The Temple
Page 8
“I thought there was only one God,” Sycko said slowly.
“Why yes, certainly. There is God our Lord and there is Diana the moon who is one with the Lord. Are not your parents a father and a mother and yet they are one?”
Sycko looked nonplussed. “So why are you making a statue of her?”
“This statue will take a place of honour in the grand hall. What we need is a hollow statue made of a porous material such as plaster. Our icon must be glazed or painted with some sort of impermeable coating. If the statue is then filled up with a liquid, which we can do surreptitiously, through this tiny hole in the head, the porous material will absorb it, but the glazing will stop it from flowing out. If the glazing, however, is imperceptibly scratched away on or around the eyes, tear-like drops will leak out, as if materializing from thin air.”
“I don’t really understand. Why do you want to do this?”
“Well it’s obvious really. I will fill a red liquid into the cavity and when our Diana is in the grand hall and people come to worship they will discover Diana crying tears of blood. It will be miraculous.”
Sycko looked shocked. “But isn’t that a fraud?”
“A fraud? A fraud you say! Nay, but I don’t know what to say. If it were not you saying such an outrageous thing I would demand you leave this holy place at once.”
“I’m sorry…” Sycko stuttered.
“And sorry you ought to be. Oh God almighty give me the strength to be patient. A fraud he says. Of course this is not a fraud. A fraud is when someone deceives, cheats, cozens, tries to make people believe something that is not true in order to derive some sort of gain. We are not making people believe something that isn’t true. What we are doing is technically known as a pious fraud, but that is something altogether different from a base deception. We are simply helping them to become stronger in their beliefs. We are helping them to have confidence in the power and might of the Lord. And is there anything wrong in helping people? Is there, I ask you?”
“No, of course not, Master Jeremiah.”
“There you go, my young friend. You must learn to think before you speak rashly. A rashly spoken word may haunt you for a long time and it is impossible to make unsaid.”
Sycko was crestfallen. “I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you in any way. I just didn’t understand.”
“Now, now, my young friend, it is just another lesson learnt and I do hope you have learnt it well. Now cast aside that woebegone expression on your face and be of good cheer again. Here, take my hand and let’s shake on friendship.”
A few days later Jeremiah and Sycko put up a little shrine at one end of the great hall. Unlike the hall, which was all in black and white, the shrine was painted in garish colours and caught anyone’s eye who came in. The shrine stood a head taller than Sycko. It had glass on the front and sides, and at its heart was the statue of Diana. To be accurate, it wasn’t a statue of the whole goddess. Only her head and shoulders were there, more like a bust than a statue, but Jeremiah liked to call her a statue. There was a gentle smile on her rubicund lips, her eyes were light brown and on her forehead was a crescent moon that contrasted with her dark hair.
News of the goddess spread quickly and soon a steady stream of Dryvellers visited the new attraction. None of the Dryvellers had heard of Diana before and it fell to Sycko to explain her significance in Dryvellism. For reasons Sycko didn’t understand Jeremiah seemed reluctant to face the visitors and talk about Diana. He had made some vague excuses and asked Sycko to stand in. Sycko wasn’t very keen on the idea of standing near Diana all day and repeating the same thing over and over again, not least because it gave him the feeling of being at work again, but Jeremiah allowed him to smoke and sit so he agreed. After repeating the story about Diana for the hundredth time it had become part of himself and he would have been hard put to remember a time when the Goddess Diana had not played an important part in his life.
A fortnight went by and the congregation were getting used to the new addition in their temple. Jeremiah had cleverly incorporated Diana into the weekly service on Mondays and if the truth be said most Dryvellers were happy to see a bit of colour in the grand though rather austere hall.
Then, one day it happened. A group of Dryvellers had come to pay their respects to the Goddess of the moon when a woman suddenly screamed.
“Her eyes! Look at her eyes! She is crying!”
For a moment there was silence as everyone looked. Then everyone talked at the same time. There was a call for Master Jeremiah to come or rather everyone was clamouring for him to come.
When Jeremiah came and was told about the weeping statue he was horrified. “Tears of blood,” he cried, and indeed the tears that slowly ran down her cheeks were a deep red colour. “Tears of blood,” he repeated. “An ill omen. Alack, what evil has befallen us if even the Goddess Diana is crying tears of blood. It is a miracle but I wish it wasn’t so. How can this be, I ask you?”
He looked around but no one answered him.
“I know why,” he said. “It is because of the haters. Have we not heard how Dryvellers are persecuted in countries such as Syldavia? Has not our own community here been the victim of a vicious hate crime? Dryvellophobia is all around us and now see what things have come to. Even the Goddess herself is wounded in her heart. Alas, alas, that I should live to see this day.” At this he bent his head and covered his face with his hands. The people around him heard sobbing sounds. Sycko took a frail looking Master Jeremiah back to his room where he lay down and the visitors to the temple left in a hurry to tell others about what had happened.
