Chapter 3: The Trip to Temple

“I imagine today is hard for you,” Conrad says not long after we have departed.

I struggle not to emotionally respond to the statement. Given my own reservations about the New Year, as well as the deliberations that come with the Rites of Ascension, I find my lips curling into a frown, and a soft sigh escaping me.

Conrad says, “I’m sorry” in a voice that is small, its intonation dark. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. “I mean… it’s… well… really not, but…”

“I understand.” He straightens his posture and slides his hands into his trousers before lifting his eyes to look at the temple in the distance. “I’ve missed seeing you. In town, I mean.”

I blink, unsure how to react, or even what to think. It is no secret, to Conrad or me or anyone really, that the deaths of my parents left me in a deep depression. I barely left my home in those first few months, much less came into town unless it was absolutely necessary. The fact that Conrad is cautious enough to consider this leaves me with a feeling of warmth in my heart—akin to touching a stone that has been perfectly warmed by a benevolent sun.

I say, “I’m sorry.”

Conrad asks, “For what?”

And I reply with, “For being so absent, I mean. It’s just… after what happened… and knowing what they went through…” I pause. Take a moment to compose myself. Say, “I almost couldn’t bear it.”

“I can only imagine what you’ve gone through. But, Maya…”

I turn my head to face him.

“You know you’re not alone in this. Right?”

“I—” I start. “I don’t—”

But something, and I’m not sure what, keeps me from speaking. It is as though my voice has been snuffed out—like a songbird who, in mid-flight, has been struck by an unkind hand, and has fallen dead from the sky.

I open my mouth. Try to reply. Find myself hesitant to do so. Ultimately, I turn to face the temple, judge its distance by what few feet are between us, and say, “You don’t need to follow me any further.”

“Are you sure?” Conrad asks.

I say, “I’m sure, Conrad. Thank you for taking me this far.”

“I’m here whenever you need me,” Conrad says.

He then turns and walks away, leaving me with feelings of doubt, fear, and, ultimately, dread.

In turning toward the temple, and in starting forward once more, it takes only a moment for his words to sink in.

He’d said he was here whenever I needed him, I think. Not if I needed him.

Was Conrad really so perceptive as to think I might need him now, or maybe even in the future?

Try as I might to ignore the feelings tugging at my heartstrings, I find that I cannot. So, rather than address them head-on, I turn my attention to the temple.

If anything, I know one thing for certain:

I cannot afford to dwell upon my own problems.

It is for that reason, and for the fact that I know I must act now rather than later, that I make a decision. I must make my way to the temple, speak to Luminate Marsden, and plead my grandmother’s case for Ascension. Because if I don’t...

I don’t know what I’ll do.

Rather than think on it, I swallow my reservations, run my hands along my arms, and begin to make my way forward once more.

I know that approaching the temple, with such a monumental request, and for such an important person in my life, should leave me with feelings of hopelessness. However, with each footstep I take, I find myself inspired by the landscape of my purpose, the universe of my rage.

One would think that previous wounds—previous trauma—would wear me down. Instead, each scar upon my body and mind leaves me with an unwavering confidence that allows me to march onward.

My mother once said that anger could be used as a tool.

But it can also be used as a weapon, she had then added, so please, Maya: remember…

“To choose your words carefully,” I whisper. “I know, Mama. I will.”

At the doorway to the temple, I take a moment to inhale a breath—to temper my anger, to steel myself for what is to come.

I knock only once. Then, I enter.

Inside, the temple is as cold as a mausoleum—a place where the dead would rather serve to sleep than where the living would come to worship. It takes me a moment of breathing the stale and frigid air to realize that the sun has not yet kissed the stone overhead. It will be hours before this place has been warmed sufficiently for human habitation.

Of course, that does not mean that no one is here.

At the far edge of the pulpit, whereupon the wall there exists a mural detailing the supposed landscape of Heaven, I can just make out a person with their head bowed, their back straight. Their white robes, with the golden trim, immediately mark them as a Luminate of the church.

I clear my throat. Say, “Luminate Marsden?”

The Luminate lifts his head, revealing the soft, yet weary features of Luminate Armand Marsden, as well as his gold eyes. “Maya Summers,” the Luminate then says. “I did not expect to see you here.”

I step into the nave. Pass through the pews. Inhale the scent of incense that burns within Luminate Marsden’s shadow. I step toward the pulpit, then; and with the fear of Heaven in my heart, say, “I have come to give you my grandmother’s regards.”

“Ah,” the Luminate says. “How is your grandmother?”

“She is well,” I say, “but tired.”

“Age has a way of catching up with us,” Luminate Marsden then says.

I struggle not to tremble in the face of such adversity.

“I feel you have come for something more than just simple greetings,” the Luminate then says, turning to walk away from the mural and descend down the stairs that lead onto the pulpit. “Tell me, Maya: why have you come to seek me on this early morning?”

“I have come to make a request,” I say.

“What kind of request?” the Luminate asks.

“I wish to seek the Rites of Ascension for my grandmother.”

“I see,” the Luminate replies, then falls silent.

