

### The Temple

Brian Smith

Copyright 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents

Prologue

Two years earlier

The Temple

A Clean Slate

Monday Service

The Posters

Another Miracle

The Discalceation Ceremony

The Laws of the Lord

The Museum

Will no one rid me...?

The Dryvellist Hospital

Another Patient

Dryvellophobia

The Martyr

We Shall Overcome

The Freedom Defence League

Vengeance

City of Darkness

War

The Truth Hurts

Epilogue
**Prologue**

It is a pleasant sunny morning in early autumn. Waiting at a bus stop in a town, it could be a town just like the one you or I live in, are several people. Standing at the front of the queue is a pensioner. After forty-five years of toil and work at the post office he is finally looking forward to enjoying some quiet time all on his own. Not today, though. Today he is on his way to see his granddaughter. She is just four years old and fills his heart with a joy he hasn't known for many long years.

Behind him in the line is a young mother carrying her ten month old baby. Her baby fills her life with a love that burns brighter than a thousand suns. Feeling his little hands around her neck, his little cheek against hers as he looks this way and that, gives her comfort and joy and a deep sense of fulfilment. The long nights of broken sleep feeding him, cleaning him, soothing him, all were gladly done for him.

Next comes a one legged man with a crutch. A veteran from a war. He has served his country and lost a leg on a mine. He feels no bitterness. He joined the army of his own free will, knowing the risks he might be taking. He is proud of having served his country, of having done his part to fight for freedom so people back home could live in peace. After his honourable discharge he was given a small pension, not much but just enough to see him through. That and his job in a small bookshop where he can spend most of the time sitting behind the counter allow him to lead a pleasant life. He is on his way to work. He has lost a leg, but he is proud that he works for his living, does his part in society and isn't a burden to anyone.

There are quite a number of people queuing at the bus stop this morning. Housewives going on errands, kids on their way to school, workers, clerks and other good folk that make up your average town.

At last the bus approaches. The people at the bus stop look at their watches, some wondering if they'll be late for work, others hoping to get a seat. Not a chance today, the bus is quite full already.

Sitting on the bus by a window is Sycko. He is also going to work, but work of a very different sort. Unlike all the honest hardworking people around him he knows he is on a mission for God. There is no doubt in his mind that he is doing the right thing. Sycko knows that he is on the side of God. He knows that he is right and that all the others are wrong. They live in sin, in the sin of refusing to heed the word of the only one. They aren't humans, they are mere animals, no, even worse, they are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and he, Sycko, is there to set things right. He is proud that God, the all-mighty, has chosen him to do His work.

The bus pulls up at the bus stop and the doors open. The moment has come. Sycko's hand is in his pocket. It tightens around the switch he is holding. He knows he is doing it for God and he smiles. The little baby outside sees his smile and happily smiles back, a smile of innocence. Then Sycko presses the button. The explosives wrapped around his body detonate. People on the bus are torn to pieces, blood and bones and flesh fly through the air. The pensioner at the front of the queue is killed instantly. He has worked hard all his life. Now the happy years of his retirement are ended by a holy man. The ten month old baby boy behind him is still smiling at Sycko when a piece of flying metal cuts his head off. His father is a widower now, though he doesn't know it yet. He will never take his son to the playground now, or see his son's first day at school or his graduation ceremony, or all the other things he has dreamed of and worked for. All brought to ruin by a man of God.

Violence has caught up with the veteran. He survived a war but now he is dead, killed in the town he fought to protect. Housewives, children, workers, clerks and the other good people going about their daily lives, now lie about torn to pieces, their mangled bodies all that is left of lives filled with work, love, joy and all the other things we take for granted.

**Two years earlier**

Character is Destiny.

Heraclitus

Sycko woke up and looked at his watch. Eight-thirty and his work started at nine. "Yea, whatever," he said to no one in particular. He knew his boss would be cross with him but he didn't care. He slowly got out of bed, got dressed with his shirt hanging out of the trousers and left home. On the way he stopped at a kiosk for a hotdog and coke. "Morning, Sycko," the girl said as she handed him his usual. "Late for work again?"

He shrugged his shoulders, paid and walked on. Every step he made was accompanied by a dragging sound. He gulped down the hotdog and coke and left the empty can standing on a letterbox. A few minutes later he entered the shop where he worked. He glanced at his watch. "Nine fifteen, not late really," he mumbled.

His boss gave him a dark stare as he slowly made his way through the shop and got his things ready. Some customers were waiting already, impatient, wondering whether to go shopping elsewhere in future.

"Can you do things any more slowly?" the first customer remarked acidly.

"Yea, whatever dickhead," Sycko thought. One customer after another came and each one meant more work. "Life ain't fair," Sycko thought. "Why do I have to be stuck behind a counter dealing with these idiots all day long when others have millions."

"That's not right, young man," an annoyed woman said.

"Eh...?"

"That's not the right change you've given me," she said. "Can't you count?"

He quickly handed out some more coins. It wasn't the first time that he gave the wrong change.

From across the room his boss saw everything, his slovenly appearance, his careless attitude and disrespect to customers. At the end of the day Sycko was fired.

He left the shop with his final wages and lit a cigarette.

"Hey Sycko, what's up man?"

Sycko turned to greet his friend Judas, a short swarthy man with greasy hair, who was wearing an old T-shirt and torn jeans as well as a pair of filthy trainers that had the power to send the most hardened nose to flight when they were removed from their owner's feet.

"Life sucks, man," Sycko said. "There I go working my butt off for some rich swine and what do I get as thanks?"

Judas sucked on the joint in his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke looking at Sycko with the vacant gaze of a man whose mind was obscured behind a thick veil of fog.

"I get up early," Sycko went on, "I haven't got time for a decent breakfast, I slave away all day, week after week and what do I get in return from that greedy fucker? He kicks me out. He fires me. All I have is my measly final pay."

Slowly an understanding of what had happened seeped into Judas' mind. "Yeah, life sucks, man. Come, let's go have a drink somewhere." He pulled Sycko along past shops lit brightly towards a darker area of town where sordid buildings were home to less reputable businesses. In one such building was Judas' favourite haunt, a drinking den called The Jamaica Inn. Judas pushed the door open and they entered the smoke filled interior where customers were safe from fresh air and cleanliness. They took seats in a dingy corner.

"Hey Charlie," Judas called across the room. "Two of the usual."

Charlie nodded and mechanically prepared the drinks. He was an old portly man with white hair and a double chin whose real name was Charles Laughton though no one knew or cared. Everyone called him Charlie. He brought the glasses over and put them on the sticky table.

"Now just listen to this, Charlie. My pal Sycko here works his butt off for some rich bugger and what does he get? He gets fired. What do you say to that?"

Charlie shook his head in sympathy.

"Now where's justice, I ask you? My pal works and works and then just like that he's given the boot. No warning, no hint to give him time to find a new job, nothing."

Charlie looked at him wearily wondering where the conversation was taking him.

"And then," Sycko went on, "he finishes work and his boss tells him not to come back again. Just gives him his final pay and shows him the door. Now what do you say to that?"

Charlie understood. "That's bad, very bad, but you've come to the right place and the right man. Nothing we can't cure here. Relax and enjoy!" He turned away with a satisfied smile. Customers with cash to spare and maybe more were always welcome.

Sycko and Judas drank away Sycko's final pay and after some illicit pleasures available in rooms upstairs they returned for more drink and smoke. It was well past midnight when realization slowly began to dawn on Sycko that not only had he spent all of his final pay but that they owed quite a lot more to Charlie.

"The rest of the bill's on you," Sycko said to Judas.

Judas looked at him in a drunken stupor. "You mean you've got nothing left?"

Sycko nodded.

"That's bad, man, that's bad. I'm flat broke." He shook his head slowly. "Hey Charlie," he called. "The dosh's all gone."

Charlie came over. "Bill's must be paid," he said sternly.

"Yeah, I know," Judas said wincing under Charlie's gaze. "I didn't know, Charlie. I thought there was more, I mean my pal here only told me now he'd got nothing left."

Charlie reddened. Customers who couldn't pay up were troublesome and unwelcome. He went through his mind how much they still owed. It wasn't that much, and after all they had spent he still stood to make quite a profit on them. He could just let them go and keep it in the books till Judas found some other victim. By now everyone else had left. Charlie hesitated when suddenly the door opened. A middle-aged man came in. He was wearing a dark suit with a blue tie that made him look curiously out of place in The Jamaica Inn.

"Wait here," Charlie said and wagged his finger at the two drunken louts. "I'll deal with you in a little while." He walked across to the gentleman.

"Good evening, sir. What will it be?"

The gentleman placed his order and when Charlie brought the desired drink he took out a wallet brimful with money to pay.

"I am told," the gentleman said quietly, "I am told that there are also other, eh, services available in your rooms upstairs."

"Why certainly, sir, certainly," Charlie said with a smarmy smile. "Anything you want can be had."

It was his lucky night Charlie decided. First Judas had brought a good customer and now there was a gentleman to solve remaining problems. The sight of the wallet had given him an excellent idea.

"Just make yourself comfortable, sir, and enjoy your drink. I'll make the other arrangements." He left the gentleman, who looked rather pleased in anticipation of coming pleasures, and brought two more drinks over to Sycko and Judas. "These are on the house," he said. "Just to show that we value our customers here, eh?"

"Why that's awful decent of you, Charlie," Judas said.

"Just you two sit tight," Charlie said. "I'll be back soon."

He left the room to go upstairs but then a thought struck him. "Now why should I share anything with those greedy strumpets? I'll do it all myself. And the two louts will do anything I tell them to."

He quickly returned to the bar room and mixed the gentleman another drink.

"I'm not sure I want another one," the gentleman said.

Charlie smiled. "Upstairs will be ready for you in a few minutes," he said with a wink. "This one's on the house while you're waiting."

"Well, if you put it that way, how can I say no?"

"That's the spirit, sir, that's the spirit." Charlie went back to the bar keeping a close eye on the gentleman.

The gentleman sipped the drink and then suddenly emptied the glass in one fell gulp. Moments later his head hit the table in front of him as he collapsed in a swoon. Charlie hurried over and chuckled. "Welcome to The Jamaica Inn, sir, welcome. You're not the first to be shanghaied here nor the last." K.O. drops were his preferred method of dealing with strangers and while it was not something he resorted to very frequently, it was a very profitable sideline in his business. He quickly removed all the money from the gentleman's wallet. There was also the matter of two gold rings on his left hand and a gold pocket watch all of which quickly disappeared into his own commodious pockets. When he was satisfied that there was nothing more to be had he turned his attention to Sycko and Judas who had watched everything with a strange sense of detached interest.

"Now then you two," Charlie said strictly. "You owe me quite a bit of money. But I won't be harsh on you. I understand that these little problems happen even with the best of intentions, so I'm giving you the chance to do a little work for me and in return we'll call it even. Now what do you say to that?"

"Gee, Charlie, that's awful decent of you," Judas quickly said.

"What do you want us to do?" Sycko asked.

"Why only this, you see this fine gentleman who's fallen asleep in my establishment? He needs some fresh air and I want him out of here. Carry him to the park and leave him on a bench. He'll thank you for it, I'm sure."

Sycko looked doubtful but Judas quickly pulled him along.

"Come on, pal. We'll have this done in no time."

They left The Jamaica Inn with its now richer and happier Charlie behind and wended their way through the narrow winding streets to the local park where they dropped their heavy burden onto the nearest patch of grass. Exhausted Sycko sat down beside the unconscious man.

"We've got to go, Sycko," Judas said and tried to pull his friend up. "Can't be found here, can we now?"

Sycko pushed him away. "Leave me, I've had enough."

Judas shrugged his shoulders and without waiting to hear what Sycko had had enough of he walked away.

Sycko and the gentleman lay side by side on the cool grass beneath dark tress that gently swayed in the night wind. It was a full moon. Its cold wan light shone through the trees.

"Just like a scene from one of those old vampire films," Sycko thought and closed his eyes.

**The Temple**

Laziness is the Mother of all Evils.

Sophocles

At dawn a crow landed on Sycko's chest and woke him up. Startled he waved the bird away which fluttered over the gentleman's face waking him too.

Sycko groaned. His head was pounding and he felt the strong urge to throw up. He stood up and stumbled to the path where he vomited leaving behind a pavement pizza. He saw a bench and sat down. "Now why the fuck did I have to run into Judas?" he cursed. A sudden shout of dismay made him turn round.

"Oh Lord," the gentleman wailed. "It's all gone. The money, my rings, everything. Oh I have sinned, I know and the Lord's wrath has been swift. Alack! Alas! Lord forgive this poor sinner a moment of weakness."

He knelt on the ground and began to recite a lengthy prayer.

The stench from Sycko's excesses filled the air until at last the gentleman could ignore the smell of puke no more. He stood up and looked around. "Now there's a fine mess I've got myself into," he said and looked first at Sycko and then the vomit in disgust. "And you, young man. What have you got to say for yourself? Didn't I see you last night? I suppose you too have been left with empty pockets."

"Eh, yes, I think so," Sycko said. "Did the strange man understand that he had helped Charlie to rob him?" Sycko wondered. But then how could he? He'd been unconscious all the time.

"Let this be a lesson to you young man, as it has been a lesson to me," the gentleman said, "and thank the Lord Almighty for looking after you as he has looked after me in my hour of need."

Sycko didn't understand how the Lord had looked after the gentleman when he'd just been shanghaied, but he understood that the man seemed to think he was a victim too. And why not he thought. Didn't I too have a bundle of cash before I walked into that damn inn with Judas?

"Eh, yes, I suppose so."

"Suppose so? Suppose so, he says. Do not suppose, young man. Be sure of your gratitude. But where are my manners. This is no place to be," he said and pulled Sycko up and away from the vomit.

"I'm sure glad to be away from that pavement pizza," Sycko said. "The name's Sycko." He held out his hand.

Slightly embarrassed the gentleman took it. "Yes, well, glad to meet you. Maybe something good will come out of all this after all. My name's Jeremiah. Come with me. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but I believe that it was not mere chance that led us to sin last night. It was His will that brought us hither."

"Where are we going?" Sycko asked. I really need a drink and some aspirins. My head's killing me." He suddenly noticed he was drooling and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was a wet stain on his shirt.

Jeremiah noticed and was delighted. "Ah," he said. "A portent, a good omen! I knew it was part of His plan that we should meet thus. Drool, slaver, drivel, is it not in His eternal glory that we Dryvellers perform this holy act?" Is it not written in the Book of Books, The Holy Dryvel, that to drivel shall evermore be a sign of the holy bond we have with our Lord? No, no, I tell you. This is all part of a plan. You must come with me. Our temple is not far. You will find all your heart's desires there."

Although Sycko had his doubts about finding his heart's desire in any place but the vaults of a bank where he was free to help himself to as much money he liked without ever having to do any work, he was in no state to argue and meekly walked along. "Strange bloke, Jeremiah is", he thought. "But what the heck. Nothing can be worse than what happened last night and maybe I'll get something out of it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

A few minutes later they reached the temple. It was a plain brick building with no ornamentation of any sort. The only things that made it different from any other building were a trickle of water down the side of the entrance that reminded every Dryveller of their holy bond with God and the inscription above the door:

When God throws, the dice are loaded

Sycko read it without understanding. "Do you play games in here?" he asked.

"Games?" Jeremiah pushed the door open and they entered. "Games?" he repeated. "Well, I suppose you could say some of the things we do could be seen in the manner of games. But come along. You'll learn about everything presently. I have a good feeling about you. An excellent presentiment, in fact. It is most propitious. I dare say you might be the chosen one. Yes, Sycko, you are a special person and it is here that you have found your destiny."

Sycko looked around wishing that the verbose Jeremiah would shut up. Evidently asking questions was a mistake if he wanted quiet and quiet was just what his pounding head needed. The hall they were in was bare. The ceiling was white, the walls were black and the floor was like a chess board. They walked to another room that was furnished with a simple wooden table and chairs.

"Pray, be seated, my friend," Jeremiah said. I know, I know your head hurts. Let Jeremiah attend to it and all will be well soon."

Moments later Jeremiah returned with a packet of aspirins and a bottle of water. Sycko quickly took two aspirins and drank greedily while Jeremiah slowly sipped tea from a cup and watched Sycko. The tablets slowly took effect and with the waning of the pain his interest in Jeremiah waxed.

"Gee, thanks Jeremiah. This is the very thing I needed."

And you're very welcome, my friend, but thank not me, thank not me. It is the Lord we must give thanks to. Is He not the giver of all munificence? It is such a pleasure to have you here, Sycko. But where are my manners again? Here I am talking when surely you would like to tell a little about yourself. Where do you live, Sycko?"

"Well, I live in a room in my parents' place," he said not at all sure he wanted to talk about himself. "I ain't got a job now. Well, I had a job and worked real hard there, but I got the sack yesterday. There's no pleasing some folks and my boss was never happy. Anyway, I guess I'll just be staying with my parents until something else comes along."

Jeremiah had a gleam in his eyes. "Yes indeed, the world is unjust, Sycko. You have been treated most unjustly. But believe me, it's all for a purpose. Is it not written that a just man suffering at the hands of an unjust man shall bring atonement to the world of the unjust for their sins against God? Ah, my friend, I tell you there is more to all this than meets the eye." He leant forward and patted Sycko's hand. "I have a proposition to make, Sycko. A most propitious proposition I might say even if I say so myself," he said leering at the young man. "It seems then that you are in want of a new life. Let me help you get away from injustice. Cleanse yourself from the impurity of avarice and ingratitude. Come and stay with us. There is a room I can give you and you'll live and eat in our community. Let not the esurient be hungry and the sitient be thirsty is our motto. Join us here in a new life and we'll show you the way forward."

"You mean I can live and eat here for free and all I've got to do is talk with you?" Sycko said astounded. The idea of not having any work to do but being fed and looked after for free was very attractive. Much better in fact than staying at his parents' place where there was always someone nagging and moaning about him finding a job, or helping at home or paying for the groceries. There was no peace to be had at all. Maybe Jeremiah was right after all when he'd said that Sycko could find his heart's desire in the temple.

"Yes, well something like that," Jeremiah said not quite understanding what Sycko meant. He quickly smiled. "Is it agreed then?" he asked. "Will you come and stay with us and learn our ways?"

"All right, yeah, I'll shake hands on that, Jeremiah. You're the most decent bloke I've ever met. I don't think anyone has ever been so generous and kind to me. I'll be happy to be here."

Jeremiah beamed with joy. "The Lord be blessed thrice over!" he exclaimed. "What a joy, what an exultation there shall be!"

Sycko returned to the temple later that forenoon. When he got home to pick up his things his mother was predictably mad that he had lost another job.

