Of Temples and Storms

The temple is half again as old as humanity, some say even older. Most of us come here in secret, often just dropping off supplies for the others. Our existence here is another secret: we rotate between being here and out in the world. Here, we are – we have no words for it. Not safe. Never secure. But this is the temple, and here we speak His name. The world outside the temple is empty. Shattered. The sky is indifferent colours, the sun a suggestion. It is cold here, and there is nothing else alive. There is wind and water, but it is not the wind and water of other worlds. The temple is the only ruin that still stands, because we have kept it going.

Sometimes, daring, we pray.

I do not know what I am hoping for. I don’t think any of us know. I just know I’m happy to be stopped before I leave, to be told the rotation has changed. Tumal is in seclusion. I am not told why. I park my shuttle, unload supplies. A few locations have changed, and I am told about them. We don’t connect to System here. There are too many who would destroy this place if they found it. Not being connected is the hardest thing to learn. To let go of everything else in the wider universe.

To trust each other. The temple teaches us that. To trust, to wait, to be calm. A storm rages across the surface as I finish unpacking – I am always prepared to, though this has seldom happened. A week, an extra month: I have no idea how long I will be at the temple this time. But here I can utter prayers aloud. Trade stories with others. We talk over the storms. They are sudden, ferocious and gone as quickly as they rise. Without them the world would, perhaps, have been terraformed again but terraforming equipment is destroyed. It takes skill and faith to land here, but I have both.

I talk to a few others, and then I wander. I like to wander for my first day or so back. The temple is old and vast, and getting lost is so rare in other places. No one connected to System can get lost. We have maps here, but the grounds are old and shift often. I keep my biosuit on minimal levels, and have two spares on me. They were expensive, but I’ve saved a couple of lives with them. My own among them, several times.

Biosuits are strong, but even in the temple we are not safe. It is only fitting. There is no safety from our god.

I walk six hours, then ten. Sit. Eat a ration pouch. It is almost easy to forget how old the temple is. Stones from other words, carved and blasted into the foundations of this world. I find two rivers to add to our maps, but they are easy enough to ford though the waters are colder than I remember them being. There is darkness, but I am not afraid of that. I say no prayers, alone in the darkness. There is a kind of darkness than any light makes darker still, but I continue. Sometimes I don’t. Often I do.

I never know what I’m looking for. Why the temple was made? Some clue no one else has noticed? A sign our god was at a specific spot here? I don’t know. I walk. A day turns into two, and then I find someone.

No biosuit. Human. Male. Sixteen. Just walking barefoot along the jagged stone floor of a cavern.

“Excuse me? Hello? Can I help you?”

He stops. “Perhaps.”

“Do you need a biosuit?”

He shakes his head; not truly human then, I think, but there are many among our number who are not. “Hingari?”

“No. I was wandering. I think I took a wrong turn. And you?” he asks.

“I am having an adventure.” I say the words. Old, almost oldest of the known ones. To someone I cannot be certain is of the faith.

The young man looks at me. “How nice for you,” he murmurs. “And if I asked what kind?”

“A seeking kind. Do you seek as well?”

“Some days I think so. Other says I am the sought, if there was a difference at all. Sorry. I –.”

“It is no worry. One learns from the darkness as well as the light. The Way teaches us that.”

The stranger blinks. He is a stranger. Somehow I am certain he is not of the faith. “What way is this?” he asks.

I tell him. I don’t mean to, but his voice demands answers. They say the Magrok can force truth with words, but none of that species can breathe oxygen. We avoid them regardless, to protect ourselves.

The young man blinks again after I finish. “You – worship Jay.”

“It is what it means to be a Jayist.” Oldest, holiest of secrets, and I speak it. Tumal made a mistake, but I? I will be likely to escape banishment and a mindwipe for this.

“Jayist,” he repeats. “You worship Jaysel –.”

“We do not!” I think he’s as surprised at my outburst as I am. “We acknowledge that one. We worship Jay, who is jaysome.”

“Why?”

“I was born on Oujika IV, which has seven gods for each of the seven cities. And they are gods. But they are only there. I went to the Duvellin Cluster, and they knew nothing of our gods. And out there, between the worlds? There are no gods at all. But there is Jay. Who is power and wonder, who is jaysome and bindings, and can be anywhere.”

“And you think he wants to be worshipped?”

