As for Gabi, she’d always felt like a piece of flotsam herself, just barely eluding Messenger Nystrom’s grasp. He was getting older, and though anyone could receive a message from the One God or be called to translate, it was widely assumed by both council and congregation that, after several years of training and refinement of her abilities, Gabi would receive a call to replace him. Who better than she to pair with her father and, eventually, her brother? Nystrom’s eyes were sharp with an unspoken question when they met hers. He had the habit of hooking her chin with one finger and turning her head side to side like a produce inspector sizing up a bruised apple.
“Head up, girl,” he’d admonish. “Your God is in heaven, not under your feet.”
In the temple, her father caught Gabi’s eye and frowned. Sam didn’t like it when she hid farther back among the crowd. She was supposed to be observing Messenger Nystrom and the other councilmembers at work. It was important to demonstrate an interest in receiving so that when she got her calling, her fellows would be ready to accept her as a Messenger. Mathew sat in the innermost ring of chairs closest to their father. Her brother’s gift as a Translator first manifested during a service when he was still in middle school, years before he was eligible to attend the annual Consecration Camp, where most fellows received their calling.
During a weekday study service, young Mathew had been drawn to the side of Messenger Wilkes, who was shivering in her chair. As he approached, the transported woman grabbed hold of his arm, pulled the boy close, and unleashed a stream of words in his ear. Sam shoved a pen and paper into Mathew’s hands, encouraging his son to relax and record everything as well as he could. When Mathew showed his father his notes, Sam saw that the words spelled out basic Unitas doctrine, which was typical of the content delivered to those in the early years of their calling. Still, it was an extraordinary achievement for one so young.
“Were you scared?” Gabi asked a shaken Mathew when he and Sam had returned home from the study service that day.
“At first,” Mathew admitted. “It was like doing a writing assignment for school, except you don’t have much time to think about it. You have to try to remember what you’ve studied so you can make everything make sense. It felt like running a race, only I couldn’t see the finish line.”
In the temple Gabi slouched in her chair as the singing started up. Incense hung in a fragrant cloud over the heads of the crowd, which had risen and begun to sway, hands raised toward the Unitas banner that hung from the rafters. “Lo, this is our God” the banner read. “We have waited for him, and he will save us—Isaiah 25:9.” Gabi welcomed the cover of bodies and the clamor of rattles, drums, and guitars. She would be invisible once her fellows got swept up in divine union and the messages began to flow. No one would notice her leave.
Gabi liked the singing part and usually participated as much as she could given her meager lung capacity. She never received a message, though, or felt that she understood the strange utterances of the people around her who did. Her father claimed Gabi’s heightened senses, which had always made her feel like a freak, were God-given so that she might serve the Word. He assured her that it was important to perceive on many different levels in order to identify true message. Gabi strained to open herself to a message without success. Instead of assurances that man was given dominion over the earth, that disasters and conflict were God’s strategy for bringing divided religions back together, Gabi heard only noise.
Over the shoulder of a stout Asian man in front of her, whose body convulsed with spiritual ecstasy and gave off the smell of burned rubber, she saw Bradley Fiske. He claimed to have gotten his calling early too. The blessed event, Bradley swore, had happened last year during a prayer service. His claim had yet to be verified, since no consecrated adults had been present to confirm it. Bradley would still be expected to attend Consecration Camp with the rest of his age group in a few weeks’ time. The ambiguity surrounding his calling did not deter Bradley from performing his duties as a Messenger, however, and this Saturday was no exception. The boy’s head was thrown back as oily sweat poured down his acne-scarred cheeks and drenched the collar of his shirt. His lips flapped and stretched, revealing his yellowed teeth. Sister Herndon stood close by his side with her pad and pencil, scribbling furiously as Bradley twitched and moaned.
Her father knelt beside Messenger Nystrom’s chair, recording the rapid-fire murmurings of the older man rocking in his seat. The two of them could remain that way for hours. Though all Saturday messages would go into the weekly Unitas bulletin, the results of Sam Lowell and Ben Nystrom’s collaborations were always printed and bound separately as appendices of the new doctrine. There were truths, and then there were Truths. Mathew watched them as though attempting to burn every detail into his memory.
Gabi had found her moment. She rose into a crouch and edged past
