Chapter Five

Deacon John

Pastor Maynor’s mouth moved, but John heard nothing, the words lost to the cacophonous shrill of the copter’s rotary blades. “What?” John’s voice fared no better. The man opposite tapped his helmet, and John remembered muting his own while he slept. With a sharp click and blurt static, he switched his on.

Pastor Maynor leaned closer, repeating, ‘You nervous?’

What a stupid question, John thought. Of course, he was nervous. He’d waited for this moment, dreamed of it his entire life. Growing up in the convent, John had known little of the outside world. He was only permitted to venture out onto the streets of Salt City when he’d become an acolyte and only in the company of the priests as they tended to the needy. Those that they tended to weren’t really the needy but rather those citizens wealthy enough to afford private guidance in their own homes, and such activity hardly afforded him any real freedom.

All his life, John had longed for a posting beyond the convent, beyond Salt City’s towering wall, to a place where he could do real good—out in the real world, where things actually mattered. Now, at long last, his prayers were being answered. He was going out beyond the periphery to administer to those who needed it most, the brave men and women of the frontier who still battled to bring God's glory to the wastes of this world.

What kind of prideful fool wouldn’t be nervous?

“Yeah, I’m nervous,” He almost laughed as he said it.

“Don’t be! You’ll be fine. We just coming up on her now,” The pastor leaned forward, peering through the small glass window on the copter’s side. Trembling with excitement, the pastor slid open the copter’s side door, gesturing for John to look. “You don’t want to miss this.” John obliged.

Wind and dust rushed him, but it was worth it. As far as the eye could see was a vast, providential emptiness. Hardpan dust covered the surface of their world, expanding onward, featurelessly, for thousands of miles. In most places, it was flat, but the ever-shifting roll of dust dunes crept across the cragged ground like mountains on the march. The grey sun beamed through a cloudless sky, its light catching the ever-present particulates of dust, cloaking the world in a shimmering haze. It was a nothingness, yet within John saw the potential of an eveyrthingness—a testament to God’s infinite capacity for creation.

Then he saw it, and it was beautiful. It stood alone, climbing upwards towards the sky, its limbs barren and pale, but there, reaching outward, spidering with branches, swaying gently in the wind.

“Is that…. a tree?” John marvelled, barely able to contain the wonder in his voice. John had seen trees before, naturally. There were plenty in the city parks, in the convent’s gardens and agri-compounds, but the idea of one growing naturally, unaided by a team of scientists, chemical treatment baths and a plethora of technologies, was near unimaginable. Yet, here one was, standing tall and resilient in the middle of the waste.

“Just wait,” Pastor Maynor’s voice was almost giddy. “If that impresses you, you won’t believe what comes next.”

The Pastor did not disappoint. Soon, the copter flew over another tree, this one taller, its trunk thicker, and its bark’s colour denser and more vibrant. Then came a third and a fourth, and more still, these specked with green, small spatterings of leaves sprouting across them. Then came the first one in full bloom and more after it, and then an emerald meadow, and then the source of all this life, the crystal blue water of a stream, rushing through an otherwise dusty valley, life creeping from its banks. “Miracle Springs indeed.” John looked to the pastor, and the two shared a joyful laugh.

As they flew over the miracle garden busting into life, John realised that God had already planted the first seeds that would turn his world into a paradise.

“Let’s go over this one last time.” The copter had touched down, and Pastor Maynor led John down a tongue-like disembarkment ramp. John trailed behind, pulling an auto-trolley loaded with luggage. Its electric whirr grew louder as the copter’s duel rotors fell silent.

“Miracle Springs is essential to the church’s future on the planet. The scientists and bureaucrats have a stranglehold on the city, and the people don’t have much appetite for good old-fashioned worship. Miracle Springs will change all that—the planet’s first natural source of fresh water, the purest of testaments to God’s glory in nature,” The pastor spread his arms wide as if to embrace the verdant vista. “God's greatest gift.” Taking in the majesty of the place, seeing life blooming from barren soil, John couldn’t help but agree. This place was a gift. “If we can nurture this place and help it flourish, the possibilities are endless. This is the church’s future on this world—a living symbol that faith is the true path to paradise.”