“We are certain he does not. There are almost no Jayists left after – this world, and several others long ago. His time of destruction, we call it. He obliterated temples and followers both. But even so, he is still Jay, still more real. Still – still a hope, to us, of something more.”

“The temples were razed,” the stranger says, his voice a whisper melting into the darkness. “A hundred worlds burned in a single night. Stars were snuffed out in moments, and all those who followed Jay – terrible things were done to them if they managed to survive.”

“He was not Jay when he was thirteen. We understand. We forgive, because to forgive is to jaysome.”

“You forgive perhaps because you were not there,” the stranger says flatly.

“There is pain that must be expunged. The Jayists of that time were – that. A way for Jay to remove His pain. We hope not to be, but we are prepared. Because He is more than we can ever be, and the least we can do is serve Him.”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“There are bindings, yes, but bindings are not a serving. They are a choice.”

“You speak like one who knows,” I say, hesitant. Perhaps this is someone I do not know, who has been in the dark too long.

“I know –.”

“Wait.” My biosuit scrolls warnings. I hand him one of my spare suits. “You must put this on; water is coming, and it is cold.”

He does so without a word and we hug the wall.

It’s bad. Not water. I was wrong. The water is run-off from the storms, we always thought, but this water is fresh and wild. The storm is screaming in it as it batters into us, through us, over and around us. I feel my biosuit shatter, and then a hand holds me. Firm, not letting go.

I imagine I hear a voice speak, something like: “That’s enough.”

The water pools into the earth, the terrible wind within it dying down. My third biosuit activates, this one just over me. The strangers suit was destroyed as well, but he is not even wet. He crouches, hands running through traceries of water, a gentle brushing over stone.

“Screaming waters. Heh.” He smiles at some private joke and stands. “Not singing, not here. The universe does love ironies. But this is nothing I did. To bind the dead into a storm, to make them tear a planet apart and themselves with it. Curious. It seems our meeting was chance.” And he holds up a hand, and the storm rises about him. Comes from the earth, the stone, the air my biosuit protects me from. As though it’s always been there. As if it’s always waiting.

It is grey and green and a hundred shades of black and blue, like a thousand strings turned into wind and woven together. It hurt to look at, and to see, but somehow the scream of the wind was muted.

And the stranger watches the storm flow about his hand. He listens. “I see,” he says softly, and the wind goes away. “To destroy a world is one thing. To imprison the dead within the weather to avoid paying out insurance claims, well, that’s something else.”

“What?”

He offers something like a smile, and this smile sets off warnings in my biosuit. “In this state, they are not dead. But if I take them from here, this world will be terraformed again. Which they do not desire. They wish is to remain, as a memory and a warning both. So your temple gets to remain, I think, for now. If some of you wish to come with me?”

And he’s no longer speaking to me, because wind flows up and water dances about him, settling into his clothing.

“I’ll return you when we’re done, of course,” he says, and there is a hole. Not in the wall but in the world, and he is walking toward it.

“Wait. I never got your name.”

His gaze flicks back to me. “You did not. You will not,” he adds, gentler still. And he smiles, then, and this smile hurts in the most wondrous of ways. “But I will tell you this: the power Jay has is impressive, but power is not a reason for worship. No prayer that comes from a place of worship is answered. There are other places within you, other needs, other desires. Seek to be jaysome, as even Jay isn’t, and that will be all you need to be. And all that can be answered honestly.”

And he is gone a moment later, taking with him the smile.

It takes me three days to reach my quarters. I go slowly, I listen to the water, hear the wind. Pay attention. I don’t get lost. I’m not sure I could get lost even if I wanted to. I find others. I tell them the temple should not be here, because this world belongs only to the ghosts. I tell them that the only thing for it is to not be jayists, but be jaysome. Be good, be kind, only do bindings we know will help.

It helps that news reaches us that all the major insurance corporations on a dozen worlds ceased to operate overnight. System contains little about what happened. There are gaps, in records and in history, and we’ve always had suspicions about the cause. Even those who hate me listen when I tell them about the ghosts and the stranger, and I think my voice contains truth when I speak truth now.

I never wanted power. By the time we’re all ready to leave, I’ve learned to stop my voice from being something more. Because if I abused it, the stranger would return. And he would tell me his name. And I would deserve whatever judgement follows that.