The Church of the Great Father

I looked into the eyes of a man who was condemned to die. He stared back at me, eyes cold. His face did not betray regret, defiance or anger. He looked as though he had died already.

“We can’t do this.” I said to Father Alton, “The Church of the Great Father will hear of this, and they will retaliate.”

The red cloaks of the sentenced men flapped in the thin evening breeze as they stood atop a hastily constructed wooden stage. Nooses were tied tightly around their necks, their hands were bound behind their backs. Not one spoke or moved.

“These men are criminals.” Father Alton responded. “This is their punishment, as decreed by the laws of the kingdom.”

One of the condemned men cried out when he heard that. His companion kicked him roughly. His cry died in the heavy air. Dark clouds circled overhead, threatening to burst at any moment.

“One man died. A tragedy, yes, but witnesses say that he was the one to provoke the fight.” Ser Erik pleaded, “Their church will claim that this is injustice. The Order is still reforming. We cannot risk holy war. Charge them for manslaughter, imprison them, condemn them for their crimes, but please, spare their lives.”

“That would not be justice!” Father Alton spat, his voice rising, “They murdered one of our priests in full view of my church! I don’t care who provoked whom. These men could have chosen to stop beating him at any time. That is willful murder, an attack against the Order, and justice must be carried out.”

“Think!” Shouted Ser Erik, “You condemn our Order to war!”

“I have made my decision,” said Father Alton, “just as these men made theirs. My voice is the final to rule on this matter. I sentence them to die.”

“So be it.” Said Ser Erik. He climbed up onto the stage. I turned away.

Word spread quickly. The bodies hanging in the town square made sure of that. By the end of the next day, lines had formed on opposite sides of the square. Red-cloaked figures pooled in from the west, more arriving with every hour. Every missionary of the Great Father in western Folona seemed to have been summoned to gawk at the injustice of our actions. I grimaced.

Priests and followers of the Order of the Golden Sun had gathered too, and formed in the opposite corner of the square. They’d started appearing shortly after the red-cloaked missionaries had gathered, supposedly for the protection of Father Alton. Some part of me doubted that. Figures on both sides brandished clubs. Suspicious looks were thrown across the courtyard. Murmurs grew from within huddles of protestors.

“I don’t like the looks of this.” I said.

Atlas nodded in agreement, “It doesn’t take a prophet to see that this can’t end well. We’d better step inside and wait for the storm to blow over.”

I shook my head. “No. We need to put a stop to this. I’m done with war, I’m done with death. We need to find a way to do this peacefully.”

Atlas laughed dryly. “Those are Lynessa’s words, not yours. Think rationally, Dale. There’s only one way this can end.”

One of the red-robed figures had made his way to where the condemned men still hung. A member of the Order went out to meet him. They appeared to be arguing. The follower of the Great Father wanted to remove his companion to give him a proper burial, the follower of the Order wanted him to be seen and recognized for his crime. Their argument got heated, quickly. The two men came within inches of throwing punches. After several tense moments the red-robed figure gave up and retreated back to his line of protesters. I let out a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, a rock sailed through the air across the courtyard. I couldn’t see who threw it, but it came from the side of the red-robed priests. It hit a glaring man clad in the white robes of the Order square in the forehead. He shouted.

In the span of a few seconds, all hell broke loose. Both sides rushed into the center of the courtyard. More rocks flew. Clubs were swung. The men crashed together like waves in a stormy sea, surging into one another before becoming a single, raging tide.

Thunder rumbled, and rain poured from the heavens.

“Stop!” I shouted, plunging into the sea of vengeful faces. “By the grace of your gods, stop! Can’t you see what you’re doing? The destruction you’ll bring on both of your churches?”

They did not hear. How could they? The storm in the sky and the storm in their heads drowned out my words, leaving the only sounds the raging wind and screaming men. Blood flew as faces were smashed open by clubs, cut open by rocks. It streamed from the face of a white-robed priest as he screamed, hastened by the thick drops of rain that poured down from above. A man smashed a rock into my face and I stumbled backwards, slipping on the wet cobblestones and tumbling to the ground.

Nobody seemed to notice as I struggled to find my feet. I was kicked as I rose to my knees, forced back down to the ground. Feet trampled over me, kicking, shoving, pressing me into the earth, ignored in their rage. The heel of a boot crunched onto my fingers.

I gave up on trying to stand. I crawled, dragging my chest through the mud, dodging men as they fell and were swarmed. A knee collided with my head, causing my vision to swim. Somehow, I managed to clear the mob. Atlas grabbed the back of my shirt in his teeth and pulled me away.

“My vision grows dark.” He growled.

I nodded. My vision blurred, the corners of my mind filling with darkness. I blinked once, twice. On the third, the darkness consumed my vision.

When I woke, it was late in the morning. The courtyard was in ruins. The stage had been torn down, the men that had once hung there pushed into the ground and trampled to such a degree that it was hard to recognize that they were once men. Other bodies filled the courtyard. Robed men, their heads dashed or their necks snapped, lying motionless in horrid, unnatural positions. I stared down at them, trying my best to sort them into their sides. It was no good, the rain and mud had stained all of their cloaks a muddled brown.

Father Alton stood in the door to his church, staring out over the courtyard. He seemed not to see me as I approached. Water glistened in the corners of his deep-set eyes.

“Was it worth it?” I asked, “Is this the justice you wanted?”

He sighed, his voice betraying a deeply hidden hatred.

“It is a crime against the heavens that righteous men should suffer.” He said, “We punished those men in accordance with the king’s law and the Church of the Great Father attacked us for it. They have proven that they are beyond honor, that they stand in the way of all that is righteous.”

“So you endorse the actions of your fellows? You want to bring war to your followers?”

Father Alton nodded slowly. “If they refuse to respect our solidarity, if they continue to preach their blasphemy, there can be no peace. War is the only way.”

“I thought a man left behind his past when he dons the robes of a priest.” I said. Father Alton did not respond.

I pointed out to the courtyard, to the countless corpses drenched in mud.

“Will you see them when you lie down to sleep tonight?” I asked.

“I won’t sleep.” He responded, “I haven’t been able to for decades.”

He turned away from me and walked into the church, its heavy wooden doors slamming behind him. A single drop of water fell from the gables of the roof and plunked down to the ground, mixing into the mud that was smeared across the cobblestones. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was not yet over.