The Very Holy Hat

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he knew he was back. It felt familiar, the earth between his toes, the sun warming his back. Yes, this is it. This is the world he made.

There are the trees reaching for the heavens, just how he left them, taller now, obviously. There is the sky, vast and limitless, stretching sideways as far as the eye can see. There is the sound of the wind, as gentle as breath, just as he remembered it. There is the scent of the earth, the flowers, the hot ground, natures perfume. Magic! There is the crumpled form of a homeless man, just the way he—

Wait a minute.

That can’t be right. The creator thought back, way back, to when he last walked this place. He left instructions, he was sure of it. Instructions on how to live in love and harmony, how to do things right. Homelessness wasn’t part of that plan.

Ah, thinks the creator, but wait. Perhaps the homeless man is not homeless at all, perhaps he is just a man, lying here in appreciation of earth, the creation that was so lovingly and thoughtfully made. Perhaps lying in the shade and staring out at the world, watching it unfold, the way the leaves made shadows dance through the grass, was the perfect way to worship the wonder that is life. That was probably it.

‘Excuse me, fine sir,’ the creator says, ‘why are you lying on the ground?’

‘Eh? What? What do you want?’

‘I said, how did you come to be here, under this tree? Where is your home?’

The man coughs a wet cough and then wipes his nose on his bare arm.

‘Spare any change?’ he asks.

‘Change? I do not believe I have any of that, let me—’

‘Bugger off, then,’ says the man.

Interesting.

Not how the creator remembers things, but then again, it has been a while. He walks on, towards the place. The place where it all began, the one he is drawn to. This place holds dear to his heart, it feels like home. The creator looks skyward, letting the sun warm his face as he remembers the last time he was here.

The people were learning to love each other, they were dispelling hatred from their hearts, they were blossoming, growing, like the very plants around him. Soon he will lay eyes on the village again and see how far they have come, witness their humble lives living in joy of the simple beauty of life. Perhaps the village will have grown, now a town. Perhaps they will have opened their arms in welcome to travellers and now the town will be bustling, many hands to help each other, to share in the work and the spoils. Maybe some of the houses will have two storeys, maybe ornate gardens, because after all, he created it beautiful so that it could be admired, a little celebration of natural beauty is—

Oh.

The creator has arrived at the edge of the town and seen a castle. There is a huge dome roof, pillars and archways, statues, a plaza, a towering obelisk. It is… large. Ornate to say the least. One could describe it as over the top, but the creator stops himself. He must not judge before knowing the truth. There will be an explanation, this could be a special place where they take care of the sick, the unfortunate, the ailing. Yes, that will be it. He walks on.

Later the creator finds himself sitting inside the castle. There has been a big to-do about his arrival, apparently it was “not planned” and they did not know “what to do about it”. The creator is still trying to figure out what needs to be done, he did not ask for anything, he simply arrived. Even his arrival sparked a little upset. There was much suspicion and disbelief, and he found himself having to prove his identity by performing small miracles. Then everybody cried. Now everybody is drinking wine which seems to have calmed them down a little.

‘So, you are actually Him,’ says a man in a long red gown and a matching hat. His voice wobbles and his eyes stream with tears. ‘The Creator.’

‘No,’ says the creator. ‘I am not Him, I am simply him. And I am not The Creator, I am simply, the creator.’

The creator rather thinks there a lot more capitals letters these days where there needn’t be.

The man in the red hat, one of many men in red hats, falls to his knees in tears, as if the creator has said something very profound. The creator offers him more wine in hopes it might lift his spirits, but it makes him sob louder.

There are many men in many hats, a sea of hats, an ocean of gowns. There are adornments on the clothes, around the necks, hanging on the walls, carved into the very masonry. There are alters made of gold, they are passing around shining, golden goblets of wine that glint in the sunlight that cascades through vast, stained glass windows. The creator is very confused.

‘I would like to know what is going on here, exactly,’ says the creator. ‘Why is there a castle, why is everyone wearing these hats? I left instructions, you know, very clear instructions, not one time did I mention a hat.’

‘Ah, these red hats are to show that we are very holy.’

‘And that big white one?’ asks the creator, as another man storms into the room, robes billowing out behind him, this time in white, with a very tall white hat on his head and a very sour look on his face.

