I let it and New Charity and everyone in it just disappear.
My mom didn’t help matters. She didn’t badmouth my dad or his change of heart; she simply stopped mentioning him altogether—as if I’d spent fourteen years with a mother and father, and the years following as an immaculate conception.
Pi takes a deep breath, resetting his temper in the way that used to infuriate my dad. “I’m glad you’re here, Syd. It’s good to see you. I see so much of them both in you.”
I don’t want to get choked up already, so I dodge his niceties. “So what else is new? How’s the Sanctuary? Have you found any new music lately?”
Pi shrugs, and climbs onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. “Well.”
“That good, eh?”
“Things are different from when you left. You might not see it, but when the illness came, things changed for us, too.”
“Do tell,” I say, hopping up onto the counter next to the humming fridge, letting the track lighting overhead bore into my eyes.
“You might have been too young to remember, but the Bishop and I have never seen the Spirit in quite the same way. His future for the Sanctuary is a much more disciplined one than we had before he came. And he asked a lot of the people of New Charity.”
“Like Spirit spirits?”
“It’s more than that, Syddie,” he says, taking a moment with his wine. “Everyone was scared, and, well . . .”
“He preyed on their fears?” I offer.
He shakes his head. “That sounds worse than it is. The Blessing was his way of making sure we would survive.”
“Blessing?”
“You’ll see what I mean in the morning. Members of the community were asked to give of themselves to bless and protect New Charity, even as the world around us faltered.”
“Didn’t want to, say, bless and protect the rest of us, though?”
“With our limited resources?”
“Seems like you folks are doing okay to me.”
“Wait until morning. Look out the window and tell me what you see. Then tell me the Spirit hasn’t moved over this place.”
“All I’m saying is, I wish the Spirit had moved over some other places, too. Why is the Bishop’s blessing geographically limited? Why is the reservoir closed? Why is the town’s gate closed? Why can’t anyone have any fun? Seems pretty simple, Pi, the guy is a bully and New Charity is full of sheep.”
“Tormented, sure. But I don’t think he means any harm.”
“That’s supposed to make things better?”
“He’s still in mourning over his daughter. She left to marry someone in the City shortly before the Bishop came to us. She died in a car accident. Her fiancé lived, and the Bishop’s been trying to find a way to forgive the guy—the City, really, or its culture—ever since.”
“And so he saves New Charity and leaves the rest of us to rot?”
He lifts his chin at me, the way he used to when he would call me hyperbolic. Before I knew what that meant. “There’s a curfew now. The social hall is chicory and pleasantries. No singing except for services. No dancing.”
“That’s like a permanent state of reverence. How does that work?” We couldn’t even get people to agree on food distribution days in the City, let alone enforce a curfew.
“The people wanted to make sense of their fear and their guilt. I think they wanted to believe him when he said their faith, their sacrifice, was the only thing between them and the catastrophe outside.”
This makes sense in some ways, even though I don’t think it’s much more than a case of an insular population. “Sacrifice? What did they sacrifice?”
“The old magics, Syd. The elementals. Those who didn’t have any powers to give up gave their blood, sweat, and tears to ensure we were self-sufficient.”
It doesn’t seem possible, at least not in my hometown, where the people were cantankerous and opinionated and proud. Not in the country’s last bastion of magic. “And everyone just agreed?” No wonder the New Charitans hadn’t
My mom didn’t help matters. She didn’t badmouth my dad or his change of heart; she simply stopped mentioning him altogether—as if I’d spent fourteen years with a mother and father, and the years following as an immaculate conception.
Pi takes a deep breath, resetting his temper in the way that used to infuriate my dad. “I’m glad you’re here, Syd. It’s good to see you. I see so much of them both in you.”
I don’t want to get choked up already, so I dodge his niceties. “So what else is new? How’s the Sanctuary? Have you found any new music lately?”
Pi shrugs, and climbs onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. “Well.”
“That good, eh?”
“Things are different from when you left. You might not see it, but when the illness came, things changed for us, too.”
“Do tell,” I say, hopping up onto the counter next to the humming fridge, letting the track lighting overhead bore into my eyes.
“You might have been too young to remember, but the Bishop and I have never seen the Spirit in quite the same way. His future for the Sanctuary is a much more disciplined one than we had before he came. And he asked a lot of the people of New Charity.”
“Like Spirit spirits?”
“It’s more than that, Syddie,” he says, taking a moment with his wine. “Everyone was scared, and, well . . .”
“He preyed on their fears?” I offer.
He shakes his head. “That sounds worse than it is. The Blessing was his way of making sure we would survive.”
“Blessing?”
“You’ll see what I mean in the morning. Members of the community were asked to give of themselves to bless and protect New Charity, even as the world around us faltered.”
“Didn’t want to, say, bless and protect the rest of us, though?”
“With our limited resources?”
“Seems like you folks are doing okay to me.”
“Wait until morning. Look out the window and tell me what you see. Then tell me the Spirit hasn’t moved over this place.”
“All I’m saying is, I wish the Spirit had moved over some other places, too. Why is the Bishop’s blessing geographically limited? Why is the reservoir closed? Why is the town’s gate closed? Why can’t anyone have any fun? Seems pretty simple, Pi, the guy is a bully and New Charity is full of sheep.”
“Tormented, sure. But I don’t think he means any harm.”
“That’s supposed to make things better?”
“He’s still in mourning over his daughter. She left to marry someone in the City shortly before the Bishop came to us. She died in a car accident. Her fiancé lived, and the Bishop’s been trying to find a way to forgive the guy—the City, really, or its culture—ever since.”
“And so he saves New Charity and leaves the rest of us to rot?”
He lifts his chin at me, the way he used to when he would call me hyperbolic. Before I knew what that meant. “There’s a curfew now. The social hall is chicory and pleasantries. No singing except for services. No dancing.”
“That’s like a permanent state of reverence. How does that work?” We couldn’t even get people to agree on food distribution days in the City, let alone enforce a curfew.
“The people wanted to make sense of their fear and their guilt. I think they wanted to believe him when he said their faith, their sacrifice, was the only thing between them and the catastrophe outside.”
This makes sense in some ways, even though I don’t think it’s much more than a case of an insular population. “Sacrifice? What did they sacrifice?”
“The old magics, Syd. The elementals. Those who didn’t have any powers to give up gave their blood, sweat, and tears to ensure we were self-sufficient.”
It doesn’t seem possible, at least not in my hometown, where the people were cantankerous and opinionated and proud. Not in the country’s last bastion of magic. “And everyone just agreed?” No wonder the New Charitans hadn’t
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