Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

Confession

Thursday, 2 Elul, 5693

He leaned against the window frame and looked out over the serene town of merciful care and Kingsmen expression. Ever since the time that he had first arrived in Bethel, he had been amazed by the genuinely good spirit and loveliness of the area. There was a tranquility there in the bright sun, gentle breeze, and rolling hills of the Garman countryside which one could scarcely hope to rediscover anywhere else, especially in light of current events. Yet there was something about the way in which the dust had settled on the sun scorched streets that day that bothered him.

His business there had begun at a meeting of the League of Young Reformers on the day after the elections were held and their overwhelming defeat had been handed down to them with a smile by the country's Great Leader and his happy team of Associates.

Fidel had all but taken over control of the meeting from Yakovi as he slammed his hands down on the table at the front and, spreading his palms forcibly upon it, looked out over the room of scattered men and said, "Gentlemen, we'll have to change our tactics. There's no more politics now; the power structure has already been decided. What's left for us is the matter of truth, and so we must define it. We need a declaration of faith, something so fundamental that it will force them to come to a decision — publicly! — and if they accept it, we may well have saved the church, and if not... may God help the people of Garma."

Since that day, he and a small group of other delegates had been selected to travel there to Bethel and, under Bealer's guiding hand and supervision, construct a document by which the group might put their confessions in writing. Francis, however, did not share in the optimistic outlook which Fidel had expressed, that hope which was being clung to by so many of his companions, that this confession of theirs would truly bring the Garman Kingsmen to a point of honest decision. In his mind, even written assurances and promises of peace meant nothing on account of all of the political pressure which the church was under at that time. It would get worse, he knew, as time went on, and so the assurances which they might secure that day would be void of meaning by the next light of morning.

Of course, none of this meant that he would offer anything less than his best work on the project, which must leave a stark and unshakable impression if it was to do the good work for which it had been chosen, and in fact, the delegation had dedicated the past month of their lives to that very cause. They had been there then so long that Francis's thoughts had begun to turn towards home and other things, a family celebration of his grandma's birthday in their woodland cabin and the last loose ends of professional life which he had begun to tie up in light of his eventual departure. Inglegrad, it seemed, was much nearer and much farther from Garma than it had ever been.

He had wished to return home already by that time, to have been able to go and enjoy his family for a week before he would have to concern himself with the packing of his things and thoughts of moving to a foreign nation; but none of that would be possible until they finished the confession, and he certainly couldn't leave early. However, much to his relief, it seemed that all were under the impression that they had at last finished a draft that was both up to their standards and worth circulating amongst the "experts" to whom Bealer wished to send it. Francis cringed at the thought of this revision process every time it was mentioned or slunk its way into his mind; no less than seventy persons would get their hands on it, and each of them would want this or that. His only prayer was that it wouldn't end up so watered down that it wasn't of any use after all of the work that the few of them had poured out into it.

"And that, gentlemen, is it!" declared the happy man at the typewriter with a final, decisive tap of a key. "We're finished!"

He peeled the pages of the final draft up off of the typewriter and kissed the paper, newly painted with crisp, black lettering. An overly emphasized smooch resounded throughout the room, and the other men laughed as they all clapped their hands in agreement, all but Francis. Francis, who stood at the window, looking out into the dust-filled streets and wondering what kind of holy vengeance would befall a people who presumed to relieve themselves of the sick among them, rather than to treat them with such compassionate care as could be found within that little town, so aptly named. But a small smile spread across his weary face when he heard that it was finished; there was a blessed release to those words, after all.

"Francis, you'll take a copy, won't you?" the man asked, addressing his distant friend. "You should be especially proud of points one and three; you worked wonders with them!"

Francis turned away from the window, and addressed the others with a grin. "Congratulations, gentlemen," he said, making special effort to set his cares aside and join in the celebration. "We've done it! We have successfully created a document which states with surety the claim of the King upon his people and the Holy Books upon our doctrine and understanding. There will be no more compromise with evil. We will have defined clearly the separation which is taking place within the Kingsmen body, and that is, at its root, whether we are first to be Garmans or Kingsmen. Once the matter is confused, we have lost; so, this... is a very special document." He paused, looking around the room at all of the men with their beaming faces, and smiled gratefully at them before adding his final declaration, "And I am going home."