‘That…’ squeaks the man in the red hat as he shuffles backwards to disappear into the crowd, ‘well the white one means he is very, extremely holy.’

The man in the white hat barges to the front, bangs a long stick on the ground impatiently, and demands to know who the creator is and whether he has an appointment. The creator does not, and he must go through the wine ceremony followed by the crying again. Finally, they can have a half sensible conversation.

‘And how do you think it has all been going?’ asks the creator, gesturing around widely, ‘since I have been gone?’

The man in the white hat clears his throat busily and takes another goblet of wine.

‘Hm? Well, we’ve tried to govern the people but, you know, people will be people.’

‘Govern? No, guide. Guide the people, that’s what I wrote.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve done lots of that.’

‘How about the book,’ says the creator, ‘did you read the book?’

‘I read the book every day,’ the man in the white hat says, drawing his robes around himself and straightening his beads.

‘I left very clear instructions in it,’ the creator continues, ‘About loving each other, dispelling hatred from your hearts. The blossoming? The growing? Remember any of that? There wasn’t anything about beads, or gold gilded alters, or a throne.’

‘Ah, well. The book has become adapted. Over time.’

‘I see. But adaptions should be made for the better.’

‘Exactly,’ says the man in the white hat, ‘things are much better.’

He lifts his goblet of wine skyward in a toast to the heavens, then realises the occupant of the heavens is in front of him, then he tries to tilt it toward the creator, who peers into it blankly. The creator examines the golden goblet, set with jewels.

‘It certainly seems better in here. But did you know there is a man outside lying under a tree? I suspect there are more like him. Shouldn’t it be easier to use all these riches to help the poor?’

The man in the white hat blinks and takes a gulp from his goblet. Perhaps he didn’t understand, perhaps the creator had to be more specific.

‘Take your long stick, for example,’ the creator says.

‘My Staff?’

‘If you like. It has some precious metal inlaid into the cross. Why don’t you give it to that man under the tree? He could trade it for food, or a place to stay for the night.’

The man in the white hat tightens his grip on the stick. ‘But this is my Holy Staff. I need it.’

‘Why?’

‘I… well it… shows that I am very extremely holy. It signifies temporal power and governance.’

The creator rubs small circles at his temples where a migraine is forming.

The man in the white hat becomes restless. ‘Now see here, we answer to a higher power, The Almighty, The Creator and The Creator only, we don’t take advice from any old person on things we have been doing here for thousands of—'

‘But I am the creator.’

‘Oh. Yes. So you are. But be that as it may, the people need governance, they crave it. The world is disorder without it. you have been gone for a very long time. We have had to adapt to the times, you know, that is just the way of the world. We help the poor as much as we can. What they need is faith.’

‘What that man under the tree needs is a place to stay. And you have a very expensive stick.’

‘But it is my very expensive stick. You don’t seem to understand.’

‘Aha, there we agree.’

The creator thinks. His mind turns over, forming a new plan. He mustn’t become disheartened that his creation has gone the wrong way, he has been gone for a very long time. He mustn’t punish. What he must do instead is help. That is what a good creator would do, set them back on the right path, just as he intended the first time. He clasps his hands together and beams.

‘Not to worry,’ the creator says. ‘I will help you fix it.’

‘Fix?’ says the man in the white hat.

‘Yes. Very easy. First, we must get rid of all the hats. Holiness is indicated by your actions, not by the colour of your hat. Then your stick, we can give that away, governance will no longer be needed. All the gold can be used, of course, that is very useful. Then we can take down this wall here, use the bricks to build a hospital, which opens up this beautiful plaza for the homeless…’

The creator wanders away followed by a small huddle of men in red hats, sweeping his arms wide, gesturing here and there, the red hats nodding fervently. The man in the white hat stares after them. Then he examines his very expensive stick. He takes out an embroidered handkerchief and polishes a spot on the cross.

‘All sound good to you back there?’ calls the creator from across the room.

‘Yes, great!’ the man in the white hat calls back, ‘that’s certainly one option.’

The man in the white hat leans in and murmurs the other option to his last remaining loyal red hat.

‘Get rid of him.’