“If everything goes as planned, one day, the clergy will move our operation from the city to here, and this will become the home of both faith and prosperity.” John tried to imagine it—a city of the faithful, living pure lives in sync with nature and God. It was a worthy goal, and he beamed internally as it occurred to him that he might be the one to bring those plans to fruition.

“God be good.” The importance of it all suddenly began to weigh on John. He had everything he’d ever wanted—freedom from the convent and a chance to make a real difference. Yet, Pastor Maynor’s briefing was doing little to calm his nerves. Doubts nagged at the back of his mind, like whispers from the devil. What if he wasn’t ready? What if the people didn’t take to him? What if he couldn’t resist his mortal urges without the watchful presence of the clergy? He shook his head and tried to focus on his excitement instead.

He was glad, at least, to finally stretch his legs. After days of flight strapped into the copter’s seat, his body felt stiff and heavy. As John took his first steps onto this unlikely oasis, he was struck by the unexpected softness of the ground. It sank a little as if struggling under his weight. To John, the ground had always been a hard, unyielding, solid thing—whether the convent's stone foundations or the wastes' unrelenting hardpan. He stared, mesmerised, as the dirt shifted underfoot, a grin spreading across his face as he shook his head in disbelief.

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“Keep up, John.” Pastor Maynor’s tone was brisk—clearly, he had visited before, and the town’s more mundane wonders had long since dulled for him. “Now, the people here are already godly folk, but it will be your job to ensure they stay that way. You’ll be working under the local Reverend and...”

“What’s he like?” John interrupted. “No one would tell me back at the convent.” It was more than that. John’s posting had been a last-minute assignment, with only two days to prepare. Despite the rush, he had tried to learn about the man he’d be apprenticing under. Yet, most either knew nothing of him or shook their heads, unwilling to speak of the Reverend.

John had wondered about that. The clergy were notorious gossips, and their silence left him uneasy. He’d heard of those who had fallen out of favour with the church’s inner circles, exiled to distant, far-off missions. John assumed that must have been the fate of the Reverend of Miracle Springs. Yet even in those cases, the clergy were quick to share every fault of the exiled, spinning their failures into cautionary tales for the novices. John couldn’t imagine how out of favour a man had to be that the old robes wouldn’t even utter his name.

“He’s….” The pastor paused, hands on his hips, searching for the right words. “He’s eccentric. That’s the best way to put it. A bit of a pariah.” John suspected that was an understatement. “But he’s a local—trained in the city, yes, but born here in Miracle Springs. He knows these people better than anyone.” Maynor eyed John, his tongue pressing against his cheek. John could almost see the man wrestling with an unspoken thought and wondered what it might be. “He can be a tad bit unorthodox, and the clergy isn’t a fan of that. They would appreciate it if you would bring a little more tradition to the town. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good,” Pastor Maynor led the way up from the landing site. They stopped at the edge of the town. “Now, don’t take anything I say the wrong way. The Reverend knows these people well—he’s experienced and wise. He’s been the Reverend here for a decade. You should do your best to ingratiate yourself with him and his congregation.”

“Any tips?”

“For the people? None. Folk out in the wastes are hardy and live by their own rules. Look to Reverend to help you with them. As for the Reverend himself?” Maynor paused, considering. “Tell him you like his book.” The man shrugged. “He’s fond of people who read his book.”

“His book?”

“Emancipation from the Tyranny of the Self,” the pastor recited the title with satirical grandeur. “You heard of it?” John shook his head. He liked to read, but most of the literature in the convent library was theological. “Shame, it's becoming quite popular in the capital—a self-help book, of sorts. Not my cup of tea, but some people swear by it.” That was strange, John thought. Why would a priest write a self-help book? Surely, if the Reverend thought someone needed guidance, he should direct them to the bible—all the help a person required could be found right there. As the thought occurred to him, John instinctively patted his breast pocket, where his pocket bible resided. “Anyway, here we are,” the pastor said, turning to John and patting him on the shoulders. “Good luck, Deacon John. I’m sure you’ll do us proud.” Maynor smiled warmly and extended John a hand.