"And now you'll be on our hands again, like a millstone round our necks. You never manage to keep any job longer than a fortnight, you useless lazy lad. Laziness it is, I'm telling you, laziness."

"Well don't worry. I'm just back to pack my things and leave. I'm making myself a new life."

After some more arguing he left home leaving his mother behind in tears. 'What the heck,' he thought. 'If she wants to cry let her cry. No way anyone's going to stop me from living in a place where no one expects me to work. This is great. And if I can live for free I don't mind drooling for them every day if they like it so much.'

Sycko started his new life by doing what he did best, lazing around. He got his first free lunch at noon and then spent the rest of the afternoon smoking and relaxing in his new room. There was a wooden bed, a small white table and a solitary chair, and at the front of the bed stood a small sofa facing a TV set that was fastened to the wall. Beside the bed was a small bedside table with a drawer. He opened the drawer and saw a single book lying in it entitled The Holy Dryvel. It was very thick, at least a thousand pages he decided. He wasn't much of a reader so he quickly put the book back and closed the drawer. He tried the TV but there was no reception. "Nothing's perfect, I guess. I'll just ask Jeremiah to fix it."

In the evening there was a knock at the door. Sycko opened and saw a young woman roughly his own age smiling at him. She was carrying a tray with food and drink.

"Hi," she said. "Jeremiah thought you might want dinner in your room today as you're not feeling so well."

"Oh yeah, hey thanks. Just come right in."

She put the tray on the table. "Enjoy your dinner," she said in a pleasant voice and left the room before Sycko had time to say anything.

"This is just getting better and better," he said. "Almost like in a hotel. I've really hit the jackpot this time. I'm almost grateful to Judas."

There was even some aspirin on the tray. He took one and then lay down to sleep the first night in his grand new life.

**A Clean Slate**

Even noble souls

can be corrupted

with wrong education.

Plato, The Republic

The next day was a Friday. Sycko woke up early. For the first time in many a year he was looking forward to the day to come. On the chair he saw some new clothes. Someone had come at night to make sure he could dress in the right way. There was a white shirt and a black suit. "Not my style really," he said, "but what the heck. If life in paradise means wearing this stuff then I'll wear it."

He left his room and was surprised to find everyone else up too.

"Awake already," a voice behind him said. He turned round and saw Jeremiah.

"Excellent," Jeremiah said. "I trust you had a good night and you've found your new clothes. Splendid, new clothes for a new life."

"Good morning," Sycko said.

"And a good morning to you, my friend, though around here we prefer to say 'Good morrow'. But let's not stand around here. It's time for breakfast. I trust you have a good appetite after such a long sleep. There's nothing like a hearty breakfast to start the day. Eat well and live well is what we say, wouldn't you agree?"

Sycko consented eagerly and followed Jeremiah to the common dining hall. There was a long black table with chairs all around it. At the far end was a chair with a much higher back than the others had. Jeremiah headed for this chair and motioned Sycko to take a chair to his right. There was absolute silence in the hall even though there was someone standing in front of every chair.

"Good morrow, brethren," Jeremiah said loudly.

"Good morrow, Master Jeremiah," the reply came.

"Pray be seated," Jeremiah said. When everyone was firmly ensconced in their seats Jeremiah looked each one of them in the eye, one by one. "As you know we have a newcomer in our midst, my young friend Sycko here," he said patting him on the shoulder. "I bid you all to be warm and welcoming to our new friend. He is here to learn our ways and to begin a new life. When the slate is wiped clean and we can start all over again it is a tremendous opportunity as well as a responsibility and I ask each of you to shoulder your part of that responsibility."

"Hear, hear," the reply came.

"Excellent," Jeremiah said. "Now let us thank the Lord for the bounty of the land that He has so magnanimously bestowed upon us. Let us pray and drivel."

They said a short prayer in silence and then pushed saliva out of a corner of the mouth till it was drooling down onto their white shirts. Sycko felt rather silly doing this but decided he had to join in. He didn't want to stand out and not doing so might have been seen as being ungrateful.

Jeremiah noted how fast Sycko joined in the drivelling and was satisfied. When everyone had a wet stain on their shirts Jeremiah gave the signal to start eating and soon the room was filled with quiet voices and the clanking of cutlery on crockery.

After breakfast Jeremiah beckoned Sycko to follow him. They went to the grand hall and sat down on two large cushions in the middle. There was no one else there and every little noise they made echoed off the walls. Sycko took a packet of cigarettes out. "Do you mind...?"

"Oh, but those won't do at all, my friend, they won't do at all. There now, let me have those and wait for me."

Sycko watched him disappear with the only cigarettes he had left. "Oops, shouldn't have said that, I guess. No smoking in the temple, at least not in this hall." He waited wondering if Jeremiah would be annoyed when he came back, but he needn't have worried.

"My dear young friend," Jeremiah called as he came back into the hall. "I'm so sorry, I must apologize for this oversight. I should have told you before, but then there are always so many things to think of and to do, one can't always remember everything. I do hope you don't mind."

"Hey no, that's all right, I understand" Sycko said surprised by the verbose apology.

Jeremiah held out a black and white packet to him. "Have these," he said. "You're one of us now so I really must ask you to smoke these only like everyone else here."

Sycko took the packet. It said Drivellers' Fags in large white letters on a black background.

"Fags?" he said even more surprised.

"Yes," Jeremiah said. "Fags meaning cigarettes. You've heard the demotic usage, I'm sure?"

"Eh, yes. I'm sorry, I was just surprised to see it used like this. I thought you'd be cross with me for wanting to smoke in here, or something."

Jeremiah laughed. "No, no, how could I be cross with you. We have no objections to smoking as long as you light up drivellers' fags. Do light up, I pray you, and relax. I'm sure you'll find them to be much more, how shall I say, energizing and invigorating than mere cigarettes you buy in a shop."

Sycko opened the packet and slowly took out a cigarette. Jeremiah held out a lighter and the little flame soon left a narrow trail of smoke rising up into the air. Sycko inhaled deeply and then blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

Seeing Sycko comfortable and settled Jeremiah began to write the word 'level' on the slate he had prepared.

"In here, my young friend, we meet upon the level. In our language meeting upon the level means that we are equal. That I am a Master Driveller in this temple and you are as yet a novice is of no significance here. Now that we are upon the level I would ask you for a little help. Nothing much, I assure you, and quite easy."

Sycko nodded.

"But wait," Jeremiah said. "On the level I must be fair to you. It is not fair that I should ask you to agree to something, and be it ever so small a matter, without first informing you to the full extent what it is you are being asked to do."

Sycko smiled in admiration. "You're a really nice and decent bloke, you know Jeremiah." For the first time in his life he felt the wish of wanting to do something for another person. It was a new sensation and he didn't quite know what to make of it, though it didn't feel unpleasant in any way.

"How can I help you?" he said.

Jeremiah beamed. "Ah, my friend. I'm glad to hear you say so, it warms my heart. I'm sure we're going to get along brilliantly together. What I really need your help with is that you help me to let you relax. You've got your fags, I'll bring you something to drink and then I want you to sit here and relax. Just contemplate your surrounding, that's all. Oh, and we'll be playing some music. You don't mind music, do you?"

Sycko was flabbergasted. "I sit here, I smoke, drink, look at the room and listen to music. That's it?"

"Why yes, certainly. Is anything wrong?"

"Wrong? This is the closest thing to paradise I could imagine."

"Splendid," Jeremiah said, "splendid. I'll leave you to it then. I'll be back to pick you up for lunch. I only ask you to stay here and relax until then."

"Suits me fine," Sycko said. "See you then."

Jeremiah brought him a large bottle of whiskey and left.

Sycko lit up another fag and poured himself a drink. "Now that's what I call life," he said. I help Jeremiah by smoking, boozing and relaxing. This is just fab!"

Moments later music filled the air. It was Handel's Sarabande. The slow rhythmical music and the beating of the drum combined with the whiskey to slowly induce something similar to trance in his mind. The same piece was played over and over again without interruption while Sycko kept smoking and drinking. The hours passed by. Sycko looked at the chess board floor. At first there were only black squares and white squares but later his mind began to fill some of the squares with other things. Images came to his mind. His childhood and how his parents were yelling and fighting at home. His teacher at school furious with him for being disruptive. There was a square with Sycko shoplifting and another square showed him being fired. There was a square with the police, a square with his first fight and a square with his first sexual adventure. Soon all the squares were brimming with images of his life, his former life, his brain corrected. And still the music droned on mercilessly cleansing his soul, extirpating every last vestige of his former self. He drank and smoked and listened and his head spun round. Hours later the bottle was empty and all that remained of his fags was a pile of ash and cigarette butts on the floor. He put his head on the cushion and listened to the music till his mind drifted off and he was asleep.

Just before noon Jeremiah returned. He switched on exhaust fans to air the hall. There was no more music. Everything was quiet and he noted with satisfaction that Sycko was asleep. "You have relaxed very well, my friend," he said to himself. "Let's hope your journey to the realm of dreams was a productive one."

He gently woke up Sycko and took him to the dining hall for lunch. Sycko was silent. The experience of lunch was similar to breakfast and he found himself fast getting accustomed to things. When everyone drivelled he just joined in as though he had been doing it all his life.

After lunch Jeremiah invited Sycko for a walk in the park. "Nothing like some fresh air to clear the mind," he said. Let's go and have a chat."

Sycko happily assented. He had almost worried Jeremiah would ask him for an afternoon of relaxation similar to his morning session. A walk in the park offered a pleasant alternative.

While they wandered about the park Sycko told Jeremiah about how his morning had gone and the impressions on his mind. Jeremiah nodded and listened but said remarkably little. On their way back to the temple a crow flew by on Sycko's left side. "Odd bird," he said. "Just like the one that woke me up yesterday."

The following days passed in a similar vein. From breakfast to lunch Sycko spent his time 'relaxing' with a strong drink, drivellers' fags and repetitive music. Only the music changed from day to day. The second day he spent listening to Al Bowly singing 'All of me' and on the third day Mike Landau kept repeating 'Deep Night' for hours on end. Sycko did wonder why Jeremiah kept choosing obscure and old music but then it seemed to have the desired effect. Every day his visions changed and he began to incorporate more and more of his new life at the temple into them while images of his previous existence slowly waned. Sycko even began reading in the copy of The Holy Drivel that was in his bedside table, not much at first but it was the first time in his life he had read in a book without being made to do so.

**Monday Service**

Hope is the Dream

of a waking man.

Aristotle

It was Monday evening and the grand hall in the temple was crowded. Sycko had been to a driveller service before but Jeremiah had hinted that this service would be something special and so Sycko was eager to attend. The congregation was assembled and the entrance doors closed, the clank of the heavy doors being as always the signal to commence divine service. In the grand hall all those attending met upon the level, which meant that there was no raised altar or platform from where the master would speak. While the congregation were seated on cushions, anyone who had the word simply stood up. When the doors fell shut a hush of silence pervaded the hall. Then Jeremiah arose. He stood in silence for some moments until he felt a thousand eyes gazing upon him eagerly. As Temple Master he was permitted to wear the sacred top hat which gave him a highly distinguished appearance along with a black suit, a white stud collar shirt and a white bowtie.

"Monday," Jeremiah said in a stentorian voice that rang clearly across the entire hall. "It is Monday, our holy day, the day of the moon which has since time immemorial been the symbol of our Lord God the most high, omniscient, almighty, infallible and divine."

"Our wise master," a voice called out to a round of applause at the words of wisdom that had come from Master Jeremiah's lips.

Jeremiah raised his right hand commanding silence. "It is now time," he said, "to renew the sacred bond that exists between us Dryvellers and our Lord. Let us drivel!"

With mucho gusto the entire congregation began to push saliva out of the corners of their mouths gladly renewing the bond with God.

"Rejoice, brethren, rejoice for you are now one with the Lord!" Jeremiah called out ecstatically. This was followed by loud cheers and calls for a hymn to be sung.

Sycko leapt to his feet. "Master Jeremiah, with your permission I would sing 'Onward drooling Dryvellers'."

"An excellent choice," Jeremiah responded and sat down. Now Sycko was standing and led the congregation in singing the rousing hymn.

Onward drooling Dryvellers, as in days of yore,

With our Lord the moon, going on before.

Our master drivels, speaks against the foe;

Forward gormless sheep, let us all now go!

There were ten verses in all and when the hall fell silent again Sycko sat down to allow Jeremiah to continue the service.

"Wonderful," Jeremiah said, "wonderful, splendid, oh how I can feel the power of the Lord reverberate through every last inch of myself. What a rousing hymn you have chosen, Sycko. Thank you for this excellent choice. Now, before we continue I would invite you to share our burden. As you all know freedom isn't free and having the freedom to gather here in the eyes of our Lord means that we have burdens to shoulder and to put it in a nutshell it is time for a donation to the house of God."

Suddenly thick black cloth bags appeared at the sides of the hall which were passed along from one Dryveller to another. The sound of many coins being dropped in the bags filled the hall with a myriad of little clanks that was music to Jeremiah's ears. At last all the bags had passed through the crowd and were taken away by a number of temple assistants.

Jeremiah smiled and turned all around so that every single person in the crowd felt that Master Jeremiah's gaze and smile was a personal token of gratitude.

"We are gathered here today," Jeremiah said in a calm voice, "not only because we want to drivel, not only because we want to listen to drivel or even read from 'The Holy Dryvel'. No my dear friends, my beloved Dryvellers, we are here for a higher purpose than even all that!"

Stupefied at the thought the congregation looked at Jeremiah agog.

Jeremiah pushed the sacred top hat slightly to the side of his head and then placed his hands on his hips. Arms akimbo he looked at the congregation full of determination.

"Some of you," he said, "have asked me for help. They have asked me to intercede with our Lord in some very personal and serious matters. It is not a thing lightly done and I can assure you all that I personally made sure what I was being asked for were just requests." He paused briefly and then held out his right hand towards one of the side entrances.

"Bring in the supplicant," he called.

All eyes turned toward the door. Moments later a young woman in a wheelchair entered the hall. She pushed the wheels with her hands and very slowly made her way through the crowd towards Jeremiah.

"Make way, brethren, make way for this unfortunate young woman," Jeremiah said.

"Now then," Jeremiah said when she reached him, will you tell our congregation your name and why it is you are thus afflicted?"

She nodded. "My name's Fraudula. I'm twenty-one years old and I come from a good Dryveller family."

A round of applause welcomed her.

"Thank you. I don't know what to say, I'm so overcome. She began to cry and Jeremiah patted her on the shoulder to comfort her.

"You're amongst friends here, Fraudula. Will you tell us what happened to you."

She wiped her nose with a tissue and went on. "When I was nine years old I lived as a happy girl with my loving Dryveller parents. But not everyone loved us. There were people whose hearts were filled with hate against us because of our beliefs." Again she burst into tears and angry shouts rang our from the crowd.

"Then one day," she sobbed, "I was standing at the bus stop when someone pushed me in front of the bus. A man pushed me because I was a Dryveller!"

The hall was in uproar.

"Calm, my brethren!" Jeremiah shouted. "Becalm yourselves I pray you."

When the tumult had subsided Fraudula went on.

"The bus hit me and I was taken to hospital. The doctors saved my life, but what kind of life did they save for me? I am paralysed hip down, bound to a wheelchair, unable to walk and run and swim with my friends, unable to meet someone I love and have a family of my own. What kind of life is this? Did I deserve this simply because I am a Dryveller?"

Again there was uproar. Dryvellers jumped to their feet and shouted in fury.

"Nay, nay," Jeremiah shouted. "Becalm your wrath I pray you. Let us not be blinded by anger. We are here for something much more important."

Gradually the noise subsided and the Dryvellers took their seats again.

"My dear fellow Dryvellers," Jeremiah said. "We are here today, on this most auspicious Monday, to unite in prayer for this unfortunate young woman. Poor Fraudula, who has not been able to do many of the things we all take for granted since she was an innocent little nine year old girl. I ask you all to follow me and kowtow while we speak the prayer 'Have mercy, oh merciful Lord'.

Jeremiah got to his knees and kowtowed with the whole congregation following suit. After the prayer Jeremiah rose to his feet again and placed his right hand on Fraudula's head.

"Affliction be gone!" Jeremiah called out. "Get thee hence vile affliction that hath blighted this young woman's life. In the name of the Lord I command thee to leave."

Jeremiah looked at Fraudula with kind eyes. "Thrice did I command, thrice did the Lord aid. Fraudula, give me your hand. Dare to, Fraudula, dare to move your foot."

Slowly, ever so slowly her left leg moved forward, then her right. Jeremiah took firm hold of both her hands and pulled her up. Unsteady and wobbly on her feet Fraudula looked at her legs with wide open eyes. Jeremiah pulled her gently and she took a step forward, then another and another.

"A miracle!" Jeremiah exclaimed. "A miracle from God, my brethren. A true miracle in our day and age. Behold the power of our Lord!"

A jubilant cheer rang through the hall with the entire congregation jumping to their feet and applauding wildly.

While Jeremiah called on everyone to give thanks to the Lord, black cloth bags suddenly appeared again and this time the collection was silent as the bags passed through the crowd. Jeremiah smiled happily.

Thinner and lighter wallets were put back into their owners' pockets quite easily. Bursting full black bags were carried away and when everyone looked to Jeremiah again Fraudula had vanished.

"My dear fellow Dryvellers," Jeremiah said after a while. "Truly, it warms the heart to think that Fraudula can go back to living a life again. But I must ask you now to focus your attention on another task for there is more work to be done."

Once again he held out his arm to the door where Fraudula had appeared. "Let the supplicant enter!"

There was absolute silence in the hall. Then a quiet tap, tap, tap sound heralded the arrival of the next supplicant. A man wearing a black suit and tie appeared. His eyes were concealed by very dark sunglasses and in his left hand he held a long white stick that made the tapping sound as he carefully made his way forward. A woman stood up and helped him walk over to Jeremiah.

"Thanks," he said and turned to Jeremiah.

Jeremiah took his hand. "Welcome to our temple. We have just been witness to the most incredible thing and I have a great feeling. I really have a feeling that we'll be able to help you. Can you tell us your name."

"Mendax, my name's Mendax and I'm thirty-four years old."

"I see you are blind, is that right?"

"Yes, I've been blind since I was a little baby."

"That's terrible. Were you born blind?"

"No, I was quite healthy at my birth, but I had the misfortune to be born in Syldavia. As you may know the life we Dryvellers face in Syldavia is not an easy one."

"Can you tell us something about it?"

"It can be dangerous to profess our faith openly. Simple things such as going to a restaurant can be life threatening. We can't even drivel at the table before a meal without the risk of an anti-Dryveller riot."

"I see," Jeremiah said. "That's shocking, dreadful, terrible. And what happened to you? Surely an innocent baby would not be the target of even a rabid mob?"

