Resurrection

Chapter 36 : In the Eyes of the Maker

My vision may have been that of a prophet, or the metaphysical version. In spite of my initial fears as to the vision that had transpired during my acid trip, I was more than determined to forge ahead with my plans. I would hope that the gods were watching these events. I would also ask to no longer be a stranger in the eyes of the maker, but rather be welcomed through my hard work, as though to endure this torture would all seem worth it as I stood up high in the eyes of these ignorant well-wishers in our fantastic rebellion.

Now that I was one of the chosen people and in Father Brian's good graces, I started to embrace my new role within this congregation of cultists. Through repeated exposure, I was starting to mute the various hymns, incantations of the lord's prayer and latin phrasing and the pain lulled. Admittedly I still needed painkillers and discreet earplugs during church sermons. When asked I merely would recall the odd bout of acute tinnitus and other noise complaints. I was working my way up, helping serve the congregations and volunteering at all extra community outings. I went to all of their gatherings: progressive dinners, bible readings (these were the worst), fundraiser barbecues and days at the shooting range. For these people were not your typical religious group, more or less bordering on a militia group through their extra-curricular activities. This brother Abraham of theirs was truly someone special. During each social gathering, I applied my mind's eye and absorbed every attention to their human detail, cold canvassing and asking a number of leading questions. It's amazing what truths will leap out of people's mouths when properly charmed. During my time of primeval sleuthing, I was becoming very familiar to both the Father and his wife.

Father Brian's wife Beverley was an interesting contrast, she had aged like Dianne Keaton or Meryl Streep, opting to allow naturalisation of the subtle wrinkle lines as opposed to adopting a bevy of botox injections. She was almost a trophy wife in the scheme of things, and another cog in the works of my grand design. I employed all manner of charm to her as well as the Father to the point that they had adopted me to their inner circle. Her eyes betrayed a flash of excitement and the temptation to more adulterous liaisons, however the granite wall of her resolve and betrothal to Brian would immediately raise its drawbridge the minute our conversation steered into more flirtatious waters.

It was during the aftermath of one of Brian's sermons , as I was helping stack new bibles that she invited me along privately to another one of their light suppers.

"Abraham?" She enquired.

"Yes kind madam." I replied.

"Please just call me Beverley. You make me sound so ancient when you address me in such a way."

She sighed.

"But that's only because you are a precious antique, just like this church" joked Father Brian.

"That is hardly a compliment my dear ancient husband." She remarked.

I couldn't help but interject:

"I disagree." Each of them turned toward me.

"Why the Father here has that Cary Grant charm and you madam cut a figure of both beauty and virtue. I'm sure you're both still subjects of a greater envy." I said.

"Well he is definitely charming. That settles it Brian. Here we have a young bachelor that is most undoubtedly hungry and in need of our southern hospitality." Beverley exclaimed.

"Are you sure Beverley? Last time I needed to be wheel-barrowed out from all that fine southern cuisine." I replied.

The father noticed the interplay between us and stared at me in earnest. I originally placed this as a hint of jealousy but his stare continued to bore into me. Had the angel on his shoulder finally danced with my devil? Could the faded code of cells fresh from this primitive reptilian brain share some revelation with his conscious mind? I wasn't sure. This was something I had to confirm as soon as possible.