with everyone around him. Nobody was unworthy of his attention. Many priests of Joshua’s renown were too busy to talk with the laity, but Joshua had made his life about doing everything he could for as many people as possible. Even despite all of Joshua’s public projects, and his regular and enlightening sermons, the priest still somehow made the time for their long and in-depth conversations. This always made Nathaniel feel privileged. He never felt unwelcome, nor did he ever feel as though he were intruding on the priest’s time. Joshua didn’t just devote himself to being compassionate, compassion was his nature; and this was exactly how Nathaniel felt now, as the priest seemed to forget everything else to focus simply on him.

I’m fine, Nathaniel replied, more concerned about the wellbeing of the priest and looking at the scar on his face. What happened to you?

At this the priest’s smile faltered, the face taking on a more sombre appearance. He looked down, remembering.

I was… inside the Centre when it happened. I have yet to understand why I was spared.

The old eyes gazed into the distance for a moment longer, before turning back towards Nathaniel. The priest’s expression became one of a subtle realization.

But something does trouble you. Are you certain you were not injured?

For a moment Nathaniel hesitated, calculating how best to deliver the news. He cast an untrusting glance at the people who surrounded the priest, then leaned in close and quietly replied, Maybe we should speak in private.

The priest nodded slowly, seeming to understand.

We can speak in the antechamber.

Joshua issued some final orders, before taking Nathaniel into his office and closing the door behind them.

Nathaniel glanced around to make sure it was secure. The simple space consisted of a floor-to-ceiling built-in cupboard; a free-standing filing cabinet; a small though heavily burdened bookshelf; and a humble oak desk littered with sheets of paper that were guarded by a round brass paperweight.

The door clicked shut, dulling the noise outside to near silence. Joshua took hold of a stainless-steel bolt just above the door handle and slid it sideways, locking the door. He looked up at Nathaniel through his gold-rimmed spectacles, concern evident on his face.

Now, what troubles you? he asked.

In an instant, Nathaniel’s fears overcame him and he forgot why he was there.

Abandon our home? Beg the heathens for help? Live in the wild? Tell me you’re not serious, Joshua.

A look of relief appeared on Joshua’s face as he thought he realized why Nathaniel had wanted to speak to him. He looked upon Nathaniel as an understanding teacher would look at an argumentative pupil.

I take it you disagree with my proposal. The people of the wild are not to be feared. I have walked amongst them, welcomed. There are some beautiful peoples beyond the walls of the city.

I’ve met them too, Joshua. We offered to help them and they spat in our faces. Beautiful is hardly the word I’d use to describe them. And what about the ones responsible for this? God knows what they’re up to now.

The old man listened intently. When Nathaniel finished, he seemed to weigh his words. At last an understanding smile crossed his face. He walked slowly around to the other side of his desk, talking as he did so.

It is not our place to punish others on God’s behalf. We should be humbled by what has happened, and trust to God’s plan. People will want justice, and that’s understandable, but justice won’t serve us. We’ll all need to change. I’ve begun to realize that many things I used to believe aren’t as clear and certain as I once thought, and other things simply aren’t true at all. I’ve come to suspect that, in the search for truth, nothing is more important than doubt.

Having come to stand at