"Ah, if only it had been an angry mob!" Mendax shook his head and then buried his face in his hands.

Jeremiah put his arm around Mendax's shoulders to comfort him. The congregation was quiet. Many Dryvellers covered their mouths with their hands horrified at the suffering of other Dryvellers and poor Mendax in particular.

"I'm sorry," Mendax said. "I'm just so overcome with emotion to be standing here in a free country at last where I may drivel without risking my life."

There was an outburst of cheering and applause.

"We understand," Jeremiah said. "Can you tell us now what happened to you, why you are blind?"

"As a six month old baby I got a serious eye infection. Conditions in Syldavia are not always hygienic and it is a common enough ailment that is easily treated. But when the doctors at the hospital discovered that my family were Dryvellers, they turned us out and refused to help."

Raucous shouting interrupted Mendax and Jeremiah had to raise his arms and repeatedly call for calm.

"By the time my parents found a private doctor, who was willing to treat me in spite of our beliefs, it was too late. The disease had damaged my eyes to such an extent that I was blind for life."

"Did you ask for help when you managed to come to this country?"

"That I did, but the doctors at the hospital told me there was nothing they could do."

"My brethren," Jeremiah called out. "I ask you, is not the case of poor Mendax here worthy of our help? Shall we not help him and intercede with the Lord on his behalf?"

Loud cheers and calls for a special prayer came from the crowd.

"I am glad that you all feel this way. Let us then kowtow once again on this most auspicious and propitious Monday night, the night of a full moon, and speak the prayer 'Have mercy, oh merciful Lord'.

After the prayer Jeremiah stood up. He took the sunglasses off Mendax and placed his hand over his eyes.

"Affliction be gone!" Jeremiah called out. "Get thee hence vile affliction that hath blighted this man's life. In the name of the Lord I command thee to leave."

Jeremiah looked at Mendax with gleaming eyes. "Thrice did I command, thrice did the Lord aid. Mendax, my friend, open your eyes. Dare to open your eyes and you shall see what you see."

Mendax slowly opened first one eye and then the other. There was a look of shock on his face.

Jeremiah held out four fingers in front of Mendax's face. "How many fingers do you see?"

"I can see," Mendax called. "It's incredible. I can see. There are four fingers, Jeremiah. Oh, the Lord be blessed thrice over. I can see!"

Ear deafening cheers filled the grand hall while black cloth bags quickly appeared yet again. They were filled with what money was left to be found in wallets and pockets as well as a large number of cheques made payable to the Dryvellers' Temple.

It was a joyous evening that Dryvellers would speak of for years to come. And it was a great personal success for Master Jeremiah who had put so much hard work and effort into preparing everything.

After the last Dryveller had left and the doors were securely closed Jeremiah went to the back exit where Fraudula and Mendax were waiting for him.

"Excellent work, you two," Jeremiah said with a satisfied smile. "A pity this sort of thing only works once or your careers would be a sure thing with me."

The two actors sniggered and Jeremiah paid them a thousand in hard currency each. He also threw in two plane tickets for the same evening to make sure they were out of town and far away for good.

**The Posters**

The only time an unjust man

will scream against injustice

is when he is afraid someone

will practise it on him.

Plato, The Republic

The following day everyone in the temple felt elated. Breakfast was an even more cheerful affair than usual and there was no end of talk about the undeniable fact that the Lord had blessed their community with two miracles.

"Come, Sycko," Jeremiah said after breakfast. "Let's go and talk."

They went to the grand hall and sat in the middle. Jeremiah put the sacred top hat on the floor between them. The shiny black hat contrasted beautifully with the white square it was on.

"Now then, Sycko," Jeremiah said with a smile, "you have been with us as a novice for some time and you have made excellent progress, indeed I would say most excellent progress. There are, however, a few more things before you will be accepted as a full brother in our holy fraternity. Take this holy top hat for example. What does it mean to you?"

"Well, I'm not sure it means anything to me," Sycko said with a blank expression on his face. "I guess it's black and shiny."

"Ah yes, quite right, how very clever of you. There is more to it though, than at first meets the eye. It could be said that by wearing this top hat the wearer's head acquires a loftier position thus being brought into closer proximity to the divine."

Sycko looked doubtful. "You mean if I wear it I'm closer to God?"

"Yes, yes, very good my friend. Now what I want you to do this morning is to take this top hat for a perambulation in the park and to reflect upon the divine in this hat."

"A what?"

Ah, a perambulation, it means a walk. Go for a walk in the park and think about the hat and God. That's simple enough, isn't it?

"Oh sure, can I smoke while I'm enjoying the fresh air?"

"Yes, of course you may. One last thing, however. Do make sure you perambulate in a distinguished manner. An erect bearing and noble gait becoming of the sacred top hat are essential. You do follow, don't you?"

"Yes, that sounds simple enough."

"Very well, then. I'll see you later."

Sycko donned the top hat and wended his way to the nearby park. He looked at himself admiringly in the water and decided that together with his black suit and tie the top hat made him look most distinguished. It was a rather pleasant sensation he would not have thought himself possible of just a few weeks before when he used to wear ragged jeans and old T-shirts. He walked as upright as he could and drew some quizzical glances from others in the park. He put a fag in the corner of his mouth and slowly wandered around trying to think about the connection of top hat and God. He failed miserably.

"Oh what the heck," he said to no one in particular. "This sure beats standing in a shop and working. And if I keep walking and smoking a divine inspiration will surely come to me."

But if there was any divine intervention it came in a form very different from what he had expected or hoped for.

"Hey, Sycko, is that you?" a voice called from behind.

Sycko turned and found himself face to face with Judas.

"What the fuck happened to you, man?" Judas said. "What are you wearing that stuff for? You robbed a bank or something?"

Sycko looked surprised. "No, nothing like that. I've got a new life. I relax, smoke and drink every day now. At the moment I'm doing my work."

"Your work? What are you doing?"

"I'm walking, smoking and thinking about this top hat and God."

"That's what you call work?"

"Why yes, certainly. Want a fag?"

"A fag?"

"A cigarette. Here have one of mine." He held out the packet of Drivellers' Fags and Judas took one. Judas lit his fag, inhaled deeply and squinted at Sycko.

"You'll have to tell me all about it, pal. No way you get away till I know it all."

They walked, talked and smoked and Sycko related what had happened to him since the night they parted in the park.

"I don't know," Judas said at last. "My old man always used to say there's no such thing as a free meal in life and you seem to have been getting far too many already. It's all going to come back to you one day, mark my words."

"Oh nonsense. Why don't you come with me and meet Jeremiah? He's the nicest, most kind-hearted bloke you could imagine."

"Really," Judas said doubtfully. "I guess having a look won't do any harm. I'm curious about that outfit of yours anyway. Let's go."

Sycko led the way to the temple where he found that Jeremiah was waiting for him already.

"Ah, there you are Sycko, excellent. How did it go?"

"Well, I'm not sure. I was thinking and praying to God for inspiration regarding the top hat but instead He chose to put me in the way of an old friend. This is Judas."

Jeremiah frowned. "How very interesting and unexpected," he said and held out his hand to Judas. "Jeremiah, Master of the Holy Dryvellist Temple. Glad to make your acquaintance. Are you in any way familiar with the lore of top hats or Dryvellism?"

"Hi," Judas said feeling a bit embarrassed. "Can't say I know anything about them except for what Sycko told me."

"I see," Jeremiah said, "or rather I don't see. It's all rather mysterious. Why did the Lord send you? It's a mystery we shall have to explore."

"No one sent me. I just took a short cut through the park and ran into Sycko. It's bound to happen sooner or later. Just a chance meeting. There's your mystery explained."

"Nay, nay, young man," Jeremiah chuckled. "Things don't just happen by chance. There's a higher purpose behind everything, a divine plan. Oh, I know, I know, it can be very hard to understand at times, but always remember that the Lord works in mysterious ways. It is not always for us to understand everything. We must content ourselves to play the parts we are given. But come, I'll show you something."

They went into the grand hall and sat down on cushions in the very middle as always. Jeremiah put the sacred top hat between them.

"Now then, young man," he said to Judas. "I invite you to share with us a unique experience. Let us contemplate the sacred top hat and drivel together to come together in holy communion with the Lord."

Jeremiah and Sycko immediately started drooling and soon saliva was running down their chins and dripping onto their shirts. Judas looked on aghast.

"Yuck," Judas said at last. "You're spitting all over your shirts. That's gross man. I mean, it's like you're six months old or something."

Jeremiah was outraged. "How dare you insult me to my face like that! Don't you know who I am and where you are?"

Judas was taken aback by the vehemence of the outburst. "Hey, no offence mister, but I ain't see nothing wrong with calling a spade a spade."

Jeremiah took a deep breath and fought to regain his composure. "Oh well, young man, I suppose it is not your fault since you are not acquainted with the facts. It is the government who is really to blame for so shamefully neglecting the most important part of your education. After all we are all Dryvellers from the moment we are born."

"What do you mean we are all Dryvellers? I ain't a Dryveller. There are so many people who believe nothing, and what about the other religions? You can't call all those folks Dryvellers."

"But they are, they are. Observe how an infant from the day it is born drivels. We are all born this way. Of course I understand that all too many of us are led astray, are told lies and are kept in the dark by evil conniving forces who exploit them. But that doesn't mean they aren't Dryvellers. Once a Dryveller, always a Dryveller. It may be said that those poor souls who are held in ignorance could still have a chance of finding forgiveness, but anyone wilfully denying the truth of Dryvellism is in a state of revolt against the Lord and without any doubt an abomination in the eyes of God."

"Are you calling me an abomination just because I don't want to join you in spitting on my shirt?"

"Oh Judas," Sycko interrupted. "If only you had been here last night. It was wonderful. The Lord himself performed miracles. Two poor exiles were healed in front of my very eyes. I swear to you it's the truth."

Judas laughed. "Yea, I've heard about that already. Hardly a miracle. I know those two. They ain't exiles and they're quite healthy. Fraudula and Mendax have been acting in plenty of cheap performances in places I like to go to. How much did you pay them to come here?"

Jeremiah went bright red in the face. "Never in my life have I been so vilely insulted! How dare you! I... I, you, out, be gone, get out of the house of God. You have no right to insult our sacred beliefs. How dare you drag my good name in the dirt with your filthy lies!"

Jeremiah was on his feet in a trice and chased after Judas who beat a hasty retreat out of the temple. Still fuming Jeremiah came back into the hall where Sycko was sitting mortified.

"Hatred," Jeremiah called out. "Do you see the hatred that we Dryvellers come face to face with? My dear Sycko, I am sorry I lost my temper, I do apologize. But to think how much those poor refugees had to suffer in their young lives just to be branded liars and insulted in the house of God. It was too much. I could not contain myself any longer. I know I sinned but I'm sure I will find forgiveness. And to think that you brought that villain here with the best of intentions. You wanted to help him revert to Dryvellism. And did he submit himself to the truth? No! He turned out to be a traitor, a venomous serpent that would strike even at one he called friend. Let this be a lesson to you, my poor Sycko. There are many evils in the world and we must never let our guard down. Hatred and Dryvellophobia may come in many guises. But let us think no more of the matter. Let us focus on the good, on the things that we can still achieve. In any case it is almost noonday. I propose that we continue our conversation after lunch."

Jeremiah picked up the top hat and walked away without waiting for a reply.

But if the forenoon had proved to be unpleasant, lunch was even worse. They had scarcely been seated when a cry came from the main entrance. "Master! Master Jeremiah! Come quickly!"

Jeremiah ran out of the dining hall followed by the others. The front door was wide open and one of the delivery men, a devoted Dryveller himself, stood there visibly shaken.

"What is it man?" Jeremiah asked. "Speak up."

Unable to say a word the man just pointed at two posters hanging beside the entrance.

Becoming Offended –

The last Refuge of a Scoundrel:

When caught in an unethical action,

a scoundrel will often feign offence.

It puts the accuser on the defensive

and it often works like magic in derailing a confrontation.

Jeremiah turned as pale as a ghost. "Alas, my brethren. Not here as well. Dryvellophobia! The haters have found us. First Syldavia and now here. Woe the day, woe the day that the enemies of God attacked His holy temple. Oh, it is too much! I can't anymore. My heart won't take it."

Jeremiah clutched his heart and several of the brethren quickly came to his aid.

"Master Jeremiah, what have you? What is it?"

But Jeremiah just shook his head. He made short feeble steps back into the temple and permitted the brethren to take him back to his chamber where he lay down exhausted from the horrible ordeal. Sycko went into his room on tiptoes and left Jeremiah's lunch on his table. After that no one dared disturb him for the rest of the day.

Sycko tore the offending posters off the wall and screwed them up. "Curse you, Judas," he said bitterly. "If you want hatred then so be it. Do as you would be done by."

**Another Miracle**

Riches that are the fruit

of dishonest work

are full of shame.

Democritus

Sycko came into Jeremiah's study, a medium sized room with white walls and a brown wooden desk in the middle. The only shelf in the room was occupied by one book, The Holy Dryvel. The only other thing of interest in the room was a computer on the desk. Whenever Sycko had surprised Jeremiah working on the computer he had always closed any open windows before Sycko could see what he was doing. Today, however, the computer was pushed to one side and Jeremiah was busy with plaster, paint and some other things.

"Good morrow, Master Jeremiah," he said politely. "What are you doing?"

"And a good morrow to you, my young friend. Come and join me. I'm sure you'll find this very interesting and most instructive. I'm making a statue of holy Diana. I see you look confused. Permit me to explain. Diana is the goddess of the hunt, the moon and birthing. She is important to us Dryvellers as a divine lunar being and because she helps with the process of giving birth to babies who themselves will be drivelling. Look at these two pictures of her. In the first you see her standing with bow and arrow ready to shoot, an important action in life. Are we not all hunting for something?

And in the second picture you see her with a crescent moon on her head."

"I thought there was only one God," Sycko said slowly.

"Why yes, certainly. There is God our Lord and there is Diana the moon who is one with the Lord. Are not your parents a father and a mother and yet they are one?"

Sycko looked nonplussed. "So why are you making a statue of her?"

"This statue will take a place of honour in the grand hall. What we need is a hollow statue made of a porous material such as plaster. Our icon must be glazed or painted with some sort of impermeable coating. If the statue is then filled up with a liquid, which we can do surreptitiously, through this tiny hole in the head, the porous material will absorb it, but the glazing will stop it from flowing out. If the glazing, however, is imperceptibly scratched away on or around the eyes, tear-like drops will leak out, as if materializing from thin air."

"I don't really understand. Why do you want to do this?"

"Well it's obvious really. I will fill a red liquid into the cavity and when our Diana is in the grand hall and people come to worship they will discover Diana crying tears of blood. It will be miraculous."

Sycko looked shocked. "But isn't that a fraud?"

"A fraud? A fraud you say! Nay, but I don't know what to say. If it were not you saying such an outrageous thing I would demand you leave this holy place at once."

"I'm sorry..." Sycko stuttered.

"And sorry you ought to be. Oh God almighty give me the strength to be patient. A fraud he says. Of course this is not a fraud. A fraud is when someone deceives, cheats, cozens, tries to make people believe something that is not true in order to derive some sort of gain. We are not making people believe something that isn't true. What we are doing is technically known as a pious fraud, but that is something altogether different from a base deception. We are simply helping them to become stronger in their beliefs. We are helping them to have confidence in the power and might of the Lord. And is there anything wrong in helping people? Is there, I ask you?"

"No, of course not, Master Jeremiah."

"There you go, my young friend. You must learn to think before you speak rashly. A rashly spoken word may haunt you for a long time and it is impossible to make unsaid."

Sycko was crestfallen. "I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to offend you in any way. I just didn't understand."

"Now, now, my young friend, it is just another lesson learnt and I do hope you have learnt it well. Now cast aside that woebegone expression on your face and be of good cheer again. Here, take my hand and let's shake on friendship."

A few days later Jeremiah and Sycko put up a little shrine at one end of the great hall. Unlike the hall, which was all in black and white, the shrine was painted in garish colours and caught anyone's eye who came in. The shrine stood a head taller than Sycko. It had glass on the front and sides, and at its heart was the statue of Diana. To be accurate, it wasn't a statue of the whole goddess. Only her head and shoulders were there, more like a bust than a statue, but Jeremiah liked to call her a statue. There was a gentle smile on her rubicund lips, her eyes were light brown and on her forehead was a crescent moon that contrasted with her dark hair.

News of the goddess spread quickly and soon a steady stream of Dryvellers visited the new attraction. None of the Dryvellers had heard of Diana before and it fell to Sycko to explain her significance in Dryvellism. For reasons Sycko didn't understand Jeremiah seemed reluctant to face the visitors and talk about Diana. He had made some vague excuses and asked Sycko to stand in. Sycko wasn't very keen on the idea of standing near Diana all day and repeating the same thing over and over again, not least because it gave him the feeling of being at work again, but Jeremiah allowed him to smoke and sit so he agreed. After repeating the story about Diana for the hundredth time it had become part of himself and he would have been hard put to remember a time when the Goddess Diana had not played an important part in his life.

A fortnight went by and the congregation were getting used to the new addition in their temple. Jeremiah had cleverly incorporated Diana into the weekly service on Mondays and if the truth be said most Dryvellers were happy to see a bit of colour in the grand though rather austere hall.

Then, one day it happened. A group of Dryvellers had come to pay their respects to the Goddess of the moon when a woman suddenly screamed.

"Her eyes! Look at her eyes! She is crying!"

For a moment there was silence as everyone looked. Then everyone talked at the same time. There was a call for Master Jeremiah to come or rather everyone was clamouring for him to come.

When Jeremiah came and was told about the weeping statue he was horrified. "Tears of blood," he cried, and indeed the tears that slowly ran down her cheeks were a deep red colour. "Tears of blood," he repeated. "An ill omen. Alack, what evil has befallen us if even the Goddess Diana is crying tears of blood. It is a miracle but I wish it wasn't so. How can this be, I ask you?"

He looked around but no one answered him.

"I know why," he said. "It is because of the haters. Have we not heard how Dryvellers are persecuted in countries such as Syldavia? Has not our own community here been the victim of a vicious hate crime? Dryvellophobia is all around us and now see what things have come to. Even the Goddess herself is wounded in her heart. Alas, alas, that I should live to see this day." At this he bent his head and covered his face with his hands. The people around him heard sobbing sounds. Sycko took a frail looking Master Jeremiah back to his room where he lay down and the visitors to the temple left in a hurry to tell others about what had happened.

It wasn't long till a steady stream of visitors came to see the weeping Diana. Then pilgrims started arriving and as the days went by the steady stream had turned into huge crowds. They came and they came and the inconsolable Diana kept weeping. The crowds attracted some reporters and then TV crews arrived to film the miracle. The temple had made it onto the evening news.

