A Gracious Indictment

Author’s Note: I addressed the prompt metaphorically, I hope this aids in the interpretation of this piece. You may also refer to a video made by Quinn’s Ideas on YouTube talking about the book Echopraxia to further understand the concepts. Please understand that this piece is meant to explore philosophical concepts, and not to insult or target any group.

The Creed stood tall and sound - but I couldn’t deny the Gorta that loomed outside it’s front door.

The Creed was a cathedral that towered above everything else in the City – including its government buildings. It was made of marble and stone, polished smoother than ice, and reflected the light from every ornamental corner. It’s gothic arches allowed the sermons to echo through the building to the square, and it’s sharp crockets pierced the sky above the City. 

Passerby walked past it, happily chirping about Mass and the Axiom. They were all dressed their finest, faces glowing in rooted, potent faith. 

They couldn’t see it.

I walked past the Gorta, my body narrowly avoiding it’s own. I have never touched one before, but I couldn’t imagine that it would be pleasant. 

It stood easily seven or eight feet tall, it’s elongated limbs hanging at its sides and barely brushing passing pedestrians. I didn’t dare to turn around to look at it - nobody around me would understand why, and I could never tell them about it anyway. Unless if I wanted a quick ticket to the Conforme. 

It wasn’t long before the Creed’s doors shut behind me, and everyone was seated.

The sermon lasted exactly an hour, with another round of Mass prepared for the next crowd. I prayed and chanted with everyone in the room, listening absentmindedly to the Saint at the podium. I wanted to tap my foot or pick at my hands, but I forced myself to refrain. Anxiety in the Creed is doubt in the Creed.

The doors promptly opened, and everyone in the Creed filed out like well-programmed animatronics. Everyone was illuminated with faith, not even aware of the Gorta that stood at the base of the steps of the Creed.

It had a haunched back, it’s skin taut and colorless over a humanoid skeleton. There was no indication of sex, or of complete consciousness. Gorta seemed to wander without purpose, not reacting to the stimuli around them. They appeared too awake - their eyes were pried wide, their large pupils entirely visible on pasty white eyeballs rimmed in black, dried blood. They nearly protruded from their skulls, as if they were inviting you to pluck them right of out their sockets. Their mouths hung open, but not in a scream. Their expression could not quite be described as fear, just gaping wakefulness as if their maws were naturally fixed that way. 

Nothing about the black abyss in their throat was natural. 

I tried not to look for too long, only a brief, curious glimpse. I wondered if it was just coincidence that a Gorta was remaining in the same vicinity as the only person who can see it. 

I chose to push that thought aside and head over to one of the booths in Axiom Square to make my donation. A heavy sack weighed down in my pocket, little brass tokens clinking together. 

A booth managed by a woman of sixty with a crisply ironed dress spotted me, her eyes narrowing like that of a hawk’s. Her graying hair was pulled tight in a bun and her nose was sharp. In her slender fingers was The Sign of the Creed, which hung from a chain around her neck.

“Twenty token.” I said, giving her the pouch from my pocket.

She took it, her fingers like talons working themselves in scavenged meat. 

“The Creed and the Home thanks you. May you be blessed by God’s grace.” 

Her voice was heavy with blind trust. 

“Does the Home still take food donations?” I asked.

“Of course. You may bring them here in the square or take them straight to the Home.” 

I made mental note of that.

“How are the children?” 

The woman looked pleased at my interest, clutching The Sign tightly in her palm. It was common of Mothers to make quick, frequent prayers or a thank you to God through holding The Sign. 

“They are delightful. All very dedicated to the Axiom, and they love volunteering in the square and in the Creed. The Saints love them. I wish more people in the City were as devout as them.”

I nodded politely, agreeing as convincingly as I could before wishing her a wonderful day. Before I could turn away, I heard her say, “May God smile upon you and bring his miracles.”