There is a long moment. A quiet pause. A tentative period during which no sounds but our breathing can be heard. It is during these moments, which are so crucial and razor-thin, that I feel my heartbeat quicken in my chest, the blood rush through my ears. I want so desperately to say something, anything, but know that speaking out of turn is likely to punish not me, but my grandmother.

Stay calm, I tell myself. Remember what your mother told you.

Ahead, the Luminate looks on—his lips pursed, his gaze set to something beyond me. I wonder, for a moment, if he is, as many have claimed, seeking divine counsel. It has never truly been explained how the Luminates communicate with our god—just that they are chosen, by divine intervention, to lead us in our quest for salvation.

“Luh-Luminate Marsden?” I ask when I feel the quiet has become too great. “Did I say something—”

“You have said nothing wrong,” Luminate Marsden then says. “I was merely… thinking.”

“About what, sir?”

“About what it is you have said. What you have asked.”

“Was she…” I swallow. “Not revealed in your visions?”

“I do not recall divining Fay Summers walking the Stairway to Heaven,” the Luminate says, “nor do I recall divining her name being whispered in my ear.”

“But, sir—” I start.

The Luminate lifts his hand. “However… there is still time.”

Time? I think.

Then, it dawns on me.

The Rites occur over the Five Holy Days of the New Year. If it is like Luminate Marsden has said: there is still time for my grandmother’s voice to be whispered in his ear from forces above.

I swallow. Try my hardest not to tremble. Then, I say, “I… I also wished to ask you about something else. If you have time, that is.”

“I have time,” the Luminate says. “The hour is still early. The people will not begin to arrive until noontime.”

“I… I had a dream,” I say, “last night, after… after beholding the Great Mountain. In it, I… was in a field of flowers, and there was… a tree.”

“A tree?”

“A tree,” I agree, “and from it there were many fruits, many flowers. I… I walked toward it, and, well… I saw—”

Something shatters at the far edge of the temple.

The Luminate spins—robes billowing, eyes searching. When they land upon the shadows, he says, “Timothy!”

And a quiet voice replies, “I’m sorry, father. I… I didn’t mean—”

“Will you ever outgrow your clumsiness?”

“I don’t—”

“Come here,” the Luminate says.

From the darkness emerges Timothy Marsden, the Luminate’s son—who, with dark hair and sharp, angular features, is almost the spitting of his father, save the green of his eyes.

Luminate Marsden sighs, and says, “I told you not to eavesdrop.”

“I wasn’t,” Timothy replies. “I was coming down when I heard voice, so I turned, and—”

“Stumbled into a tithing urn,” he says. “I understand.”

Timothy Marsden lifts his head to look at me. His pursed lips immediately part as his eyes widen.

“Ah. Yes,” Luminate Marsden says. “I was just speaking to Maya about a dream she was having.”

“A dream?” Timothy asks.

I find myself nodding in response.

“But seeing as how we now have a mess to tend to,” the Luminate then says, “I must ask the churchwomen to clean up.”

“I can—” Timothy starts.

But his farther shakes his head, and says, “Please, Timothy, leave the urns be. God knows we need all we can manage for when the outsiders come next.”

“Yes, Father,” Timothy says.

The Luminate returns his gaze to me. “I apologize, Miss Summers, but I must be going. I have things to attend to.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Timothy—will you escort Miss Summers out?”

“Yes, Father,” the young man says, before lifting his eyes to face me.

“Thank you for your time, Luminate Marsden,” I say, “and for your consideration.”

The Luminate nods before turning and stepping into the darkness at the far edge of the pulpit.

With that said, Timothy Marsden turns and leads me down the nave, through the pews, and toward the doorway that rests at the far edge of them.

As we step outside, and into the grace of the quickly-ascending sun, I spin to face Timothy, only to find that his eyes are still set upon me.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” the young man says. “I just… I heard what you said—about your dream, I mean—and I… I thought…”

“You thought… what?” I ask.

The young man narrows his eyes and stares at me for several long moments before turning his gaze to the Great Mountain.

“Timothy?” I ask, in a small, yet cautious voice. “Is there… is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Your dream,” the young man then says. “It… it wasn’t just a dream.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The dream you had. In the field of flowers. With the tree with many fruits and flowers. It wasn’t just a dream. It was real.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I can’t say,” he replies.

I reach out to take hold of Timothy’s shirtsleeve as he turns toward the temple. “Please,” I beg. “You have to tell me. You have to.”

“I can’t tell you anything, Maya.”

“But I thought—but you said—”

“Revolution,” Timothy says.

I blink, stunned into submission.

Before I can manage to say anything further, Timothy slips into the temple, leaving me to stand in the sun with more questions than answers.

He said it, I think. I wasn’t just imagining it. He actually said the word.

The same word that was on that parchment. The same word that the bird brought down from the Stairway to Heaven.

Revolution.

Try as I might to ignore the feelings rushing through me, I find myself unable to refuse them. However, as much as I want—no, need—to know, I understand that I cannot afford to barge in and start demanding answers to questions that might get me in trouble.

With that thought in mind, I turn, and begin to make my way back down the road.