There was a collection box at the entrance that visitors had to pass to enter the temple. Another box stood beside the weeping Diana, and yet another collection box was on the way out next to a souvenir stand where images of the Goddess, little trinkets, postcards and the like could be purchased.

And yet, whenever Jeremiah appeared in public he wore a mournful expression on his face. He shook hands with some visitors and lamented the terrible omen that was occurring due to Dryvellophobia and the hatred that his community faced. "Support us in our hour of need," he kept repeating. "We need your help if we are to survive as a community in this country." And more often than not visitors donated generously and gave all the help and support that Jeremiah wanted.

In the evenings Jeremiah now preferred to be alone. He didn't seek out the company of any of the brethren any more as he was wont to. Instead he locked himself in his study and worked. That is, to be precise, he emptied the collection boxes and counted the money. When he was alone he looked far from unhappy. Quite the contrary! His eyes shone with glee and he enjoyed every moment.

But if there was one thing Master Jeremiah had forgotten it was that all things must come to an end. He was so preoccupied with the success of his miracle that he didn't consider there might be people who would not accept it at face value. One such person was Judas. One day he mingled with the crowds and managed to conceal a tiny spy camera in the shrine that was fitted with remote access. Every night when the temple closed its doors to the crowds Judas sat at home and whatever he was doing he was always careful to keep an eye on the screen where he could see Diana in her shrine.

Late one night he saw the side window of the shrine being opened. Judas started recording. A syringe with a needle appeared in the picture. Then a hand scratched off something on Diana's head, inserted the needle and slowly injected a red liquid. The syringe was removed, the opening in the head filled in and the side window was closed again. All that Judas caught on camera.

First thing next morning Judas contacted the media and offered his film for sale to the highest bidder. "If that scoundrel Jeremiah made so much from a fraud, why shouldn't I profit a little too?" he said to himself. A purchaser was soon found and the recording changed hands in return for a nice little sum. A private TV station had made the scoop of the year and soon Jeremiah's shame was all over the news. That day the temple doors stayed closed.

The day after the temple was besieged by dozens of TV crews and journalists. They didn't have to wait long. Jeremiah had breakfast in silence. No one dared breach the topic with him. Everyone looked at their plates as though crockery had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. At last Jeremiah put his knife down with a loud clang that made everyone jump. "Ha," he said. So the haters think they're going to win. Not with me, dear brethren, not with me." He stood up and walked to the temple's main entrance to face the media. He stepped outside and was assailed by a tempest of flashes and questions. He held up his hand and waited. The reporters quickly became quiet.

"A fraud has been committed," Jeremiah said. "A most shameful and terrible fraud. Terrible allegations have been made against our community that are completely untrue."

"Do you deny injecting a red liquid into the statue?" a reporter shouted.

"Do I deny it? Why of course it isn't true. The Goddess Diana is guarded day and night by temple staff. No one could possibly inject anything into her. It is an accusation that is as preposterous as it is insulting and hate filled. The only fraud that has been committed is against you. Whoever gave you that short film must also be the person who injected a liquid into a copy of our statue. It is an outrage. How could you show such a scandalous and defamatory film to the public without giving us the opportunity to respond and to tell the truth in this matter? This film is just the latest in a series of hate crimes committed against our community. I am appalled that the media would lend itself to hate propaganda against an innocent and peaceful religious community. Dryvellophobia is despicable but unfortunately on the rise and a blight on our society. The shame, I tell you! Is it not enough that people have come into our temple threatening to spit at me? Is it not enough that hate propaganda is posted to our walls? Do people now have to be incited to hatred against us by the entire nation's media? Why should we face persecution here? Have we not as much a right to live in peace as anyone else? Please don't give haters a platform to spew out their poisonous messages. Yes, I say poisonous because this sort of propaganda is designed to be divisive. We must not allow such things. We must stick together as a community and we will overcome the hatred. Thank you."

Before any of the surprised reporters had time to ask another question Jeremiah was back in the temple with the main door firmly shut.

Later that day, when the throngs of reporters had left, the temple opened its doors to visitors again. The grand hall looked eerily empty without the huge crowds they had all grown accustomed to, but after a day or two occasional visitors became a steady stream again. Master Jeremiah lost no opportunity to rail against Dryvellophobia, against haters, and against hate crimes committed against the temple. In time the film showing how someone injected a red liquid into Diana became forgotten. What people really remembered was that the Dryvellers, the temple and indeed Dryvellism itself were the victims of hate crimes and persecution. What exactly these were even the members of the temple would have been hard pressed to say but oddly enough no one seemed to enquire.

**The Discalceation Ceremony**

No one is free,

who is not master of himself.

Pythagoras

One day Jeremiah bade Sycko follow him into his private study. They sat down and Jeremiah frowned and stared at the table. It was apparent he had something very important on his mind and Sycko was beginning to feel uneasy as to what it could be.

"Now then, Sycko," he said and paused. "I am delighted to say that you have made excellent progress in our community. It is as I first thought when I saw you drivelling naturally. This is your place, it's where you were meant to be. You've been a novice for quite some time and now, I am glad to say, the time has come for you to be accepted into our fraternity as a full brother."

Sycko's heart leapt for joy. "That's wonderful," he said joyfully."

"I knew you would take it that way. To become a brother there is a ceremony which will officially introduce you to the fraternity. It's known as the discalceation ceremony."

"Discalce...?"

"Discalceation. It means taking off a shoe. It's a highly symbolic act. By taking off your shoes and standing barefoot on consecrated ground you are showing the proper respect and reverence due. To be quite accurate, I will be taking off your shoes."

"You?"

"Yes, you are standing in front of the assembled brothers and sisters. Then I take off the holy top hat and hand it to you. You hold the hat while I kneel in front of you and take off your shoes. In this way I am showing my humility and respect to one seeking truth and willing to join the sacred brotherhood."

The day for the holy ceremony was approaching rapidly and the brethren were busy preparing everything. The most important thing was the decoration in the grand hall where the ceremony was to take place. Waxing, waning and full moons were cut out of various materials and in sundry colours. There were hundreds of moons all around the hall symbolizing not only the sacred unity of the Lord and Diana, but also aspects of lunar influence on human life such as fertility. Others were making a large wreath of holy oak leaves which was to be suspended from the ceiling in the spot the new brother would be welcomed into the fraternity. When all was done the hall looked spectacular. There were daily choir practices where different songs for various stages in the ceremony were prepared. Sycko was truly touched by all the activity, all the work and effort others were making for him. Not that he was doing much work himself. He confined himself to walking along the way he would have to go on the morning of the ceremony and to practise standing under the oak wreath.

"Ah," he said quietly with a contented smile. "Work is a wonderful thing when you can watch other people doing it."

Then the great day came. It began before daybreak with Master Jeremiah waking everyone up. As the rite demanded he walked from room to room crowing "Cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo" and waking everyone up. This heralded a new day in Sycko's life. While the brethren were still struggling out of their nice warm beds Jeremiah had already reached the grand hall. "Hie thee hither, Sycko," he shouted as loudly as he could. "Hie thee hither ere the sun rise!"

Still sleepy Sycko made his way to the hall as fast as he could followed by the brethren. Sycko waited at the far end of the hall till they were all assembled. Jeremiah, clad in a frock and wearing the sacred top hat, stood beneath the oak wreath and waited. When everything was quiet an owl hooted. This was the ancient sign to commence the holy ceremony. The brethren drooled and sang the ancient song:

See in the east the sun doth rise

A symbol of freedom and loyalty

In the waning moon you grew wise

Thrice blessed sign of purity

This was the signal for Sycko. He started drooling and walked forward in utmost dignity, with a proud erect bearing placing one foot after another and getting his shirt wet with a steady stream of saliva. He wended his way through the assembled fraternity until he stood in front of Master Jeremiah.

"We meet upon the level," Sycko said and bowed respectfully.

"On the level," Jeremiah replied and bowed in turn. Then he removed his top hat and handed it to Sycko. "Take this holy symbol as a sign of our trust in you. Hold it in your hands and guard it with your faith."

Sycko took the sacred top hat and stepped under the oak wreath to face the assembly. Master Jeremiah went down on his knees and undid Sycko's shoelaces. He took off first one shoe and then the other. When he had both shoes he stood up with them, placed them on his upturned palms and held them near his chest. He turned to the assembly and said "Discalceatus est!" [Latin: He is unshod, i.e. his shoes are taken off]

While the brethren were clapping their hands Jeremiah's smile froze on his face as a pungent smell wafted up from the shoes. "Don't you wash your feet," he asked through clenched teeth."

"I've only got one pair of socks," Sycko replied.

Jeremiah almost choked but had to continue with the ceremony. He threw the shoes one at a time to the other end of the temple and the assembly said in unison "Calcei iacti sunt!" [The shoes have been thrown]

These holy words were the signal for Sycko to walk through the hall until he found his shoes. He walked slowly and with dignity but the nauseating stench from his feet made the eyes of more than just one brother or sister water. To the general relief he put his shoes on again. This was followed by the song:

Brother, brother come to us,

The moon doth shine on thee,

Under our ancient holy tree.

Hark the Lord who speaks to us.

To conclude the holy ceremony they all got out Dryvellers Fags and lit up. With the smoke from scores of fags rising up in the air the ceremony was officially ended and the overjoyed brethren made their way to the dining hall for breakfast.

They all stood around the table behind their chairs. On his special day Sycko had the pleasure of taking Jeremiah's usual seat at the head of the table and said "Good morrow, brethren".

"Good morrow, Brother Sycko," came the reply in unison.

"Pray be seated," Sycko said with a smile.

They sat down and sang the song that was customary for welcoming a new member into their fraternity.

For he's a freshly baked bun,

For he's a freshly baked bun.

And so say all of us,

And so say all of us.

**The Laws of the Lord**

Moderation, the noblest gift of heaven.

Euripides, Medea

Later that day Master Jeremiah asked Sycko to join him in his study. "My dear Sycko," he said warmly. "It's such a great pleasure to have you with us as a brother in our noble and holy fraternity, indeed, I would say it's almost miraculous that you found to us in the lawless concrete jungle out there, more proof, if proof was needed, that the good Lord works miracles and that His kind and merciful eyes are always gazing down upon us." He paused briefly to allow the words of profound wisdom he had spoken to sink in before continuing. "It is now time that we look at the laws that God has given us."

Sycko looked surprised. "There are laws?"

"Why, yes of course, my dear fellow brother. It's all in The Holy Dryvel. The Lord's ten laws, those golden laws that enable us humans, pitiful creatures that we are, to live together in peace and harmony. The laws that make us into humans and set us apart from the brutish animal kingdom. They are the laws that every Dryveller must obey, and to obey them it is of course necessary to know and to understand them." He peered at Sycko for a moment as though he expected an answer but when Sycko merely sat and looked at him with a semi-vacant stare Jeremiah went on unperturbed. He put a copy of The Holy Dryvel on the table and opened it. "Here it is, God's own word, the only book that matters in this world. Everything you need to know is in here," he said happily and patted the book.

"Really everything?" Sycko said. "I wish I'd had it at school. Would have saved me lots of trouble. You wouldn't believe how many books they gave us there and to imagine that one book is enough..."

"Eh, well yes, there you go. I quite agree. Everyone at school should have a copy of The Holy Dryvel. But let's have a look at what the laws of God actually say. Here is the first law:

I. The Holy Dryvel is God's word.

You will agree that this is most important, my dear Sycko. After all, without it how would we know that everything in The Holy Dryvel is absolutely true? It would be just one more religious tome collecting dust among the other nonsensical books that people have written over the centuries. It is so easy to write a book and make preposterous claims about it. But here's where The Holy Dryvel is different. We have it in black and white from God Himself that these are His own words." Jeremiah paused for a moment and smiled at Sycko. "And what words they are, my dear Sycko, every single word worth a million times its weight in gold!"

"Wow, that is a lot of gold," Sycko said. "But why does the book only cost..."

"Now, now," Jeremiah interrupted him. "We mustn't take these things too literally. The important thing to remember is that every single word in The Holy Dryvel is true and if we have any kind of question or problem then we need not look any further than The Holy Dryvel. Now let's take a look at the second law, there are ten altogether, did I mention it? Well, anyway, here it is:

II. Obey the Lord as made manifest through the Master of the Temple.

This is a most useful law, I must say, and it makes things so much simpler for all of us."

"I'm not sure I understand it," Sycko said.

"It's quite simple really. There's nothing to it. It means that when the Lord has a message for you He will let you know through me."

"You mean God tells you and you just pass it along to me?"

"Quite right. Just you listen to what I tell you and you'll always do the right thing. Let's see the next law:

III. Heed the Holy Dryvel

That's not difficult either. Just do as The Holy Dryvel tells you to do."

"Because the answers to everything are in it?"

"That's right, very good, very good, you're doing well. I told you it would be easy. The next law is also easy and also very important:

IV. Do not steal from Dryvellers.

This is a truly divine and wonderful law. How could we humans live together if we were allowed to steal from one another? Yet thanks to the Lord in His wisdom we all live in peace together."

"But what about stealing from people who aren't Dryvellers? Here it says..."

"But my dear fellow, that's a completely different matter. If you take something from someone who is in denial of the truth of Dryvellism you aren't stealing. You're merely returning the Lord's property back to those who honour him. And is there anything wrong with returning lost property, Sycko, is there?"

"Well, no, now you put it that way. I'm beginning to understand."

"I'm glad to hear it, my dear boy. I knew from the moment I saw you that there was a true Dryveller in you. But look at the next law, it's also most important to ensure harmony and honesty:

V. Do not lie to Dryvellers unless you need to protect Dryvellism.

Isn't it a most excellent law, my dear Sycko? Just imagine! How could we live together if we were allowed to tell lies? But again the Lord in His wisdom has provided."

"But I may lie if I'm protecting Dryvellism? Wasn't that a bit like the weeping Diana?"

"I'm glad you mention it, Sycko. Yes, the weeping Diana does come to mind. What could be more noble than a pious fraud if it helps people to believe! But let's not dwell on the past, my dear lad. The next law is one of great importance:

VI. Honour the martyrs.

And honour them we shall! It shall not be said that we neglected to hold those in esteem who gave their lives for Dryvellism."

Sycko looked a bit doubtful. "I'm not sure about that 'give their lives' bit. You mean to say we may get killed?"

Jeremiah chuckled. "We must all die one day, my dear fellow, it's no secret. The difference between ordinary Dryvellers and martyrs is that martyrs are awaited by the most wonderful recompense. They ascend straight into superparadise beside which the paradise that awaits other Dryvellers pales in comparison. After all, who would want to book a one star hotel for eternity if there's a five star hotel available, too."

"I see," Sycko murmured. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"There you go. In fact martyrs can be so eager to check in to their part of paradise that they don't want to be kept waiting too long, but more on that another time. Suffice it to say that in superparadise even your most extravagant wishes and desires are like mere child's play. Why, I can tell you with the full authority of The Holy Dryvel that every martyr is welcomed by 99 trillion eternal virgins who are his to do with as he pleases in all eternity."

"That's quite a lot of women. I can't quite imagine..."

"I say it is a lot. Now are you beginning to see how wonderful it could be to become a martyr?"

"How much is 99 trillion actually? I mean if I, or I should say a martyr, meets one of them every day then...?"

"Ah, I see what you mean," Jeremiah said and got a calculator. "Now then, 99 trillion divided by 365 equals 271,232,876,712. Just imagine, my dear Sycko! For more than 271 billion years a martyr has one new virgin every day. Of course, if it so pleases a martyr he may have more than one a day..."

"They're all his, as you said. But what happens after the 271 billion years? I mean does a martyr go back to the first...?"

"Just as he wants, Sycko, just as he wants. But then, would you still remember the first one after 271 billion years?"

"No, I suppose I wouldn't. It's rather a long time. I can't even remember what I had for dinner last night."

"Ah, there you are. But then as I told you before we shouldn't always take these things too literally. After all, what are a few billion years when you are in the middle of eternity? And we shouldn't be too pettish or greedy, even in superparadise. How much better it is to thank the Lord for His munificence in providing so magnanimously for a true martyr. But let's take a look at the next law, shall we?

VII. Believe and go to heaven, think and be cast into hell fires.

A very simple and straightforward law I should say. Always remember the old Dryveller proverb: Blessed are the gullible."

"That's easy enough then," Sycko said happily. "If I'd known that before I went to school I could have saved myself years of trouble trying to think. I'm glad it's all over now."

"Excellent, I'm delighted you're taking it that way. The next law is also very simple:

VIII. All humans are Dryvellers.

I believe I've told you before how we are all born as Dryvellers?"

"I remember! It's how we drool and drivel from the day of our birth, right?"

"Quite right, you've got a good memory. Unfortunately there are those who would deny Dryvellism and as such deny God. But for these hate criminals the Lord has provided, too:

IX. Maim, torture, kill and slaughter those who deny Dryvellism.

Always remember, Sycko, a human who denies Dryvellism is like a faulty product. If it can't be mended then you send it back to the factory. The Dryvellism deniers are just the same. They are faulty and killing them isn't murder. It's not even a killing. It's nothing more than sending a faulty soul back to where it came from. It's up to the Lord to do the rest then. And last but not least is the tenth law:

X. Dryvellism is a religion of peace. Death to those who do not believe it.

Truly, Sycko, the Lord is merciful and it is He who has given us humans peace. Peace is a wonderful thing and it is something our lives wouldn't be worth living without."

"Ah, yes, that's right, but I don't quite understand... I mean isn't that bit about death some sort of contradiction?"

"Not at all, my dear boy, not at all. Of course Dryvellism is a religion of peace. We bring peace to all humanity. But what about those who reject and deny Dryvellism? Those lawless troublemakers and haters who incite against the Lord and against Dryvellism? Their very act of denial is an act of aggression. By bringing death to those haters we are doing no more than restoring peace. And you would do well to remember what it says on gravestones. Do the letters RIP mean anything to you?"

"They mean 'Rest in Peace', don't they?"

"Exactly. So by killing a Dryvellism denier you are simply restoring him to peace. And there can't be anything wrong with bringing peace to people, can there now?"

"Why, certainly not, Master Jeremiah. I sure am glad that I met you. You're always so good at explaining things and making everything clear to me."

**United Against Hate**

Pay attention to your enemies because

they are the first to discover your mistakes.

Antisthenes

The temporary success of his Diana scheme had kindled big dreams in Jeremiah. Seeing crowds of people flocking to his temple made him think of expanding, of becoming the leader of temples all around the country, and even of turning Dryvellism into the nation's main religion or even the only permitted state religion. In all of these dreams, or shall we call them fantasies, he himself, Master Jeremiah, was the undisputed leader, the revered father figure and possibly even statesman. "And why not?" he said to himself. "Why not, indeed? There have been plenty of other theocracies throughout history. Even in our own modern times such a thing is still possible."