I silently walked out of the square and through the City, the streets empty with citizens still making their donations and attending Mass. Gothic arches and ornamental structures towered high, everything tainted in the scent of snapdragons. 

My apartment wasn’t too far from the square, only five blocks away. It was enough for me to shake off the uneasiness the Gorta brought me when I saw them by the Creed. 

I sat on a chair by the window, looking down upon the City as dusk settled and street lights were illuminated. I held a fat cigar between my fingers, lighting it and taking a long drag. I reveled in its scent, the rich smoke drifting through my apartment. 

It wasn’t long before I had a tall chalice of cinnamon whiskey in my other hand. 

“God strike me if I’ve sinned.” I stated clearly, letting my words die out.

Silence filled the room.

A moment passed, and I put the chalice to my lips. 

“Do you really believe in God?” 

I nearly dropped the chalice before a Gorta trudged right into my living room. It still had the same, transfixed expression and inhumane way of moving, but there was no doubt that it was what spoke.

I tapped my cigar on the side of the ashtray. “I don’t know.” 

“How do you not know?” 

It’s voice was low and gravelly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a rocky pit. It was unnerving to watch it speak, sound coming out of its mouth but it’s jaw fixed. 

“I sin, but perhaps God has something planned for another time. Perhaps my punishment is meant for another day.” 

The Gorta didn’t move, I almost questioned if it even heard me.

“What is the point in God waiting? A divinity should establish its order as its servants sin.”

I didn’t have an answer to that. I wasn’t as devout as the Mother back at the square, who would’ve told off the Gorta the instant it questioned God and the Axiom.

I drank the whiskey until it was half gone. It burned all the way down my throat and in my stomach. Almost comfortingly. 

“What is your purpose?” I asked the Gorta. 

I took a drag from the cigar and blew the smoke right at it. I doubted the Gorta could smell it. 

“To maintain the Law of Natural Order and terminate the flaws in Existential Process.” 

“How are you not a flaw yourself?” 

It would’ve been the right timing for it to laugh at me, as if I asked something utterly ridiculous. A deafening silence followed instead.

“Because I don’t bend Law. I let Existential Process follow through as it was meant to.” 

I couldn’t quite understand what it was trying to say, or perhaps my mind wouldn’t allow me. Every train of thought led to a foggy barrier. 

“You believe in God because you think if you do good, he will perform miracles and low probabilities for you. You think that if you behave a particular way, you will achieve a Higher Existence after death.” 

I buried the cigar butt into the pile of ashes on the tray and lit another. 

“Yet, you also admit that God is not consistent in his punishment. How do you expect him to be consistent in his rewards?”

A low, faint buzzing started. I glanced around to find its source, but I knew of nothing that would produce it.

I reached towards the nearby liquor cabinet to pour myself more whiskey, but my hand slipped and the bottle fell and crashed on the floor, flooding the room in the smell of cinnamon and alcohol. I cursed, my head swimming as the buzzing grew louder. In my peripherals, I could see a hot blaze in my chalice. 

“The Laws of Natural Order are absolute and constant. Flaws are not.”

I groaned, a pounding headache developing. I don’t think it’s from the alcohol. I took a shaky drag from my cigar, ashes falling on the carpet. The chalice was so hot I dropped it. 

“I am part of something bigger than your God. I uphold the Process. Your God breaks Law that is never meant to be broken. He is the flaw in the system, deteriorating the Natural Order like a disease.”

I could barely hear the Gorta beyond the buzzing. A thousand insects were flying around my head like the smoke that drifted from my cigar. I clawed at my scalp.

The Gorta kept speaking. I couldn’t hear it. I could feel the blood drip from my chin as my nails dug into my skin. 

My mind reached realization, and I couldn’t take it. 

The Creed stood in the center of the City, but something changed. A woman hung from the roof, her sharp nose broken, her gray hair shaved to the scalp, and her conservative clothing torn to bloody rags. The necklace that held The Sign of the Creed had been ripped from her neck, and laid in a pool of blood on the cobblestone below.