Revelation (Part 1)

Revelation (Part One) We’re resting, Kate and I, in her own residence. We’ve done nothing besides speak to one another; not as though it makes a difference. By reengaging with her, I am in major violation. By returning to her home, I hate to think of the consequences if I were caught. As you’ve witnessed in my encounter with Meric, and my thoughts in the little store, future soldiers are forbidden to spend such intimate time with members of the opposite sex. We’re not to use our imaginations about them, either, but that can sometimes be concealed. And at any rate, who knows what I want from Kate? I’ve trained myself not quite to know with anyone. I feel a little less guilty as a result, although at the moment, I am feeling plenty guilty. My entire identity is firmly rooted with our Good cause, and my status of future soldier. In our discussion, we come to the topic of St. Hill. I told her I still thought the entire business to be vague, and she told me, “Well, I still don’t really know what the hell you mean by ‘future soldier.’” Which is fair enough, since I can’t offer much of an explanation. You either get what it means, or you don’t. Don’t worry if you don’t--if you want to, you’ll be made to understand it naturally; if you don’t want to, nature will not allow you to understand it, and you never will, so don’t bother trying at any point in your entire life. At least, that’s what Meric said. We’ve arranged ourselves in a fashion that would make Faust, who hates such things, cringe: Kate is laying on her couch, and I am sitting at one end, with her feet resting on my lap. I know! Horrifying. Be assured, there is nothing behind this display. We’ve done nothing sneaky which I am keeping from you. That much of a betrayal would destroy me. In honesty, though, I am quite relaxed. I don’t see the big problem with these types of actions. I am anxiously afraid; nervously happy. Anyway, to prod our conversation further, and to educate me on St. Hill, for whom the search is my reason for being in Kate’s home, she leans over the edge of the sofa, sliding out a fireproof case from under it. I see only paper inside. She removes the top piece, handing it to me. It reads: It is the Grand Will of St. Hill that you ought read the following: Do you see the beauty in the wonderful spin of the world we so adore? And do you know what brings the snow; what sends the wind; whose pain creates rain? St. Hill! Your eyes are entrancing, a feature so enhancing, and from whom does this gift come? St. Hill! And where are the eyes of St. Hill? His left: the sun. His right: the moon. With one eye, he observes each side of the beautiful planet. Nothing may escape his bright gaze. Having read it, I say, “An arresting image. If you think about it, the explanation of St. Hill’s eyes makes sense.” Kate’s features tighten. “Don’t be stupid.” She continues, “Here. Look at another.” She fishes out a second piece of paper, and I read: It is the Grand Will of St. Hill that you ought read the following: Who are you? What are you? Questions answered! You are the children of St. Hill. He is your father. Your father knows best, always. Now listen to him: Be on guard! For not all children of St. Hill shall show it. Or know it. Not all his children will act as perfect as St. Hill, father of all, is. And beware, for this reflects sadly upon his parenting. And that must not be had. For all St. Hill’s children owe him. No matter how bad. I lower the paper, and Kate, raising both arms, shouts “We owe the mother f****r!” My eyebrows raise, although I am used to such language with Faust. And as you’ve seen, I will allow “a*****e” to slip in certain honest moments. Of course, Meric and the way of the future soldier does forbid such language, or at least tends to forbid it. There are perhaps more serious issues than words. Whole sentences, for instance, which demean our cause. That would be more serious. Nevertheless, I am surprised by Kate’s usage. What, with her gray scarf and such, I’d come to view her as soft and gentle. Now, she looked the same as always. But minute by minute, more of herself opened up to me. “We owe the mother f****r! And you should see what he does if we don’t pay it back!” “Hmm.” She rants. “It’s like I told you. If you don’t give him respect, he wants you worse than gone. Gone and then some! And there have been people who really love the man. They’ve read all this, and down their hearts melt, into goo! F**k!” “. . . Kate.” “I say, f**k him!” I slowly run my hands across her feet. I’ve never done this before. It feels like instinct. She slows down, catches her breath, relaxes. “Right,” she whispers. “In a little bit, I’m going to tell you what I was so ready to do, that night at the restaurant, when I thought you might be St. Hill. But first, I want to show you another paper from my box. This one was a little different. St. Hill didn’t write it. It was supposed to be snuck in with the rest of these papers, when some kind of ‘Ultimate St. Hill’ book was to be created. It never made it, in the end the whole book never made it--I’ll tell you about that, too--but this particular piece of paper, it came with a price. That price was seriously paid.” She handed me the paper, and I read: Here we are to flower. Here we aren’t to cower. I choose not to be so near, to that which I ought fear, and you shouldn’t be, either. I lower the paper, and I see silent tears forming in Kate’s eyes. The light brown eyes. I say, “This is not bad.” “It’s horrible,” she says, “because a human, without serious abilities, came up with it.” Without a sob, without a hysterical fit--relaxed tears flow from this woman. I ask, “Who wrote it?” And I know the answer. She says, “I did.”