As a consequence he became withdrawn and left many of the routine everyday tasks to Sycko, who had rapidly become his most trusted aide, while he spent his days dreaming and scheming. The brethren had just begun to resign themselves to this new state of affairs when Jeremiah re-emerged and turned the temple into a veritable beehive of activity. Jeremiah spent half the day on the phone and the other half giving the brethren sundry instructions. There were banners to make, songs to practise, flyers to print and hand out, and a score of other things that kept everyone busy. Sycko found all the work a shock to his nervous system. Where had his temple gone? The temple of quiet smokes, drinks and meditation? Taking over Jeremiah's sporadic duties during the day was one thing, but being busy all day was definitely too much. Finally he had an idea. He took a large comfortable armchair from another room and pushed it into the grand hall in front of Diana's shrine. He sat down, lit a fag and gazed at the Goddess. It wasn't long before someone came to ask what he was doing.

"I'm here in devout worship praying to the Goddess to grant us success."

From then on he was left alone. "I can't believe that worked," he said quietly and contentedly blew smoke into the air. "That's the way to skive, in plain sight and everyone thinks I'm doing something really useful. Ah, I love work, I could spend hours watching others do it."

And with Sycko praying so hard for the success of their efforts it was no surprise that everything went smoothly. An innocent outsider might have put it down to a lot of hard work, but the brethren knew better. "What good fortune that we had Sycko to pray for all of us," they said.

Sycko just smiled when he heard it and said "Ain't life great".

Before long Master Jeremiah's project was the talk of the town. Since the affair of the weeping Diana the temple had acquired a certain notoriety and Jeremiah's latest idea was designed to have an overwhelming effect. With the profits from the weeping Diana he managed to hire the town's largest concert hall and he even got live TV coverage for the event he had planned.

But what was the big event to be? Master Jeremiah had unleashed an enormous publicity campaign to hammer home the message that Dryvellism and the temple were victims of hatred. He invited the public to attend a grand show or at least watch the live coverage where the public could see Dryvellism in all its glory. Jeremiah had even promised some real miracles. Public interest was huge and tickets were sold out on the first day of sale indicating that the secret filming of the Diana refill hadn't left any lasting damage. For security reasons all tickets were numbered and had names on them and entry was only granted together with an ID card.

Then the big day arrived. Sycko walked into the concert hall and looked around. Above the stage hung a huge banner:

United Against Hate

Elsewhere there were balloons, moons and sundry other decorations that gave the impression of a carnival rather than a religious gathering. The brethren took their places around the hall, in part to help the public and to maintain order, and in part to act as security around the stage. Due to his weeks and months of hard prayer practice Sycko was given the job of sitting on stage and praying while the public was entering. He made himself comfortable in the middle of the stage. There were 'No Smoking' signs everywhere but Sycko conveniently overlooked these and lit a fag. Soon the doors opened and the public began pouring in. Smoke curled up from the stage and the brethren acting as security around the stage chanted an inspiring holy song. They were all dressed in the same black suit and tie with a white shirt but only Jeremiah, who was still waiting backstage, wore a top hat. Members of the audience could be forgiven for thinking that a lone man sitting cross legged and smoking on stage with others in front of him singing curious songs looked a bit like a hippie.

Then the show got under way. Sycko happily retired from the stage and Master Jeremiah entered to a rapturous applause looking resplendent in his frock and sacred top hat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Dryvellers, dear guests," Jeremiah said. It is the greatest pleasure to have you all here with us tonight and I'm sure you're going to have a wonderful time, in every sense of the word wonderful. We Dryvellers have long been peaceful and honest members of our common society and there are many contributions we have made and are still making that help us all. Sadly the hatred and persecution against us in some countries has of late spilt over into our own country. It gives me great pleasure to see so many of you here today who value our common history and who are ready to stand united against the haters. Without any more ado – let's get the show started. There was polite applause followed by the first of a number of musical performances designed to entertain and draw the audience in.

More than an hour later the main part of the evening came. It was Jeremiah's great surprise everyone had been waiting for. Master Jeremiah came back on stage with a big smile. "Glad to see you all having such a swell time. Now is the time for members of the audience to ask me questions. Don't be shy folks, ask me anything you like." He looked around and chose a man in the third row. "The gentleman in the third row, no don't tell me... you're Mike Watson, aren't you.

The man looked surprised. "Yes, but..."

"How did I know? Well, I promised you all some miracles tonight and this is just the beginning. Now Mike, what do you want to know?"

"Can you tell me the lottery numbers for the next draw?"

There was laughter from the audience.

"I could tell you, Mike, but is that why the Lord speaks to me? Does He want me to spoil the fun for millions of good folks who've bought tickets and give away the result so others can have an unfair advantage? Would that be honest? What do you think, Mike? Would God want this?"

"All right, all right, you got me there," Mike said to general laughter and sat down.

"Now then, folks, serious questions please." He pointed to a woman in a bright red dress. "Ah, yes, let me see. You're Alice Hopkins, aren't you?"

She smiled. "Yes, that's right. Do you know why I'm here?"

Jeremiah tilted his head to one side a little. A moment later he said "I believe you're here because of your daughter. Is that right?"

"Yes," she said looking astounded while gasps and some applause could be heard.

"A very sickly little girl," Jeremiah added.

Alice Hopkins put her hands on her mouth. "Oh my God, how do you know that? I haven't told anyone here."

"The ways of the Lord are mysterious, Alice. You're asking yourself why your little girl is suffering from cancer. You're asking why you keep fighting and taking her to doctors who can't help her. Now Alice, I'm a man of my word and I won't be making you any false promises or give false hope like some would. But I can invite you to join us in our temple, bring your girl and now here's something I will promise. I promise that we will pray for her, we'll beg the Lord for mercy; and who knows, miracles have happened before, Alice."

"Thank you so much," Alice said with tears running down her face.

There was loud applause from the audience while TV audiences were invited to help by making a donation. Bank details appeared on the screen.

For the next hours Master Jeremiah took question after question. The audience were amazed how he invariably knew who he was talking to, how he knew about people's problems and lives. In the end there wasn't a soul, including journalists, who wasn't convinced that he had special powers, a gift from the Lord, or that a miracle had occurred. The audience was in ecstasy and it was a jubilant and triumphant Master Jeremiah who finished the event. All the while donations from around the country kept pouring in from many good folks who wanted to be part of the Lord's miracle and do their bit to help Master Jeremiah in his mission. There were some large donations from the wealthy and many smaller ones from people like Ruth Sanders. She had spent forty-five years working as a nurse and now lived in retirement on a meagre pension that barely enabled her to get by. She donated half a month's pension even though she didn't know how she would manage on the little that was left for her. "I'll just have to eat less," she said. "What a wonderful man Master Jeremiah is, helping all those poor people. It just shows that there are still good hearts, even in our day and age."

At the end of the event Jeremiah went backstage and removed the earpiece with which he had received all the necessary information about the people asking questions. One of the brethren, Brother James, had watched the hall from hidden cameras. When someone asked a question he cross-referenced the seat with the information that person had given when buying the entrance ticket. With the help of networking sites he found a lot of private information that enabled Master Jeremiah to deceive the whole country into believing that he had special powers from God.

He rubbed his ear and yawned. "What a load of gormless sheep," he muttered. "No wonder they need a good shepherd like me to guide them in their lives. And what more could sheep hope for than to be fleeced."
**The Museum**

The just man is most free from disturbance,

while the unjust is full of the utmost disturbance.

Epicurus

Master Jeremiah was ecstatic with the results of the nationwide TV broadcast. In one night the temple earned millions. In fact they received more money than during the entire previous existence of the temple, at least as long as he had been there. He looked around his confined quarters and shook his head in disgust. "That won't do," he said. "That won't do at all. How ever did I manage to live in this dingy little room for so many years? It's almost Spartan, and most certainly not becoming of a person in my station."

With no one to oversee the temple's finances Jeremiah had no problem solving such little personal problems and not long after he was the proud owner of a luxurious mansion that used to belong to a factory owner. The abandoned factory building came with the mansion and Jeremiah immediately saw how he could put it to good use. It was a long brick building with a grey slate roof. There were two floors and the inside was a long open space where machinery had once stood. Jeremiah hired workmen to refurbish the building and to put in walls to create numerous rooms on both floors. Then the real work began. For several weeks the brethren were busy painting, drawing, writing and making various models. It was Master Jeremiah himself who made the finishing touch, a large sign that was hung above the entrance. It read:

Museum of Creationism

During the absence of the brethren from the temple Sycko was busy doing what he was best at – he sat guard beside the weeping Diana and relaxed with his drinks and cigarettes. The day before the grand opening of the museum, which was widely advertised throughout the city and on TV, Jeremiah couldn't resist taking Sycko on a tour of his new achievement. The building was painted a gleaming white and featured fake Dorian columns on either side of the entrance. Sycko stopped in front of the entrance and looked up at the sign. "What is creationism?" he asked.

"You don't know?" Jeremiah said incredulously.

Sycko shook his head in silence.

"But my dear fellow, that is a most serious gap in your education. I can't believe we've never talked about this before. Well, to make matters short, it's the science of how God created the world and everything that's in it."

"So you're saying God made us, too?"

"Yes, of course. We even know the exact time."

"But when I was at school they told us something about evolution. I can't quite remember how that worked, but..."

"Good heavens, you mustn't believe such childish nonsense. This so called theory of evolution is a fiendish prank, a hoax made by satanists to confuse the true believers and to bring discord into our harmonious society. It is in fact a vile conspiracy concocted by the very dredges of humanity, if one should choose to include them in the name of humanity. But what am I talking here. Let's go into the museum and you will learn the truth about the world."

Sycko eagerly followed Jeremiah into the building. They walked past the empty cash register and went to the first exhibit. It was entitled 'The Moment of Creation'.

There was a beautiful painting of God in a smart suit wearing a top hat. In one hand He was holding a golden pocket watch that hung from a sparkling chain and with His other hand he snapped His fingers and created the world. Next to the painting was a small glass case containing the golden pocket watch.

"Just look at it, my dear Sycko," Jeremiah said excitedly. "The very watch God had when He created the world. The watch stopped at just that time so we can still see when the world was made – at a quarter past three on Monday afternoon 6137 years ago. Isn't it miraculous how His watch survived all that time to come down to us so that we would be able to see it?"

"Eh, yes certainly," Sycko said. "I didn't know all that. But how did you manage to find the watch? Surely that can't have been easy, I mean..."

"The ways of the Lord are mysterious, my young friend. Let us just say that the Lord in His wisdom saw our time of need and provided as He always does. That's the wonderful thing about being a true believer. We know that we always have a higher power on our side, whatever may befall."

They walked on to the next exhibit which showed the Earth just moments after its creation. There was a vast miniature landscape with pleasant green fields and woodlands. There were a surprising number of animals, from farm animals such as hens, pigs and cows to wild animals such as elephants and tigers to more unusual animals such as sabre tooth cats and dinosaurs. In one part humans were tending a flock of sheep while in another part people were hunting mammoths and a Brontosaurus.

"I thought the dinosaurs died out millions of years ago," Sycko said. "Why are they together with people?"

"What utter nonsense, Sycko. Didn't I just explain to you how God made the world 6137 years ago? How could the world be millions of years old? It's just another lie you were told at school. It's perfectly obvious that dinosaurs and humans were created at the same time. Dinosaurs died out some time after that as have many other creatures since then, that's all. And look at the next painting. Here you can see the very first humans receiving the first copy of The Holy Dryvel from God Himself. And look at the background. What can you see there?"

"A dinosaur."

"Exactly, a dinosaur. What more proof could you want that humans and dinosaurs coexisted in early times. And there in the next glass case is the very same copy of The Holy Dryvel that God once gave to us humans."

Sycko peered into the glass case. A thick leather bound book lay there with a black cover and gilded words on it. The words said: The Holy Dryvel. Sycko felt overawed at the sight of the first copy of the holy book that had come from the very hands of the Lord Himself.

They walked on and came to the large model of an open house. A woman was standing in the kitchen and a stork sat perched on the chimney and dropped a baby down the chimney. Sycko peered at the model with curiosity. "Is that where babies come from?" he said at last. "I thought women gave birth to..."

"Tut, tut," Jeremiah interrupted him. "More nonsense your head was filled with. A careful reading of The Holy Dryvel will prove with absolute certainty and without a doubt that the stork theory is the only correct explanation for the appearance of babies. How anyone could ever have associated God's creation with such a messy and bloody event that birth would be is beyond me. Whatever next? Maybe someone will come along that the Earth is round or some such preposterous nonsense!"

"Isn't it?"

Jeremiah looked irritated. "Isn't it what?"

"I mean, isn't the Earth round? My dad always had a globe at home and that was round."

"No, no, no," Jeremiah said with vehemence. "This is another vile lie that may have arisen due to a careless reading of the text. The Holy Dryvel states quite clearly that the Earth is a disc. A disc is obviously flat and circular. It is not round like a ball. This is a fact that has been proven time and again by Dryvellist scientists. Why myths about the Earth being round are still believed by some people in our day and age is simply beyond me."

Ashamed at his own ignorance Sycko said nothing for a while and followed Jeremiah in silence. He viewed numerous other exhibits that proved the creation of the world by God or that were holy relics. Then they came to the section entitled 'Disbelief'.

"Now pay good attention, Sycko. This last part of the museum may shock you, but it's all for the best. Trust me when I tell you that not accepting Dryvellism and believing all it stands for is the worst thing any human could do to himself. Look and take heed!"

Sycko swallowed hard and stepped to the first exhibit. It was the painting of an area enclosed by barbed wire and the ground was strewn with corpses. Below the picture it said: These people were murdered because the murderers did not believe in Dryvellism.

Next there was a model of the Titanic with panic stricken passengers jumping into the freezing water. A sign next to it read: This ship sank because there were no Dryvellers on board.

Then Sycko saw some life size models of people who perished in the ancient city of Pompey. The sign read: These people were evidently not Dryvellers as God permitted them to die in a volcanic eruption.

Sycko looked at exhibit after exhibit showing the horrible consequences of not being a Dryveller until he came to the last painting. It showed the disc of the Earth and deep down below raging fires with people in them screaming in agony. The inscription was:

The fate of those who reject Dryvellism.

Sycko looked at the terrifying painting with tears in his eyes unable to say anything. Master Jeremiah saw his reaction with evident satisfaction.

"Now you see, my dear boy, just how very important it is to follow and obey Dryvellism in all its aspects. We may not always understand everything, the ways of the Lord are mysterious after all and indeed, who are we to understand God, yet the important thing is to keep essential things in mind. Always remember what happens to those who reject Him and then do the right thing. Will you promise me to do that?"

"Of course, Jeremiah."

"Very good, anyway, I'll leave you here to enjoy the exhibition on your own for a little while longer, if you like. I have to go home and do a few things. I'll pick you up later and we can go back to the temple together and talk about the grand opening tomorrow. Would that suit you?"

"Yes, that's fine."

When Master Jeremiah got to his mansion he found brother James waiting at the front door.

"Why, brother James, what brings you here? You should see me at the temple really if you need to talk about anything."

"What I want to talk about with you is private and I really don't think you'd want the others to hear."

Jeremiah looked at James intently. James was a middle aged man of medium height with dark hair and brown eyes that peered out from under bushy eyebrows. The prominent nose in the middle of his face drew attention to itself.

"Very well, then," Jeremiah said though it was clear he wasn't happy about the intrusion into his private life. "Come in." He opened the door and bade James to take a seat in the entrance hall as he was unwilling to let him enter his private rooms.

James looked around in silence for some time till Jeremiah got impatient.

"Well then," Jeremiah said. "Is there anything you want to tell me or have you just come to sit in my home?"

James shook his head. "You have done well for yourself, haven't you Jeremiah? Just look at you now living in this huge mansion. A few weeks ago all you had was a dingy little room and now you live like a king. Even your waiting room here is more luxurious than all the things at the temple put together."

"And what of it," Jeremiah said feeling irritated. "What is it to you? It's none of your business. I'm Master of the Temple after all and you'd better know your place!" He looked angrily into James's eyes trying to impose his will.

James laughed. "Master of the Temple. All you are is the master of your greed and a good life. I believed in you. I really believed that Dryvellism was the divine truth. But you opened my eyes. You used that big event to cheat people out of millions with my help! And what for? Just so you can buy yourself a huge house and live in comfort while the rest of us live in bare rooms. But you know what, I also want the good life. I helped you with the show and now I want my share of the money."

Jeremiah turned red in his face. "How dare you talk to me like that. Get back to the temple at once. There will be consequences for your disobedience!"

"So you're threatening me! You know what, Jeremiah. You're going to pay, and if I don't get my fair share then I'll sell my story to the highest bidder out there and let the whole country know what kind of fraud and cheat you are. I'll give you till tomorrow. Pay me or pay the price!"

James jumped up from his chair and without waiting for any reply hurried out of the house slamming the door shut behind him.

Master Jeremiah was incandescent with rage. His hands trembled and his voice shook as he shouted after James. "God curse you, James, you'll get your just desserts, traitor!"

**Will no one rid me...?**

Whoever grows angry amid troubles

applies a drug worse than the disease

and is a physician unskilled about misfortunes.

Sophocles

In his anger Jeremiah forgot about Sycko and the museum. He left his mansion in a hurry and returned to the temple where he paced up and down the grand hall for more than an hour. One by one the brethren gathered aghast by the entrance to the hall and watched the Master of the Temple. They had never seen Master Jeremiah so agitated before and could not imagine what had gone awry. The only thing they could think of was that there was a serious problem with the new museum. It was the day before the grand opening after all. While they were gathering and talking in subdued voices Jeremiah seemed oblivious to their presence. At last one of the older brothers could bear the uncertainty no longer and stepped up to Jeremiah.

"Master Jeremiah," he said to no apparent effect. "Master Jeremiah," he said more loudly and stepped right in front of him. "What ails you, Master Jeremiah? Is there anything wrong at the museum?"

"Hm, what? The museum? No, no, everything's all right there," Jeremiah said and noticed the gathered brethren for the first time. "I left Sycko there in any case, or rather I forgot him there, but it's quite all right. We'll be opening tomorrow." He noticed a pack of Dryvellers' Fags that Sycko had left lying by the weeping Diana and decided that a smoke was the very thing he needed to calm his nerves. He took one out and lit it. He inhaled deeply and spat it out the next moment cursing. "Pox and pestilence, what's this?" he said in disgust.

"But Master Jeremiah," the brother near him said. "You lit the wrong end. You burnt the filter."