John clasped the pastor’s hand firmly, shook it, and nodded his thanks. As the pastor strode back toward the sleek twin-rotored copter waiting on the dust-blown ground, John turned to take in his new home for the first time. Despite the churn of nerves in his stomach, his face creased with a broad smile. He had waited for this moment his entire life—his own parish, his own flock. At last, he was ready to begin the Lord’s work.

Some said all waste towns looked the same, and to a degree, they weren’t wrong.

Built from prefabricated metallic units, they were designed for quick installation and minimal maintenance. They were dull in colour and uniform in design. They looked purposeful. Each was ringed by towering moisture vaporators, plastic structures that used refrigerated cooling to extract what little water there was in the air. They always had a saloon, a courier depot, a transmitter station, a workshop, greenhouses for growing food and, in larger towns, agri-barns for housing livestock. It would look not unlike the grimy industrial complexes of humanity’s past.

Miracle Springs, however, looked nothing like any other town in the wastes. Originally constructed with the same prefabrication units, the people of Miracle Springs had transformed theirs. Wood beams and planks accented the buildings, giving each home a distinct, rustic charm. Many boasted porches and fine glass windows, while the remaining metallic surfaces were painted in soft whites or creams. Further, plants were ever-present—potted and arranged in windows or growing untamed in lush gardens.

At one end of town stood the largest tree of all, planted in the heart of a little circular meadow, enclosed by a white picket fence with a wooden bench resting beside it. John marvelled at the towering tree as he passed, the gentle whir of his auto-trolley trailing behind him. A road ran up a gradual incline stretching from the little pasture and through the centre of town, all the primary buildings lining its path. At the far end, standing prominently and proudly with its soaring bell tower, was the town’s chapel—painted white and crafted entirely from wood. John eagerly made his way toward it.

As John ascended the road, the silence was deafening. By the halfway point, it was unbearable. John stopped, scanning the sides of buildings and peering into every window. The town was breathtakingly beautiful—and eerily empty. Where was everyone? Where was his congregation?"

“Hello!” His voice echoed back to him—the only response.

Sweat slicked John’s palms, and his heart began to race. Had something befallen the townsfolk? Had raiders struck before his arrival? Had the Chitirin, the evil bugmen that plagued the wastes, abducted his would-be flock? He had heard grim tales of such terrible attacks. In the desolate wastes, where communication was scarce, isolated towns often became easy prey for alien hunting parties. Entire towns had vanished overnight. Though rangers fought valiantly to keep the primitive creatures at bay, their numbers were too few, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once. He shivered as a chilling through gripped him—what if he was walking straight into one of the creatures’ latest traps? As if sealing his fate, the dragonfly-like copter rose over the treetops and roofs, climbing into the sky, abandoning him.

John swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched it disappear. Then, he jumped, the harsh sound of cocking startling him. “Who are you?” a gruff, no-nonsense voice demanded. John put his hands high, his fingers trembling. He turned slowly, spotting an old man standing on the porch of a nearby house, a rusted pump gun cradled casually in one hand. He wasn’t pointing it at John, but it rested ready in the man’s grip, and John had no doubt he could use it with deadly precision.

“I’m…I’m John,” He realised that meant nothing to the man. “Deacon John,” he clarified quickly. “I’ve been sent to assist the Reverend?”

“Uh-huh.” The old man limped forward a few steps, favouring his right leg.

“The church has sent me; They... they should have told you I was coming.”

The old man spat a glob of murky fluid, flecks of it clinging to the tangled ropes of his white beard. “Nope.”

“Oh,” John shrugged awkwardly. “My apologies.”

“Uh-huh.”

They stood in silence for several tense seconds, and John felt his fear begin to fade. “Can I put my hands down?”

“If’uns you like.”

“Thank you,” John mumbled, lowering his hands to his side. “Not quite the first impression I’d hoped for.” The old man didn’t share John’s amusement. “Can I ask your name, Sir?”

“Stanley,” John didn’t know if that was his first or last name, but he figured there was little reason to pry. John glanced around, hoping someone more loquacious might appear, but the town remained as empty as he’d found it, the old man seemingly its only inhabitant.

“Say, Stanley, where is everyone?” John asked, trying to shake the nerves from his tone.

“The funeral,” Stanley said flatly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“The funeral?”