A Good Gathering: A tale of a life-giving community in a post-apocalyptic world.
Written by Darrell Muth and friends, Chapter One: Monuments
photo credit : https:/www.unco.edu/news/articles/csmonitor-ruraledcenter.aspx
I once led a Christian Community. We were unconventional. Trying things often not understood by the greater church. We believed that the right question was more important than the right answer. Consequently, we asked a lot of questions. A question is a forerunner of a conversation. We liked conversations. Inviting questions and conversation after a sermon.
One does get tired of sermonizing, so in the summers, we would write and tell stories. Stories which, yes, asked questions and invited conversation. “A Good Gathering: A Tale of a Life-giving Community in a Post-Apocalyptic World was one of our stories. And if you are wondering, it was written well before the COVID-19 pandemic.
It’s a short story, just four chapters and under 10,000 words. I’ll post a chapter a week.
Chapter One
Monuments
Clear with blue skies, it was another beautiful, sad day. Eve swung her legs over the cot, stretching and reaching to touch her left occipital bone. It was an automatic response. She forced her arm down, not allowing her hand to reach the bony destination behind her ear. The disease that had killed so many marked its presence with a tenderness of the occipital bone. Not so much pain. More like the inconvenient soreness of an adolescent pimple. Yet the innocent inflammation marked a countdown to death within 48 hours. The end was as mild and embarrassing as the first symptom. Those with 48, as it was now known, followed the same pattern: minor discomfort behind the left ear. Followed by vertigo at 47 hours and death by 48. No great suffering. People just tipped over and died. 48, the scariest number in the world.
It took about a week for 48 to destroy most of the population. No one knew how it started or why it ended. If it had ended. It touched down like an invisible and silent tornado. A mother would fall over with her healthy infant in her arms, cradled and crying. Two lovers are kissing; one would lose their balance, and the other would not. Sometimes, entire families died at the same time. While those next door were safe.
A new case of 48 hadn’t been reported in weeks, and like every survivor, Eve resisted the urge to touch that spot behind the left ear. Being seen, reaching for that area was to invite the mark of “48,” followed by segregation for 48 hours. You had to put 48 on your door if you had the mark. If you were in a public place, you must shout "48!". Then run until you were alone to self-isolate for 48 hours. To not comply was to invite a different kind of death. Though sometimes it came despite the mark and the shouting. Robert, Eve’s husband, hadn’t shouted 48 quickly or loudly enough. A brick to the temple ended his life.
Eve pulled on her scrubs and cut through the alley. She passed hills of waste so high it restricted her vision of the labyrinth of garbage. She continued towards the Emergency Room entrance of the Hospital. As head Surgeon of the emergency ward, she did her best to remove the pain. Pausing, she stooped at this spot each day to pick a bouquet of bluebells growing wild atop a compost pile.
The charge nurse gate-keeping the ward mocked her weak attempt to add life and colour to the older woman’s desk. Still, Eve was sure it was appreciated as she rounded the last corner, a desperate shout of 48, 48! Startled her. The hunched figure of a middle-aged man in an adjoining dead-end alley yelled his curse. “How much longer?” Eve shouted back. “24,” he replied. “...Could you bring me some water?” Eve tugged a bottle of bartered-for, re-filtered water from her pack. She hesitated and then hurdled it towards the figure.
Another shout, this one was from behind, and it frightened her. A group of teenage girls and boys called “Orphs” were cursing her generosity. Their leers, exposing their thoughts.
Orphs had lost their families to 48. It reminded her of the young male elephants in Africa she had read. They lost their social mooring at the death of the heard Matriarchs. Then gathered in dysfunctional and violent groups and harassed villagers.
The Orphs were shadowing her. She would have to change her routine.
The ward was full, like yesterday, like every day. Three kinds of people populated this world. Those who had injured themselves because of a decaying, malfunctioning world. Those sick with pre-48 illnesses. And those without hope.
“Eve, Hospital admin is calling a meeting for 4 pm.” said the former orderly. He now ran messages because of a failed communications system. He had a crush on Eve and was hopeful that his crush on her would find its way past the desk. Fearful it wouldn’t, he spun, sidestepping to crush a cockroach before making his way to the next office.
Eve loved her job; she still loved her job. Her father had been a doctor and his father before him. She and Robert met in medical school. She loved that she could offer hope. She loved that her actions could mend the sick and the hearts of loved ones who suffered alongside them. Eve loved the tension and the drama. She did not love meetings. A surprise benefit of 48 was that communication was brief, to the point, like every other post-48 activity.
“We are out of money.” The CFO announced. Someone snickered. He continued, “We are handing out IOUs - barter vouchers. Pausing with the pursed lips of someone who does not believe their own words. He continued, “We're promised the vendors will honour them. Then tagged on: “City Hall says it is doing its best to find us supplies and more money. They say they are close but won’t commit to a time. Won’t make any promises, and nor can I.” He turned and walked out, too busy or embarrassed to take questions. Post-48 life had also killed many social graces. Eve smiled. She did not love that either.
Neil caught up with Eve as she passed through the hospital grounds to the entrance of the tent city. An EMT, they met as rookies in their respective hospital roles.
Post-48 life had removed most social barriers, and they had become friends.” What are you going to do?” he asked, “What can we do but wait for City Hall to come up with what we need? They say things will get better. They say they have some solid leads,” Neil hesitated, “I don’t think so, Eve. They keep saying things will get better, but they don’t. Hey, let me buy you a drink. I found another re-filter bar near the monument. “She bent and grabbed a clutch of bluebells.
The monument had new significance since 48 Survivors first gathered in its shadow. It became a safe zone. Inoculating against hopelessness. Each night many would congregate. Relaxing in the normalcy, it offered. Climbing its outstretched configurations was once forbidden. Now, it was the norm.
Neil and Eve used the barter vouchers as coasters for their drinks. They paid with hoarded aspirin. They positioned their chairs so both could see the monument. The immense design and pride of the city. Applauded around the world. It embraced the figures clamouring over it.
They both jerked to the staggering sound. Like a branch snapping from a giant tree, the terrible noise came from the square. “Is it moving?” “Is what moving?” Neil responded. “The monument, is it moving?” “I don’t think it...yes, it is!” Neil shouted. The monument was tilting. The bar emptied to the street as pointing, screaming, and crying drenched the air. The two ran towards the memorial, pushing against the rush of panic. Then, another echoing snap and they froze. Watching tiny figures dropping from the monument like overripe fruit. As though it too was suffering from vertigo, the great icon leaned, finally crashing.
Dust and air rushed to catch the crowd as the monument exhaling in death, tried one last time to touch its admirers. The two worked through the night, treating the wounded, and comforting the dying.
Morning came, bright blue skies; it was another beautiful, sad day. Eve, swinging her leg over a cast-off piece of hope, announced, “There has to be something better, and I’m going to find it.”
Christ had something to say about difficult times and monuments.
Matthew 10:37
If you love your father or mother more than you love me, you are not worthy of being mine; or if you love your son or daughter more than me, you are not worthy of being mine.
Matthew 10:38
If you refuse to take up your cross and follow me, you are not worthy of being mine. Matthew 10:39
If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give it up for me, you will find it. NLT
Matthew 16:24
Then Jesus said to the disciples, “If any of you wants to be my follower, you must put aside your selfish ambition, shoulder your cross, and follow me.
Matthew 16:25
If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for me, you will find true life.
Matthew 16:26
And how do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul in the process? Is anything worth more than your soul? NLT
What are the monuments in our lives, in our church? How has a fallen statue affected your faith?