Jeremiah looked confused and when he realized what he'd done he started walking down the hall again in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

Exasperated the old brother followed him and said loudly "But Master Jeremiah, what ever is the matter?"

Finally Jeremiah understood what was expected from him. He stopped walking and looked at the brethren.

"Alas, my dear brothers, this is a sad day. Have I not always been like a father to you all? Have I not guided you and helped you all where I could bringing you nearer to the light of the Lord and eternal salvation? Have I not always been fair and square and on the level with all of you? And now this! What have I done to deserve this? Stabbed in the back! I would never have thought it possible..."

The brethren looked horrified. "But what has happened, Master Jeremiah? We don't understand," several of them called out.

"You don't understand, no, of course you don't understand. At least I hope you don't understand. How could you, after all? Oh, the treacherous serpent. The vile knave! Perfidious cur to bite his master's hand! The hand that fed him, clothed him and was always there when he needed it. I'm talking of Brother James. How can I call him brother. Brother he is no more than the worst of our enemies, and to think that I trusted him and loved him. And now that villainous traitor wants to betray our holy and sacred temple! He wants to stab us in the back. That enemy of God has decided to sell his soul for money. Yes, my dear brethren, it breaks my heart to say it, but James is taking money to betray Dryvellism!"

For a moment there was stunned silence. Then everyone talked at once. Excited by the unheard of news the brethren talked, argued and shouted and worked up a most unholy rage at the evil James.

Then Master Jeremiah's mobile phone rang.

He answered and recognized the voice immediately, it was James. As Jeremiah listened he went purple in the face until he could contain himself no longer. In a fit of fury he flung the phone against the wall and shouted "What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my temple, who let their master be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born guttersnipe?"

The brethren were appalled. "Master Jeremiah! Speak not so. Tell us what has happened!"

"What has happened?" he yelled shaking with rage. "I'll tell you what has happened. That infernal rat has gone to Judas. He's making common cause with our enemy and spreading the most infernal lies. Not only is he dragging Dryvellism through the mud, not only is he besmirching God's name, no, he is even denouncing ME as an impostor, as a fraudster and cheater who is cozening the public! Oh, the shameless liar, the ignominy of being befouled and defiled by that scum of the world. And you, brethren, standing here, doing nothing but asking me questions. What are you asking and chattering so uselessly? Remember the laws of the Lord, I tell you, remember."

"But what do you want us to do, Master Jeremiah?" they asked timidly.

"Questions again, you useless wimps. Will no one rid me of this vile rat?" he yelled and stormed out of the hall.

The brethren resumed their chattering, talking about what might be done or could be done or should be done. Unnoticed by the rest four of the younger brothers slipped away from the group and left the building.

When James left Jeremiah's house he was sure that his scheme of blackmailing Jeremiah would work. "Let the old bastard calm down a bit and he'll see reason," he thought. "Why should he risk everything just because of a bit of money? He can make plenty more the way he just did." And so, confident of the riches coming to him, James walked along the road thinking about what to do. "I can't very well go back to the temple now," he muttered. "But I'll need a place to stay for the night." Without any money of his own that was a problem. He turned the matter over in his mind for a while when he remembered Judas. It would mean sharing some of the money with him but there was no one else he knew outside the temple and Judas was perfect. Since the affair of the weeping Diana everyone knew about Judas and James was sure he would jump at the opportunity to have revenge against Jeremiah. He knew from Sycko where Judas lived and set off for his home. When he arrived at the address he stood in front of an old squalid building. "Looks like his home matches his character," James said to no one in particular as he looked at the grimy building. The front door wasn't locked and he stepped in. There was no lift. He had to walk upstairs to the third floor where Judas lived. The doorbell was out of order so he knocked at the door. He knocked several times but there was no answer. Impatient he banged the door with his fist. Finally he heard some noises behind the door. A few moments later the door was carefully opened and a sleepy Judas with deep shadows under his eyes peered at him suspiciously. "You're one of the Dryvellist brothers," he said when he recognized the clothes. "What do you want here? Tell your master to leave me alone or there'll be trouble..."

"No, no, you don't understand," James said hastily. "Jeremiah hasn't sent me. I'm here on my own. I need your help."

"My help? Are you kidding? I'm not helping your lot," he said and started to close the door.

James quickly put his foot in the door. "Wait, listen to me. I'm not with the brothers any more. I need your help to fight Jeremiah. There's a lot of money in it," he added quickly seeing the doubt in Judas' face.

"All right then, come in. But I warn you, if you're trying to pull a fast one on me there'll be hell to pay for it."

They sat down on a shabby old sofa and James explained how Jeremiah had fooled everyone into believing he had special powers from God, how he got millions from the TV coverage, and how James had asked for a share of the money for his help in the scam.

"I see," Judas said sardonically. "And now you want me to help you get at the cash. Why me?"

"Well, you already know people in the media, you've got contacts, you've already fought with Jeremiah and honestly I haven't got anywhere to stay." James fingered the buttons on his black jacket nervously. "So I thought if you let me stay here for the night and I can threaten Jeremiah with having your help he'll have no choice but to pay up."

"That's what you thought, is it? And did you think about what's in it for me? Why should I help you get rich?"

"We'll share the money, of course. I'll give you ten percent."

Judas laughed. "Ten what? You're not serious. If I help you to blackmail Jeremiah I'm getting fifty percent."

James looked shocked. "But I did all the work helping Jeremiah to get the info on the people and I'm bringing this to you..."

"Hey, the first thing is between you and Jeremiah. I don't care. If I'm helping you with this business I want half. There's no way I'm taking less. Why, I'm taking as much risk as you, James. Blackmail is blackmail if the police catch us. You'd better be fair and square with me," he added threateningly.

James hesitated. "All right, half. "

Judas grinned and shook his hand. "Here's to a good partnership. Let's work together on this and there'll be nothing Jeremiah can do about it. Anyway, here's the phone. We might as well start now."

An hour later James was alone. Judas was out to meet a journalist. James sat on the old sofa dreaming about his new life. The opulent mansion Jeremiah had bought with the money of so many gullible believers was etched into his mind and had swept away years of religious teachings and abstention. If anything, James discovered that he held some very deep cravings for luxury and enjoyment of life that did not include prayers, drooling or slaving away for the master of the temple. Like someone who has just crossed a desert he had a strong thirst for all the things he had denied himself for so long. He imagined himself the proud owner of a large villa with a vast garden and pool, or even better a seaside mansion with its own pier at which his private yacht lay waiting for him, how he would be surrounded by friends and beautiful women eager for his attention. In fact, the wishes in his reverie were getting so big and extravagant that even years of defrauding gullible believers wouldn't have been enough to pay for everything.

The doorbell rang.

James glanced at his watch. "That was quick," he said. "I thought Judas would take longer. Maybe he forgot his keys..."

He went to open the door. The moment he opened it he was pushed back violently and the four young brethren who had left the temple a bit earlier rushed inside.

"You filthy traitor," one of them yelled when the door was shut again and punched James in the face. James fell backwards and hit the floor hard.

"You got it all wrong," James called. "It's Jeremiah. He's cheating and..."

A savage kick at his head made him curl up. Blows and kicks landed thick and heavy as he tried to protect his head by wrapping his arms around it. While James suffered on the floor one of the brethren made a quick search of the flat. In the kitchen his eye fell on the very thing he needed – a large chopper. He grabbed it and dashed to James. In a blind fury he yanked James' head back and began chopping at his neck. James yelled in agony. Several strokes later his head was severed. The young brother lifted it up triumphantly and looked at the face. The eyes and mouth were wide open in horror.

"A traitor's death for a vile rat," he said with a grim satisfaction. He tossed the head on the floor and the four brethren walked away. The body on the floor twitched a few times and then lay still. Only the bright red blood kept gushing out. The gory stain on the carpet spread out in all directions.

When the four brethren returned to the temple they went straight to Jeremiah's office and told him what they had done. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"At least there's someone I can trust," he said. "But I'm afraid you'll have to leave the country for a while. The police are bound to come here when they investigate and it's better if they can't question you or check your clothes for blood stains."

He pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a thick wad of banknotes. "Here, take this. It's plenty to get you to Syldavia. I'll make sure you'll get a warm welcome at our temple there. But now get going. You must leave before the police are on the case."

The next day the gruesome murder was headline news. The first reports suggested that Brother James was the victim of a Dryvellophobic hate crime. This was a view Master Jeremiah was all too happy to support in interviews, but it didn't take long till Judas presented his side of the story. While the police pursued their investigations the press not only began to dig for information about Jeremiah and the temple but also presented every shred of new information together with a good dose of speculation to the public.

After seeing headlines such as Dryvellism a Fraud? and Master Jeremiah Fraudster and Murderer? Jeremiah had had enough. He called a press conference and responded in typical fashion. TV crews, reporters and cameramen gathered in the grand hall. Jeremiah, dressed in his best clothes, stepped in front of them and was almost swept away by a barrage of questions.

He lifted his hands and called "Please, please, not everyone at once. I will talk to you but no one can answer all questions at once."

"We thought you had special powers from God," someone called.

Everyone laughed.

Jeremiah went red in the face but decided to ignore the remark. When the hall was quiet he said "First I want to make a statement and then I'll be at your service to answer any remaining questions. I must tell you that The League against anti-Dryvellism has filed a complaint with the state prosecutor, to condemn a veritable day of hate. The baseless and hate-filled slander and libel directed at our peaceful temple and brethren are an outrage. Shame! Shame on all those who participated! How can the media repeat or even make up stories designed to incite hatred against our community? Poor Brother James is already dead. How many more must die? Have we not the right to live in peace and safety? Must we live in fear because some would repeat the lies uttered by Dryvellophobic hatemongers?"

"We have a witness statement that Brother James was going to reveal evidence of fraud in the temple and that his murder..."

"Lies," Jeremiah almost shouted. "Outrageous lies whose sole purpose it is to drag our holy community through the dirt. Poor James has for many years been an outstanding member of our community and defender of the faith. Is it not enough that he died for his beliefs? Hearing these vile lies about James is sickening and fills me with disgust."

"Then you accuse the witness of being deliberately untruthful?"

"What witness? There is no witness. The person you're alluding to is a well-known hater who has tried to incite the public against us in the past. He is an intolerant bigot who should have been prosecuted long ago. I must ask the authorities why such a person is permitted to continue spewing out his hatred. Without people like him Brother James would still be alive."

After a number of other questions that Master Jeremiah skilfully turned to his advantage the press conference was over and a much chastised press corps filed out of the hall. The hostile tone in news reports vanished and in the absence of any new evidence or information the story faded away.

The police were unable to locate the intruders into Judas' flat and as there was no other connection to the temple the police investigation ran into a dead end. The murder case remained open officially but the officers were taken off the case and reassigned to more urgent or promising cases.

**The Dryvellist Hospital**

A wise doctor does not mutter incantations

over a sore that needs the knife.

Sophocles, Ajax

It was Tuesday morning and Master Jeremiah was in an exuberant mood. The problems of the previous weeks had receded, the new museum was a success and brought in a steady stream of new converts, and Mondays had never been more profitable before. He decided it was time to direct his attention to another project that had long been in the making – a hospital. Not just any hospital, it was a Dryvellist Hospital. A hospital run by the ideas and ideals of Dryvellism. A hospital that integrated holy beliefs and practices into the care of its patients. In short, a hospital where the belief in God and prayer were paramount.

He left his mansion some two hours after the brethren had finished their breakfast, got into his new black limousine and drove to the temple. He came into the hall where he found Sycko sitting beside the weeping Diana enjoying a fag and a drink.

"Good morrow, Sycko," he said cheerfully.

Sycko glanced at his watch. "Good morrow, Jeremiah. I'm afraid breakfast is already finished, but you're still in time for lunch."

Jeremiah chuckled. "Come with me, Sycko. We have an interesting day ahead of us."

"Where are we going?" Sycko said without making any attempt to move.

"Come, come, now. I'll explain on the way. I'm sure you'll find it most enjoyable and also quite enlightening. In fact, I can promise you it'll be every bit as interesting as your first visit to the museum," he added knowing how keen Sycko was on the Museum of Creationism.

Sycko quickly got up and eagerly followed Jeremiah to his car. "A trip in the car," Sycko said. "This does look like a fun day."

That's the spirit," Jeremiah grinned. "Now, our first stop will be in town. You remember old Mr. Drummond? A stout chap with a receding hairline and bright blue eyes, always well-dressed? He used to spend quite some time in front of Diana."

"Yes, I think so. He hasn't come for a while, has he?"

"That's right, he's sick. In fact he's very sick, he's got cancer and doesn't get out of his house much."

"Oh dear, so we're visiting him?"

"I wouldn't exactly say visit, Sycko. We have a much more important thing to accomplish. Mr. Drummond is in urgent need of medical attention and the doctors treating him are quite unable to help him. In fact they've told him that he's got terminal cancer, in other words they're admitting that they can't help him at all. Now fancy that, would you want to go to a doctor who told you that he couldn't help you?"

Sycko shook his head emphatically. "Seems rather pointless, I mean why bother if..."

"Exactly, my dear boy. You've hit the nail on the head. Why bother with a doctor who can't help you?"

"And we can help him?"

"Most certainly yes, we're Dryvellers after all. Are we not blessed by the providence of the Lord? We have got our own Dryvellist Hospital. Our patients receive special care that ordinary hospitals can't provide. So today we're going to pick up Mr. Drummond and show him the hospital. After the awful experiences he's had at other hospitals we can't blame him if he wants to see the place first before committing himself. At the moment he's staying at home and all the poor fellow has are mountains of painkillers from the public hospital. And that's what they call 'health care'. But we know better. We'll show him what care really means and make sure that he gets what he deserves."

The car pulled up in front of a large villa and Jeremiah parked it in the drive. The villa was surrounded by a large garden with trees and flowerbeds that gave it the serene and peaceful air of a country estate even though it was in the middle of town. They entered the building and Jeremiah admired the opulent interior while waiting for Mr. Drummond. A large brass chandelier hung high up in the entrance hall, the walls were covered in dark oak panels and on the floor a thick Persian carpet completed the picture of refined opulence.

"Mr. Drummond will see you now," the butler said and took them into the gentleman's bedroom. When they entered they saw a private nurse administer a large dose of opiates to her patient.

"Master Jeremiah!" Mr. Drummond called out. "Thank God you're here. I've been waiting for this moment so much. The only thing that keeps me alive here is my nurse and the stuff she gives me against the pain. It's no life, I tell you, it's dreadful. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

Jeremiah smiled. "Well, all that's over now. This is the beginning of a new life for you. Have trust in the Lord and you will be provided for."

"And you're quite sure they'll be able to help me?" Mr. Drummond said, still not feeling quite convinced but desperately wanting to believe what he was told.

"Of course, my dear fellow. I'm taking you there personally," Jeremiah said. "After all these years we've known each other how can there be any doubt? I would never even think of recommending it to you if I wasn't absolutely sure that it was the right thing. The level of care you'll be getting there will far outpass anything you can imagine. You won't be treated as someone who has a death sentence any more. You'll be a patient who will get all the help and care he deserves and you'll have the Lord on your side. What better physician could you wish for?"

Drummond looked at Jeremiah with the desperate hope of a drowning man in his eyes. "Yes, Jeremiah. You don't mind if I call you Jeremiah, do you? I always knew I could count on you when the time came." He turned to the nurse. "Get me the wheelchair. I'm leaving."

The nurse looked disapprovingly at Jeremiah and Sycko but obeyed and pushed Mr. Drummond out of the house to Jeremiah's car.

An hour later they arrived at the Dryvellist Hospital which was situated in the country. The environment was much more pleasant there than in town and, of course, the cost of running a hospital was much lower than in town. The building was white and shone brightly in the sunshine. There were classic Greek columns on either side of the entrance that betrayed the building's origins in the 1930s.

Sycko and Jeremiah helped Mr. Drummond out of the car and into the wheelchair. Sycko pushed the wheelchair while Jeremiah walked next to it and chatted with their patient. They entered the large entrance hall that had been witness to many a man's last journey. The red and white marble floor was worn in places and the walls were decorated with pictures and other mementos of Dryvellism.

They went to the reception where they were met by the director of the hospital, Dr. Lee, an astute business woman who had turned the hospital into a veritable goldmine. A few years earlier she had been a simple piano teacher, but that changed after she bought a medical degree and a doctorate online. She was soon hired by Master Jeremiah to run the hospital and even though her administrative style was capricious verging on the unpredictable or even chaotic she applied the principles of profit maximisation to the hospital with impressive results.

Jeremiah beamed at her. "Director Lee, what a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce my old friend Mr. Drummond to you."

She smiled and shook hands. "A pleasure to have you here with us, Mr. Drummond. Master Jeremiah has already informed me of your condition and the poor help you've received at the government hospital. I can assure you that things will be very different here."

Drummond looked up from his wheelchair and saw a middle aged woman with black hair and brown eyes. There were few wrinkles in her face and her friendly smile exuded a genuine kindness that made Drummond instinctively trust her.

"Thank you," he said. "But first I'd like to take a look around, if you don't mind. Master Jeremiah told me I could have a look before I decide and..."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Drummond. That's what I'm here for. I'd be delighted to take you on a tour. Please follow me, I'm sure you'll find the wonderful things we're doing here impressive. In fact, some of the things I have witnessed here myself verge on the miraculous. Maybe Master Jeremiah has already told you about some of the things we do here?"

"Yes, indeed," Jeremiah said. "Most certainly yes, we have talked a good deal about this marvellous hospital and also about the miracles that have been brought about with the help of the Lord in this very place. Yes, my dear Drummond, miracles do happen even in our day and age and I am proud to say that I have played no small part in them, if I may say so myself."

"I couldn't agree more," Director Lee said. "And if good Master Jeremiah is too bashful to tell you about the true extent of the Lord's work that we accomplish here then I can only invite you to see with your own eyes."

They went up a floor in the lift and down a corridor. Mr. Drummond looked around in eager anticipation of any medical miracles there might be to see. His own state of mind and the relentless chatter from Master Jeremiah and Director Lee had already made him a firm believer in the miraculous cures that were possible or even commonplace in a Dryvellist Hospital. And if others benefitted from such miracles then why shouldn't he too? After years of prayers and worship at the temple, not to mention a fortune in donations surely he was as much entitled to a medical miracle as anyone else. And if he thought about it, didn't he have more of a right to such a miracle than most other people? The more he considered the matter the surer he was that a miraculous cure of his own disease was a foregone conclusion. His only regret was all the time he had wasted at public hospitals.

They came round a corner and entered one of the wards where they were greeted by laughter. A nurse was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room apparently having a good time with the four patients in the room.

