Redemption

We can see the coliseum from the parking lot, glowing red in the setting sun. You'd have liked it. We would have stayed to watch if you were with us, but Dad tells me to quit dawdling. Mom flashes me a sympathetic smile.

Inside the coliseum's main entrance, a sign warns against bringing in cameras or phones. A giant portrait of the Prophet, like the one at school I told you about, hangs high on the wall. His eyes look sad, gazing down as we pass.

No one speaks on our way to the arena. The crowd's shuffling feet sound like anxious whispers echoing off the granite walls of the cavernous hallway. The only other sound comes from a fountain, centered in the arena, splashing foamy water in a steaming pool.

The coliseum is smaller inside than I imagined. We sit on cold, stone benches in the section down front reserved for family members. I exhale slowly, watching my breath in the chill air. A thin band of sunlight still warms the topmost eastern benches, and I decide to watch it creep away as the sun sets. Then friends of Mom and Dad come by to shake our hands. They nod their approval at me and suddenly I'm glad Dad made me come. I know how much it means to you. By the time I remember to look back for the sunlight, it's gone.

A voice, clear despite the lack of any loudspeaker, calls for us to rise. The acoustics of the place make it sound as though the voice is coming from everywhere at once. Dad notices me looking around, gives me an elbow in the side and nods toward the hall we came through.

From a dais above the hall, a priest begins to recite the ceremony's first verse. The crowd joins in. I know the words by heart:

So it was that of all the creatures in the world, upon Man alone did the Creator bestow the terrible power of reason. And Man, using his unique power, did perceive the Creator, and also the Way of the Creator, a hard and merciless Way.

My stomach, empty from fasting all day, grumbles as I take my seat again. The stone bench feels harder and colder than ever. Like the Way of the Creator.

Everyone turns to the entrance hall. Two columns of robed, hooded figures, one in white, the other in brown, walk side by side into the arena. The white figures are much smaller than their brown partners. I count seven white-brown pairs before the first wheelchair emerges.

Five white figures ride in wheelchairs pushed by their brown partners. I search for the colorful decals we plastered on your wheelchair over the years. My heart skips a beat when I don't see them--are you there? Then I notice all five wheelchairs are the same. They must have replaced yours with a generic one for the ceremony.

The procession circles the spouting, steaming pool three times, then stops. Evenly spaced in white and brown pairs around the pool, the figures turn to face the audience. I try to locate you, but your face is hidden by your hood, or maybe you're on the far side of the pool.

The priest calls us to our feet to recite the next verse:

The Way so appalled Man that he denied his Creator. Not for kind and merciful Man the ruthless way of creation! Man directed his power of reason toward transcending the Way, and he succeeded. Man's progeny, free at last of the Creator's relentless purge, grew plentiful.

The brown-clad figures assist in removing the white robes. I see you now, facing off to my left, naked, your head bowed like the others. People always say you look like me.

A boy facing me begins sobbing. He recoils from a brown-gloved hand on his shoulder, howls against his escort's gentle restraint. I check to see your reaction, afraid you might break down as well, but you're calm. Dad's watching you, too. For once, he looks proud of you. I can't help but smile, wishing you'd look over and see him for yourself so you'd believe me this time.

A second brown figure produces a hypodermic needle. A quick injection calms the crying boy, preserves a family's honor. The coliseum falls quiet save for the burbling fountain, a woman's stifled sob, a man's comforting murmur. The priest calls us back to our feet.

Man's descendants multiplied and multiplied. The strong and the weak, the bright and the dim, all existed side by side according to Man's way, the Way of Life. But with each generation the weak grew weaker, and the dim grew dimmer. They came to depend, more and more, on the systems Man devised to protect them from the Way of the Creator.

The standing children turn and step into the pool. A blind girl feels her way forward with one foot, searching for the edge, until her escort helps her down. Two brown figures lift you from your chair, place you in the water.

Shivering, I imagine what you must feel like, submerged to your shoulders in the womb-like pool, hands joined with the others in a submarine ring. You lean back your head and close your eyes. I think I can see your lips moving, reciting the prayer for redemption I helped you memorize.

The hooded figures crouch behind their respective charges, waiting for the final verse. I wonder who it is, behind you? Is it someone you know? Mom squeezes my hand so tight.

In time, the weak and the dim grew to far outnumber the strong and the bright. Though Man strove to preserve them all, the Way of Life at last collapsed beneath a helpless multitude. Only the strongest and brightest survived.

The survivors understood then, the Way of the Creator is the Way of the Worthy.

As one, a dozen brown-clad arms rise, a dozen blades flash. I recall the portrait hanging inside the main entrance, of the Prophet Darwin with sad eyes. Was it sorrow he felt when the Creator revealed itself to him? The blades plunge once, twice, three times. The fountain gushes frothy red. We bow our heads. The Unworthy are redeemed.

Christian Roberts is a retired electrical engineer and former US Army Ranger trying for a second career as a writer. His work has appeared in The Cynic Online Magazine, Short Fiction World Magazine, Tryst E-zine and Sinister Tales magazine. Christian currently lives in Coyote, California.