It wasn’t long till a steady stream of visitors came to see the weeping Diana. Then pilgrims started arriving and as the days went by the steady stream had turned into huge crowds. They came and they came and the inconsolable Diana kept weeping. The crowds attracted some reporters and then TV crews arrived to film the miracle. The temple had made it onto the evening news.
There was a collection box at the entrance that visitors had to pass to enter the temple. Another box stood beside the weeping Diana, and yet another collection box was on the way out next to a souvenir stand where images of the Goddess, little trinkets, postcards and the like could be purchased.
And yet, whenever Jeremiah appeared in public he wore a mournful expression on his face. He shook hands with some visitors and lamented the terrible omen that was occurring due to Dryvellophobia and the hatred that his community faced. “Support us in our hour of need,” he kept repeating. “We need your help if we are to survive as a community in this country.” And more often than not visitors donated generously and gave all the help and support that Jeremiah wanted.
In the evenings Jeremiah now preferred to be alone. He didn’t seek out the company of any of the brethren any more as he was wont to. Instead he locked himself in his study and worked. That is, to be precise, he emptied the collection boxes and counted the money. When he was alone he looked far from unhappy. Quite the contrary! His eyes shone with glee and he enjoyed every moment.
But if there was one thing Master Jeremiah had forgotten it was that all things must come to an end. He was so preoccupied with the success of his miracle that he didn’t consider there might be people who would not accept it at face value. One such person was Judas. One day he mingled with the crowds and managed to conceal a tiny spy camera in the shrine that was fitted with remote access. Every night when the temple closed its doors to the crowds Judas sat at home and whatever he was doing he was always careful to keep an eye on the screen where he could see Diana in her shrine.
Late one night he saw the side window of the shrine being opened. Judas started recording. A syringe with a needle appeared in the picture. Then a hand scratched off something on Diana’s head, inserted the needle and slowly injected a red liquid. The syringe was removed, the opening in the head filled in and the side window was closed again. All that Judas caught on camera.
First thing next morning Judas contacted t
he media and offered his film for sale to the highest bidder. “If that scoundrel Jeremiah made so much from a fraud, why shouldn’t I profit a little too?” he said to himself. A purchaser was soon found and the recording changed hands in return for a nice little sum. A private TV station had made the scoop of the year and soon Jeremiah’s shame was all over the news. That day the temple doors stayed closed.
The day after the temple was besieged by dozens of TV crews and journalists. They didn’t have to wait long. Jeremiah had breakfast in silence. No one dared breach the topic with him. Everyone looked at their plates as though crockery had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. At last Jeremiah put his knife down with a loud clang that made everyone jump. “Ha,” he said. So the haters think they’re going to win. Not with me, dear brethren, not with me.” He stood up and walked to the temple’s main entrance to face the media. He stepped outside and was assailed by a tempest of flashes and questions. He held up his hand and waited. The reporters quickly became quiet.
“A fraud has been committed,” Jeremiah said. “A most shameful and terrible fraud. Terrible allegations have been made against our community that are completely untrue.”
“Do you deny injecting a red liquid into the statue?” a reporter shouted.
“Do I deny it? Why of course it isn’t true. The Goddess Diana is guarded day and night by temple staff. No one could possibly inject anything into her. It is an accusation that is as preposterous as it is insulting and hate filled. The only fraud that has been committed is against you. Whoever gave you that short film must also be the person who injected a liquid into a copy of our statue. It is an outrage. How could you show such a scandalous and defamatory film to the public without giving us the opportunity to respond and to tell the truth in this matter? This film is just the latest in a series of hate crimes committed against our community. I am appalled that the media would lend itself to hate propaganda against an innocent and peaceful religious community. Dryvellophobia is despicable but unfortunately on the rise and a blight on our society. The shame, I tell you! Is it not enough that people have come into our temple threatening to spit at me? Is it not enough that hate propaganda is posted to our walls? Do people now have to be incited to hatred against us by the entire nation’s media? Why should we face persecution here? Have we not as much a right to live in peace as anyone else? Please don’t give haters a platform to spew out their poisonous messages. Yes, I say poisonous because this sort of propaganda is designed to be divisive. We must not allow such things. We must stick together as a community and we will overcome the hatred. Thank you.”
Before any of the surprised reporters had time to ask another question Jeremiah was back in the temple with the main door firmly shut.
Later that day, when the throngs of reporters had left, the temple opened its doors to visitors again. The grand hall looked eerily empty without the huge crowds they had all grown accustomed to, but after a day or two occasional visitors became a steady stream again. Master Jeremiah lost no opportunity to rail against Dryvellophobia, against haters, and against hate crimes committed against the temple. In time the film showing how someone injected a red liquid into Diana became forgotten. What people really remembered was that the Dryvellers, the temple and indeed Dryvellism itself were the victims of hate crimes and persecution. What exactly these were even the members of the temple would have been hard pressed to say but oddly enough no one seemed to enquire.
The Discalceation Ceremony
No one is free,
who is not master of himself.
Pythagoras