"Hello, sister," Director Lee said. "This is Mr. Drummond. He's thinking of joining us here and would like to see what things are like. Can you tell us about what you're doing?"

"Hello, Mr. Drummond," the pretty young nurse said with a winning smile. "It's so nice to have you here, I'm sure you'll love it. So what have we been doing? We started with a prayer for healing and good health from our merciful Lord. Then we sang a few psalms and talked about our lives, what has happened and what we're planning to do after we leave here. But maybe our patients could share with us. Justin, would you like to tell Mr. Drummond about yourself?"

A young man about twenty years old was sitting upright in bed and looked at Mr. Drummond. "Yea, sure," Justin said. "Actually I don't know what I can tell you, Mr. Drummond. It's like I had this really bad accident and couldn't walk and now my leg's just fine again. Look!" he said and swung his legs out of bed. He stood up and slowly walked to Mr. Drummond and shook his hand before going back to bed again. He had fallen off his bike and broken his leg, but no one told Drummond that.

"Marvellous," Drummond said. "How I wish I could get up just like that again and walk around. Are you going to get out of here again? I mean are you cured?"

"Yea, sure," Justin said a little bewildered. "Of course I'm getting out again. I'm quite well again. There's nothing like the relaxation and banter with the nurse here to get you back on your feet. After a month here you'll be just your old self again," Justin said confidently with his own case in mind.

The nurse smiled. "That's great, Justin. Thank you for sharing with us. And thank the Lord for making you well again."

"And the lame shall walk again!" Jeremiah happily quoted from The Holy Dryvel. "Now what did I tell you, my dear Drummond. Miracles do still happen even in our day and age! Didn't I say so?"

"You certainly did, Master Jeremiah. Yes, you did say that," he said with the confidence of a man who feels he has just been cured himself.

Director Lee looked happy. "Would you like to hear from some of our other patients, Mr. Drummond? I'm sure we could spend a wonderful afternoon talking to many others. What do you say?"

"Oh, I'm sure that won't be necessary," he said quickly. The exertions of the trip had left him quite exhausted already and even though all the excitement had buoyed him he still felt he needed a rest more than anything else. "Say, Master Jeremiah mentioned you have a nice garden here for the patients. Is that right?"

"Yes, would you like to see it? It's open to all our patients who are well enough to be out and about."

"Another day," Drummond said. "Tomorrow would be nice. I'm feeling exhausted now. What I really need is a rest."

"Then you'll be staying right away?" Director Lee said with a smile.

He nodded.

"Splendid. Let's go to the office and settle the formalities and I'll have you taken to your room." She sneezed and everyone heard the sound of a little thing falling on the wooden floor. "My tooth!" Director Lee said annoyed. "It's come out."

She covered her mouth with one hand to hide the gap in her front teeth. To be accurate it wasn't really a tooth but a temporary crown that had been dislodged by her sneeze. Now everyone was on their knees crawling around and looking for the missing crown. Only old Mr. Drummond sat in his wheelchair looking bewildered. A minute later the tooth was found and Director Lee hurried out with it.

"I thought we were going to the office," Drummond said but Justin was the only one who heard him. He explained about the tooth and then said with an impish grin "I've got some Tic Tacs here. Shall I drop one on the floor when Director Lee comes back?"

Drummond chuckled. "Don't you dare, you young rascal!"

Justin sniggered and was about to say something when Director Lee came back still holding a hand in front of her mouth. "Let's go," she said.

Director Lee was ensconced in a huge leather armchair behind an enormous mahogany desk in her office with Jeremiah, Sycko and Drummond sitting opposite her. She explained the contract to Drummond and then proceeded to the small print.

"Oh, and here's just one more little thing that'll require your signature. It's a clause stating that in the event of your demise during your stay with us your entire estate will fall to the Holy Temple. Just a formality, of course." She smiled at Drummond.

"My demise?" he said looking bewildered for the second time.

"It's an honesty clause, my dear Drummond," Jeremiah hastened to add. "What it means is that you have here, in black and white, an absolute guarantee that you will leave this hospital again in good health. After all we could never accept that all your estate was imposed upon us. You have known me for so many long years not only as an honest Master of the Temple, but, I dare say, as a friend, and you know in your heart that I only want what is best for you."

"Oh, I see. Well if you put it that way," Drummond said slowly, though he wasn't sure if he did understand the point Jeremiah was making. He picked up the pen and signed the document. "I'm sure it's all the way it should be if you say it, Jeremiah. And you're quite sure you'll be able to help me here?" he said even though it was really too late for any last minute doubts.

"Of course we will," Director Lee said from behind her hand. "Just leave everything to us. But I see you're tired. I suggest you go to your room now and Jeremiah will get your things from the car."

Jeremiah handed Sycko the keys. Sycko hesitated for a moment, not sure whether carrying the old man's bags or pushing his wheelchair was the harder job to do, but then decided that it was the wrong moment to argue with Jeremiah and in any case it might not make much difference.

Half an hour later Mr. Drummond lay in his new bed. It was a large and comfortable bed with some chairs next to it and a bedside table for a few of his possessions. From the window he had a view of the tranquil countryside below and the pleasant green of the country with the blue of the sky made a very nice change from the dull grey of the city. He was sure he had made the right decision and was very grateful to Jeremiah for his help.

Jeremiah and Sycko said goodbye and soon after poor old Mr. Drummond fell asleep.

Later that day Drummond had dinner in his room and after dinner he took the last of the painkillers he had from the public hospital. In the drawer of his bedside table was a copy of The Holy Dryvel. He read for a while and prayed fervently for help and health from the Lord. Then he put the book away, switched off the light and turned on his side with a smile, confident that the first night in a Dryvellist Hospital was the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

Some hours later the effect of the drugs was beginning to wear off. He rang for the nurse on duty.

"Yes, Mr. Drummond. What can I do for you?"

"I'm in pain," he said. "My painkillers are finished. I need some more."

She smiled patiently. "Oh, but this is a Dryvellist Hospital, Mr. Drummond. You don't need painkillers here."

She pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. "I'm here to pray with you. Fold your hands and speak with me."

Not sure whether he had heard correctly he followed her instructions. They prayed for more than an hour during which time the pain steadily became worse until Drummond's hands were shaking and his face was bathed in sweat. Finding no relief from the prayers he couldn't take the pain any longer and cried out.

"Oh my God, please give me some painkillers. This isn't working. Just help me, please."

The nurse sighed. "You must pray harder, Mr. Drummond, and God will hear you. Show how strong your faith is!"

She resumed her prayers and Drummond made another effort. After a few minutes the excruciating pain won. His hands clutched the sheets and he yelled at the top of his voice. The nurse took some earplugs out of a pocket and put them in her ears. Then she went on praying and singing healing psalms as if nothing had happened.

Several hours later Drummond was at the end of his tether. Utterly exhausted from hours of incessant screaming and agony he finally lost consciousness. During the brief respite the nurse left his room. Her shift was finished and it was up to the day nurse to wipe his brow and pray for him.

The cancer was eating away at his inside and soon, all too soon, the intense pain reawakened his mind. He cried out. The day nurse came and smiled at him.

"Good morrow, Mr. Drummond. How are you today? I hope you had a pleasant night in the arms of the Lord who now cares for you. If there's anything you need...?"

He looked at her aghast. "I need painkillers," he shouted in horror.

"Devil's things," she said disapprovingly. "Let us pray to the Lord for His mercy."

She folded her hands but before she could start the prayer Drummond yelled at her. "Get me an ambulance! I need to get out of here." He tried to sit up but the nurse pushed him back down into his bed.

"Now, now, Mr. Drummond. That won't do. Show the strength of your faith and pray to the Lord. Only He can help you. No pain, no gain. You know the old saying, don't you?"

Unable to say anything Drummond resumed his yelling. The nurse simply put plugs into her ears.

After almost a week of agony, screaming and trying to get out of the hospital Mr. Drummond's body was worn to a ravelling and gave up the ghost. Not once did Master Jeremiah come to see how his 'old friend' was doing. He didn't need to. He only had to wait for the inevitable result. And thus, after just a week of waiting the Holy Temple inherited all of Mr. Drummond's estate leaving nothing to his family and heirs.
**Another Patient**

Men regard it as their right

to return evil for evil

and if they cannot,

feel they have lost their liberty.

Aristotle, Nicomachean ethics

Marmaduke Montmorency Drummond, who preferred to be called Cato, was the only child of the late Mr. Drummond who had so painfully passed away from hell, where to no one could say, the only thing that was sure was that it had to be a better place. Mr. Drummond the younger, let's just call him Cato, was away on a trip when his father was so deceitfully lured into the Dryvellist Hospital. Brought back by an urgent summons on the radio from his country's diplomatic service Cato rushed home expecting his father to be there. But instead of finding the nurse and housekeeper to greet him he found the house locked up. This was an unheard of occurrence and as he had never once needed a key before in his life he found himself locked out of the house. Desperate for news he called the public hospital, the nursing service and several others until he discovered his father had died in the Dryvellist Hospital. By that time evening was fast approaching. He called a taxi and drove out to the hospital where he was only admitted after a lengthy argument at the door. A rather peevish attendant took Cato to Director Lee's office.

"Good evening," she said with a blank expression on her face.

"Well, good evening," he replied feeling somewhat exasperated. "My name's Drummond. I'm here about my father. I was told that..."

"Yes, yes, your late father came here for treatment but unfortunately we weren't able to save his life. You may rest assured that we did all we could and that he met his end in dignity. A pity you weren't here. He was entirely peaceful towards the end," she lied smoothly. "His remains have been cremated, as was his wish. The urn will be at the office downstairs. If there's anything else I can do for you...?"

"Well, I don't know," he said crestfallen. "I suppose all that's left for me is to go home. Are my father's things here? I mean what you call personal effects. I'm afraid I haven't got a key to the house and I thought my father might have taken one along here."

"You mean the keys to your father's house?" She said sternly.

"Yes, our family estate."

"I see, you don't know yet. I'm afraid that's quite out of the question, Mr. Drummond. You see, your late father left his entire estate to the Holy Temple in return for our medical help and treatment."

"He what?" Cato said incredulously.

"It's all in good order, Mr. Drummond, rest assured. Our lawyers are processing the papers as we speak. I'm not sure what will be done with the property though I imagine it will be auctioned so if wish to bid for it I'm sure..."

"Bid for my own house!" he shouted in outrage.

"I suggest you contact our lawyers or even Master Jeremiah of the holy temple directly and discuss any problems with them. The matter is out of my hands, so if you'll excuse me, I've had a very busy day."

Shaking with rage and hurt Cato took a taxi back into town where a friend took him in.

The next day Cato went to the temple to confront Jeremiah. As Jeremiah seldom ventured forth from his luxurious home before noon these days Cato only found Sycko to talk to. Cato entered the hall where Sycko was reclining beside the weeping Diana with a packet of fags and a bottle of something strong as he did every morning. Cato walked up to him and said "I'm looking for Master Jeremiah."

"Behold the weeping Diana," Sycko said. "It's a true miracle. Many people come here to worship and..."

"I'll give you a very different sort of miracle if you don't take me to Jeremiah right now," he said threateningly.

"That's not possible, I'm afraid."

"And why not?"

"Because he's not here."

"Really. Well, you tell your Master Jeremiah that my name's Drummond and that I won't let him have my house."

He stormed out of the temple and decided to get a locksmith and simply force himself into his family house. It didn't take long to find a locksmith and they drove to the house together. But when they got there Cato saw a smartly dressed young man and two police officers at the front door.

"What are you doing here?" Cato said aggressively. "Get off my land!"

"Now then, Mr. Drummond, let's not have any trouble. I'm a lawyer representing the interests of the Holy Temple. I understand that this is a difficult time for you, but you must understand that this is not your property. It belongs to the Holy Temple."

"We'll see about that!" Cato shouted and tried to push the smarmy lawyer aside. The two officers intervened.

"Mr. Drummond, we've already had a complaint that you used threatening language to the director of the Dryvellist Hospital and if you persist in your stance here we shall have to arrest you."

"This is my family's house! How dare you..."

"I'm sorry, but we've got our orders. I suggest you take legal counsel, Mr. Drummond."

Cato looked from one to the other and understood that he wasn't getting anywhere. He swallowed his pride and decided that he needed help if he wanted any chance of success. He had clearly underestimated Director Lee and Jeremiah. Bitter but not beaten he turned round and walked off with the locksmith.

A lawyer friend helped Cato challenge the Temple's claim to his family estate, but after a both costly and bitter legal battle the court found in favour of the Temple. One thing Cato did gain from the court case was a certain amount of publicity and as luck would have it one of the nurses sitting with the old Mr. Drummond during his interminable hours of agony had for some time been having doubts about what was going on in the Dryvellist hospital. She decided to contact Cato and talk with him and so she went to the small flat in town that he rented. Her heart pounding she rang the doorbell. The door opened after a few moments. She recognized Cato immediately from the photo in the newspaper. Coming face to face with him she suddenly felt very shy and didn't know what to say so she just stood there looking at him somewhat sheepishly. She felt her face reddening.

"Well then, what can I do for you?" Cato said. "Your visit does have a purpose, I presume?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I just don't quite know what to say, I mean I don't know where to start."

"How about the beginning?"

"Yes, of course, it's just, well I'm afraid you'll be angry with me and..."

"Look, just tell me what it is, all right? I won't bite you I promise. So please, the beginning."

She took a deep breath. "You see, I'm a nurse at the hospital where your father died and I was with him as well."

"I see," he said carefully. "I think you'd better come in then."

He led the way to the living room where they sat down. She told him the truth about the horrible way his father had died.

Bitter tears ran down his face. "You know what that Director Lee told me? She said he died in dignity and peace. That lying bitch! If I ever get to lay my hands on her then let god have mercy on her for I will not!" He clenched his fists and banged the reading table in fury. "God damn it," he cursed. "And a curse on that sodding Jeremiah too." He jumped up agitated. "So they defraud my father, they murder him with pain, they cheat me and lie to me and to the police and there they're sitting smug and gloating how they made a fortune out of a poor old man. There may be no justice in this world, but by God, I will have my vengeance!" he shouted.

All the while the nurse was looking at him terrified. "Don't hurt me please," she whispered.

"Hmm, what? Hurt you? Of course not. I'm not angry with you. In fact I'm very grateful that you came to me. It took courage to do so. But what to do, oh what to do?"

He let himself fall into an armchair and thought about everything. "That temple," he said after a minute. "With what they're doing there must be other people who had trouble with them. I think I recall a case a while ago where someone had a public fight with them. I don't really follow the news much. Do you remember the case?"

She nodded. "It was a man called Judas. Actually he had two quarrels with Master Jeremiah, the first one over the weeping Diana in the temple and the second one over the murder of Brother James."

"That silly weeping statue I've already seen, but murder? I didn't know that. Can you help me find this Judas? I want to speak to him."

With some effort they managed to find Judas in the online telephone directory. Cato called and arranged a meeting the same day.

He looked at the nurse. "Do you want to come along?" he said. "You don't have to, you know."

"Do you want me to come?" she asked timidly.

"Yes, actually I would like that," he said. "But there we're talking and I don't even know your name yet."

"I'm Joan," she said.

He looked at her for the first time. She was a pretty young woman, in her early twenties he guessed, with blonde hair, pale blue eyes and an altogether pleasing countenance. She stood about a foot shorter than himself and she was slim though not skinny. He didn't like the anorexic look that many women aspired to after being fed a steady diet of overly thin models in various magazines.

"Glad to meet you, Joan. Sorry I was yelling my head off before but..."

"I understand," she said. "I think I understand."

A few hours later they were sitting together with Judas on a grimy old sofa in his little living room. They talked about their various experiences with the Holy Temple but didn't really know what to do.

"I mean like, what we really need," Judas said, "what we really need is to get the right evidence about the dirty things they're doing. It has to be solid, then we can make it public."

"Haven't you tried that before?" Cato asked.

"Yea, but maybe it wasn't good enough."

"And how would you get this information? That temple is just like a Teflon frying pan, nothing sticks."

"I've got an idea," Joan said. "I don't know if it'll work, but..."

"We're all ears, Joan," Cato said. "Let's have it."

"Well, we need someone to go to the hospital as a patient, I mean someone who pretends to be sick, but who'll record things there."

Judas grinned. "That's brilliant, Joan. But who'll go? We can't because they know us already. And how would we make the recording?"

"I think I can answer that," Cato said. "I've got a good friend who owes me some serious favours. I'm sure he'd be willing to pose as a filthy rich and terribly sick patient. And as to recordings, we'll get someone to go and visit him and install hidden cameras. In fact the more the better. They won't be expecting that. What do you think, Joan?"

She sighed and then nodded thoughtfully. "I think it would work. No one really examines patients to see what's wrong with them. We just bathe them or change bandages and simple things like that. If your friend just pretends to be in pain no one would notice. As for hidden cameras, I don't know. We never look for that sort of thing. I suppose it just depends on how well they're hidden."

"That's settled then," Cato said.

Cato's friend Mark proved to be more than willing to help so within a few days they set the trap for the Dryvellist Hospital. They faked medical certificates showing that Mark was terminally ill. They also managed to borrow another friend's villa for one day to pass off as Mark's own. When everything was set Joan phoned Jeremiah with Cato and Judas watching.

"Well?" Cato said when she hung up.

Joan grinned. "He fell for it. In fact he agreed to pick Mark up this afternoon."

"No wonder with the address you gave him," Judas said. "It's in a filthy rich area."

At the Dryvellist Hospital things worked out much easier than they had feared. With Joan's help they managed to install hidden cameras in a number of rooms and a recording device was kept amongst Mark's things. As Joan had introduced Mark to the hospital he was able to request her as one of his nurses and she was appointed for night duty to his room. This enabled him to get rest at night so he had enough energy to keep up a credible performance in daytime.

On the evening of the fifth day Joan came to his room as usual to start her night shift.

"Good evening," Joan said as she entered. "How is the patient today?"

A happy day nurse looked at her. "Better, I dare say. Much better in fact. Our prayers today have worked so well, it's almost a miracle. His pain has quite gone."

"Is that right?" Joan said looking at Mark. "I am very glad to hear it. The Lord's smile is upon you."

"Yes, nurse," Mark smiled. "I'm so glad you brought me here. Every word you said is true. Miracles do happen."

The day nurse left glad to go home and Joan sat on Mark's bed. She grinned at him. "So the power of prayer has made all your pain evaporate? How very fortunate. But don't overdo it or they'll become suspicious. I've never heard of a miracle in this place before."

"Yes, nurse," Mark said dutifully. "I'll be in much more pain again tomorrow. But seriously, how much longer do you guys want me to keep this up? I've got a really sore throat from all the crying and moaning already."

"Cato asks if we've got enough film material yet."

