Shifting perspectives pt. 1

Screw the gods. They bleed us dry, literally and figuratively, all in the name of protection. These are my thoughts as I crouch in the alley, waiting for the dust to settle from the monk's passing. They've been around since long before I was born, but they always give me the creeps. The thick black robes, the hyper, twitchy movements, the crackling, distorted voices leaking from the folds of their hood. 

I heard the church used to help people. Used to feed the hungry, take care of the homeless. I don't put any stock in those stories, though. Nostalgia makes everything seem better, so my mom always said. Besides, those were the old gods, those big invisible eyes in the sky, promising damnation or salvation in the next life. Story goes, humans used to be clergy, and no one ever even saw the gods. That's probably just another fairy tail though, they're always too good to be true. Never see the gods? Sign me up!

But then the new gods came, and everything went to hell, including, presumably, the old gods. 

Not that these gods even teach a hell. I think that was the old gods schtick. The new gods are a bit more... tactile in their dogma. Obey their laws, pay your taxes, accept the sacrifices, and you have a small chance to be less than miserable before you eventually die. Fail to follow the rules, and death was not so eventual. Or they put you in the mines. Personally, I'd prefer the death route. 

I check my watch. I've got thirty minutes until mass, just enough time to grab a falafel for dinner. I'd gotten lucky, my boss gave us bonuses after we met a deadline at the mill. Of course, taxes will eat it right up, but for now, I'm hungry. 

I finish my dinner as I round the corner to the temple. Tossing my wrapper on the ground, I join the line of worshippers. I nod to a few people I recognize, but we say nothing. You do not talk at temple. The line moves slowly into the gargantuan stone building. It is a confusing hodge podge of architectural styles, with graceful white marble arches suspending a gigantic black granite cube above our heads. I always wondered if that was a metaphor, or a thinly veiled threat. Maybe the gods just have poor taste. 

The monks check us in, scanning retinas as we file into the great hall. I shiver as I pass them, their red eyes staring unblinkingly at everything. Acolytes, with their black metal masks and white robes, wait in the great hall, a vast empty granite floor, wordlessly directing us to where we are to stand and wait for the faith exercise. We stand for a few minutes while the last of the worshippers check in, then watch as a priest walks through the archway at the end of the hall. He is dressed in the attire of all priests, a glittering golden robe trimmed in black velvet. His mask is brightly polished silver, with holes for his mouth and nose, but none for his eyes. "Welcome, children, to the nightly worship. Seat yourselves in faith." 

Everyone in the hall leans back at once, falling backwards at the stone floor. The acolytes kneel and touch the granite at the end of each row of worshippers. In the split second we fall, the floor ripples and leaps to meet our bodies. Before our weight can come to bear, our rears are resting on wooden pews. The gods sure do like to show off. Still it is pretty incredible, even as many times as I have seen it. 

The priest walks toward the center of the room, the stone molding itself into a golden staircase beneath his feet, lifting him up to address the crowd. 

He lectures in a booming voice about the importance of obedience and faith, blah, blah, blah. You hear enough of it, and it ceases to make an impact. I just zone and try to look fervent. The law says we have to show, doesn't say we have to care, but acting a little never hurts. 

At the end of service we file out back into the street. Four hours til curfew. I look up in surprise. I can actually see the moon tonight! I'm just going home, but a night this nice calls for a walk.