"I should think so. From all the yelling and screaming I've heard more than enough. So what's the plan?"

Joan nodded. "I think so, too. The woman in the room next to yours died yesterday so we've got that recorded as well. Anyway, I talked things over with the others and the plan is to get you out on Monday."

"Another two days of this?"

"Monday is the holy day here. Staff will be busy praying in the hospital temple so it'll be much easier for you to sneak out unobserved. I will take all the recording equipment with me on Monday morning when I finish my shift."

"So what do I do?"

"Pretend to sleep after breakfast, then no one will bother staying with you. Prayers will start in the temple at 8am. Wait till after eight, then go into the garden and walk to the far end near the tall oak tree. You know the one I mean?"

Mark nodded.

"All right, go past the tree. There's a narrow opening in the hedge. All you need to do is to climb through it. Cato will be waiting for you on the other side in a car."

"Sounds good to me," Mark grinned. "This hospital will be getting a pukka miracle after all! Terminally ill man cured in one week! That should make them proud and happy."

Joan laughed. "Yes, and they'll be absolutely delighted when they hear about it on TV. Should be enough to give Director Lee a heart attack."

On Monday morning Joan left after Mark had his breakfast. He then feigned sleep and the day nurse was more than happy to leave his room and go about her business which mostly involved skiving from her duties. He waited till ten past eight to be on the safe side and then quickly got dressed. He opened the door to his room and peered out. The corridor was deserted and apart from moans in a few rooms nothing could be heard. He dashed down the corridor and down the fire escape. On the ground floor he looked through the narrow glass of the door. Everything was empty. He pushed the door open and hurried round the corner where he bumped into Director Lee.

"What on earth are you doing here?" she said. "You shouldn't leave your room without a nurse."

Blood shot into his face. "Oh, eh, the nurse helped me so much with prayer, but now I really need some fresh air. I want to continue my prayers in the garden. I'll be just outside the door on the bench."

Director Lee looked through the glass door. A bench was clearly visible nearby. "Oh, well if you want to. But if you're not feeling well you must come right back inside. A nurse will take you back to your room. And don't wander around outside on your own." She walked off without another word.

Mark gazed after her for a moment. "So you don't want me to die outside, do you? Worried about my money if I don't die in here." He went into the garden and looked around slowly to make sure no one was watching him. Then he set out across the grounds towards the oak tree as Joan had instructed him. At the tree he looked around. At first he couldn't see it but when he examined the hedge more closely he made out a narrow hole. "Just enough to squeeze through," he muttered. He pushed himself through the gap and was relieved to find Cato waiting for him in the car. He got in and said "Just get going, man. I can't wait to be away from that dreadful place."

Cato just grinned and put his foot down on the accelerator.

**Dryvellophobia**

Whom the Gods wish to destroy,

they first make mad.

Euripides, Antigone

A special TV report about the Dryvellist Hospital and its connection with the Holy Temple was announced with much fanfare a week later. With the temple being back in the spotlight again the report attracted a lot of interest and much of the nation was glued to the TV screen the evening it was shown.

The report began with reminding viewers of previous controversies the temple and Jeremiah had been involved in. Then the secretly recorded material from the hospital was shown. In one room an elderly woman was shown tied to her bed. She was yelling and moaning in pain for hours begging to be released, begging for an ambulance, pleading for mercy. The nation's horrified audience saw the only reaction from hospital staff were prayers, singing psalms and restraining the woman, even tying her wrists to the frame of the bed so she couldn't get up. The use of earplugs by the nurses caused even more outrage among the viewers.

Similar scenes were shown in four other rooms. Also in the report were interviews with Director Lee and Master Jeremiah. Director Lee's comments about how patients were treated with love and care, how they had their dignity restored after poor treatment at public hospitals, and how many patients had seen a miraculous improvement in their condition in even the most hopeless cases was presented in sharp contrast with the scenes from the secret recordings.

The day after the report all hell broke lose, at least as far as the Dryvellers were concerned. Before dawn police arrived with a throng of ambulances and evacuated anyone who wanted to leave the hospital. Not long after thousands of outraged citizens came and held a noisy demonstration protesting against conditions at the hospital. The police came a second time to prevent people from forcing their way into the hospital. The third group outside the main entrance were a large group of reporters who were busy showing everything live on TV and who were demanding to see Director Lee. To everyone's surprise she decided to face the crowd and address the press shortly after nine o'clock. When the doors opened and she appeared, the press shot off a barrage of questions while the crowd booed her and tried to shout her down.

"A statement," she said. "I want to make a statement."

The tumult subsided a little.

"We are shocked and horrified by the actions depicted in last night's report. We have begun an internal investigation and if we find any of the allegations to be true and not a fabrication by a third party we will make sure that those responsible will face strong disciplinary action."

There were jeers from the crowd.

"I would also like to assure you that patients at our sacred hospital receive the highest and best care possible..."

General laughter.

"...and that our staff are dedicated individuals who have chosen their profession because they want to help others. All of us here are very worried about what may happen to the patients so brutally removed by authorities earlier today in a cloak and dagger operation which stood in utter disregard to the law. I also want to protest against insinuations made in the TV report that we stand to profit from our patients dying. This is totally false and our legal team is assessing the possibility of legal action for defamation against the producer and individuals involved in making that disgusting example of gutter journalism."

For a split-second there was silence. Then a furious roar erupted from the crowd and Director Lee beat a hasty retreat into the building. The door fell shut behind her just in time before a hail of half-empty bottles and cans, shoes and other objects slammed into the building. Riot police intervened and began to push the furious crowd back. After a few minutes things had calmed down again but the scenes of irate protesters were replayed on TV over and over again along with comments by Director Lee and the dreadful scenes of suffering patients at the Dryvellist Hospital.

The next morning Jeremiah graced the brethren with his presence during breakfast for the first time in quite a while. Not that he wanted to be present, he had grown much too accustomed to sleeping late to have breakfast early in the morning, he felt a profound sense of disquiet if not to say anxiety due to the negative publicity that compelled him to be present. Sycko let Jeremiah have his customary seat at the head of the long table and sat down beside him just as he had done months before.

All eyes were turned to Jeremiah, seeking guidance and reassurance, all of them looking worried and quite a few with shadows under the eyes indicating a restless night.

"Good morrow," Jeremiah sighed. "Let us break the fast together as is our wont, and then," he paused with another sigh, "and then we will talk about the terrible things that have transpired."

Many hands quickly reached for food and drink. No one talked and everyone tried to get breakfast over with, eager to hear what the Master of the Temple had to say. Only Jeremiah didn't seem to be in a hurry. Every mouthful he took seemed to wander around his mouth for what was an eternity for all the brethren watching him eat. They had all finished their meals and were waiting for Jeremiah to give the signal to rise. He didn't notice. The room was silent apart from the odd clang of crockery when Jeremiah put his cup down. Slowly though, another noise was heard. Very quiet at first it gradually increased in strength until it sounded like the hum of a beehive. Confused the brethren looked around. They had never heard it before. Suddenly a window shattered into an explosion of glass. A brother sitting opposite fell to the floor with a scream. The brethren leapt to their feet and saw a large stone lying next to their unfortunate brother. Jeremiah hurried across and felt his pulse.

"He's still alive," he said. "Sycko, call an ambulance!"

Sycko ran off and the breakfast room exploded into uproar. Everyone was talking, shouting and yelling at the same time. Then one of them pointed out of the window.

"Look!" he shouted. "They're coming for us."

They looked outside and saw a huge crowd gathered below. An angry crowd surging against the walls of the temple like the tide running up against coastal defences in a storm surge.

"And call the police, too!" Jeremiah shouted after Sycko.

"Just as well the temple doors are a stout, massive affair," Jeremiah thought.

Some of the horrified brethren stared out of the window at the angry mob below, but seeing faces at the window merely enraged the crowd even more. An angry roar erupted and various objects came flying towards the window. The brethren withdrew from the window in a hurry and pulled their fallen brother along the floor into the next room to safety.

Jeremiah peered into the breakfast room. Broken glass lay on the floor and the table, a bright red smear led from the table through the doorway to where they were now, the table was in a state never seen before. He shook his head in disbelief. "So much hatred," he muttered. "Oh Lord, let the haters feel thy wrath and fury. Let thy will be done and let thy vengeance smite the unbelievers."

His fists were clenched tightly and he felt his hands shaking.

"Master Jeremiah, you're bleeding," a brother told him.

"Eh, what?"

"Your hand, you're bleeding."

He gazed down at his tightly clenched fists and only then felt the pain of his fingernails digging into his skin. He opened his hands and saw the deep tears his fingernails had made in his left hand.

Later that day things had calmed down again. After the arrival of the police the noisy and violent demonstration outside the temple was dispersed and the injured brother taken to hospital, a public hospital – not the Dryvellist Hospital. The brethren set about cleaning up the mess in the temple and then uneasily assembled in the grand hall under Diana's lachrymose eyes. After a brief talk by Jeremiah in which he denounced and condemned Dryvellophobia and hatemongers in his usual vein an embarrassed silence fell over the assembly. They sat together for some time avoiding each other's eyes when for want of any better idea Jeremiah brought a small TV set from his office and stood it on a chair. He switched it on.

"...and we are here reporting live from the Dryvellist Hospital where police yesterday rescued a large number of desperate patients kept in appalling conditions. We have learned today that criminal charges are being made by the state prosecution against the hospital and its administration who are denying any wrongdoing. In a dramatic turn of events Director Lee, who is in charge of the hospital, was spotted on the roof of the hospital in what appears to be a suicide attempt. The picture here in the studio of what is going on is still sketchy so we're going live to our correspondent Cecilia Hopewell who is at the Dryvellist Hospital. Cecilia, can you tell us what's going on?"

"Hi Harold. Well, as you can see behind me Director Lee is standing at the very edge of the roof and there is a real danger she may lose her balance and fall even if she doesn't want to jump. Rescue services arrived here a few minutes ago and as you can see firefighters are desperately trying to inflate an airbed below where Director Lee is standing, to catch her should she fall. I am also informed by a police source that a negotiator is on her way to the rooftop. All we can do now is wait and hope that the negotiator will be able to talk to Director Lee and convince her to step back from the abyss she faces."

"Now what about these charges brought against the hospital and, I understand, Director Lee by the prosecutor. I suppose they would have had a huge impact on her state of mind and might have pushed her to take this desperate step."

"I spoke to the prosecutor earlier today and he told me that among the charges being brought are abuse, wilful neglect and murder. I don't know if there's a warrant for the arrest of Director Lee yet, but if she's heard of the charges brought against the hospital and herself then it's entirely probable that that pushed her over the edge, eh, no pun intended there, Harold. I wanted to say that such news could have put so much pressure on her that she decided to go on the roof. Whether she's really intent on killing herself or whether this is a dramatic cry for help we cannot say."

"I can see some activity there behind you on the rooftop. Can you tell us what is going on?"

"Ah, yes Harold. The police negotiator seems to have arrived and we can see her talking to Director Lee. From her gestures we can guess that she's trying to calm down Director Lee, trying to deescalate the situation, but of course we don't know what exactly is being said. What I can tell you is what a police source on the ground told me a few minutes ago, that this is still an ongoing investigation, they're not even sure if any murder has been committed and given this the charges brought by the state prosecutor may seem somewhat rash, though, of course, we don't know his reasoning. All this should become clearer in the coming days. So what the police here are stressing, and I'm sure this will be an important part of what the negotiator will try to bring across to Director Lee, is that she will be given a fair chance to defend herself and that at the moment it isn't even clear whether she will have to defend herself in a court of law. Given these uncertainties there is no real reason why Director Lee should take her own life, we can only hope that the negotiator will be able to reason with her and persuade her to come away from the edge of the rooftop."

"How are the firefighters doing? Have they managed to inflate the airbed yet?"

"Again I have not had any official word, but yes, it looks like it's ready, so even if Director Lee falls off the roof she should be safe."

"What's going on now, Cecilia? I can make out movement on the roof."

"Indeed, Harold, I can see Director Lee stepping away from the edge and the negotiator is holding out her hands towards Director Lee in what looks like the end of the immediate crisis here. Director Lee has now taken another step towards the negotiator and she is cautiously lifting a hand, her right hand I think, towards her. This does look like the end of the drama here, an end that has come, I think we're all relieved to see, without any bloodshed."

"I can hear shouts behind you, Cecilia. What's happening?"

"Oh my god, Harold. Things were just going fine a moment ago, but then Director Lee suddenly yanked her hand away from the negotiator. The negotiator tried to grab her but she jumped away. Now she's running across the roof. She's running at the very edge of the rooftop and she's quickly getting away from the area made safe by the airbed. The negotiator is several steps behind her and we can see her calling to Director Lee. Now Director Lee is turning back towards the negotiator, we can only hope that this is another chance for...oh my god, she's fallen. Director Lee stumbled and has fallen off the roof. As I can see she fell onto the ground below headfirst. That is a solid concrete ground where she has fallen and I think it is very unlikely anyone could have survived such a fall. The roof stands several storeys above ground. Paramedics are running towards the scene and an ambulance is on its way too. I have no official word yet but barring a miracle I think we must assume that Director Lee is dead. Back to you in the studio."

"That is a terrible turn of events, Cecilia. Thank you. For our viewers who have just joined..."

Jeremiah jumped up in a fury and switched the TV off.

"Murderers!" he yelled his face turning crimson. "Filthy vile murderers. Did you see, my brothers? Did you see how the haters drove Director Lee to her death? How they persecuted her up to the very roof of her own hospital? The outrage, the terror! Can we Dryvellers find nowhere to live in peace?" He sighed and looked to the floor. "Let us pray, brothers. Let us pray to the Lord for His guidance."

The brethren knelt on the floor facing Jeremiah and began to drool. With saliva running down their faces Jeremiah lifted his hands up.

"Mighty Lord," he said. "We implore you for your strength and wisdom in these trying times. See how your poor servants are persecuted unto death. Behold the suffering at the hands of those who would destroy thy humble servants. We beseech thee, smite thy foes, cast them into the eternal hell fires, let them suffer in perpetuity for they have sinned against us, thy loyal and obedient followers. Oh Lord, we who believe in thee, we who recognize the holy bond of drivel, beg thee for thy aid and succour. Drivel, drivel, drivel."

All the brethren said 'drivel' thrice to mark the end of the prayer and then rose to their feet.

"Well said, Master Jeremiah," one of them said and shook his hand.

Sycko smiled. "An excellent prayer, Jeremiah. With God on our side, what have we to fear? The Lord will punish them!"

"Hear, hear," Jeremiah said. "Brother Sycko is entirely right. God will punish the vile unbelievers, may they rot in hell. And we who are the Lord's humble servants will do our duty to the Lord. Is it not our duty in this hour of need to assist the Lord in His fight against the enemy?"

There were some assenting voices and cheers.

"And I ask you this," Jeremiah went on. "How are we to help God in His fight against the foe? Does God want us to simply stay in His temple and keep begging for help? Not so, I say. God wants us Dryvellers to go out there and do what we can to thwart our opponents. I ask each and every one of you to bring to your mind the laws of the Lord, those golden rules that fill our lives with meaning and peace. Do those laws not command us to bring eternal peace to the enemies of God so that we Dryvellers may live in peace?"

A resounding cheer rang out.

"Hooray for Master Jeremiah," one voice shouted.

"Death to the unbelievers," someone called.

"Dryvellism will rule the world," a brother yelled.

Satisfied with the result Jeremiah looked at the infuriated brethren. How easy it was to incite them, he thought.

"What we need now," Jeremiah said, "is a volunteer. A brother willing to do his duty to God and fulfil the oath he has sworn. A man glad to accept the Lord's kind promise of superparadise and the 99 trillion virgins. In one word, a pukka Dryveller. Is there amongst you anyone worthy of the name Dryveller?"

The whole crowd eagerly surged forward to volunteer, waving their hands, shouting their names and doing everything to get Jeremiah's attention. Yet one man in particular managed to shout louder than anyone, managed to push everyone else aside and was the undisputed winner in this contest for martyrdom – Sycko.

Jeremiah, Master of the Temple, looked at him approvingly. "Very good, Brother Sycko. I always knew I could count on you. My loyal friend, how I envy you for this wonderful step you're taking. If only I was free to do so, I would be the very first to go, but alas, my duties to the Lord keep me bound to the temple so that His will may be done."

He pressed his lips together and slightly lowered his head to let everyone see how upset he was at not being able to take Sycko's place. The brethren quickly rallied around him sympathizing with his plight.

"We understand, Jeremiah," Sycko said. I'm sure the Lord will not hold it against you that you are so loyal to Him in doing your duties. This should not distress you. But I by no means want to take something that should rightfully be yours. If you think it better I'm sure you could take my place and we who are left behind here will manage even without you. It may be hard, but..."

"Oh no, no, no," Jeremiah quickly said. "That wouldn't do at all."

The brethren looked at him feeling slightly surprised at his quick rejection of Sycko's kind offer.

Jeremiah felt the blood going into his face. "Eh, erm, the thing is, well, to tell you the truth it is the Lord himself who commanded me to remain at my post, so you see, tempting as Sycko's offer may be, it is quite out of the question for me to accept it."

He put his hand on Sycko's arm.

"Nevertheless, my dear Sycko, I would like to thank you for your kindness. It has truly touched my heart how you would put me before yourself. Such selfless dedication is the true mark of friendship and loyalty and we would all do well to remember it."

He embraced Sycko and then took his hand while the brethren around them started singing 'For he's a jolly good Dryveller'.

**The Martyr**

Death is an evil;

the Gods have so decided.

Had death been good,

Gods would also die.

Sappho

A blood red moon slowly rose above the horizon. Jeremiah and Sycko stood on a hilltop outside town. The night sky above them was ablaze with myriads of stars not unlike a dark road covered in glass splinters. Jeremiah pointed at the moon. "Behold Diana's wrath," he said darkly. "The Goddess of the Hunt has risen, risen to take you by the hand on your journey, and to go hunting with you. Now kneel, my friend, and implore her blessings."

Sycko knelt facing the moon and lifted his hands towards Diana in supplication.

"Now bite your tongue," Jeremiah said. "Bite it hard so that your gory drivel may be the sacrifice you make to Diana. Prove to Her your fortitude, your iron will and unwavering determination to accompany Her on the hunt."

Sycko held his breath in anticipation of the pain and bit hard. He could taste the blood in his mouth and began to drool. The blood dripped onto his white shirt and the blood moon saw. Jeremiah also saw the blood stain and the tears of pain running down Sycko's face.

"Mighty Diana!" Sycko called. "Bless me and bless the hunt. Let not the prey from my sights escape nor beware me on the hunt."

A cloud drifted across the moon.

"An omen," Jeremiah whispered excitedly. "A good omen. Just as Diana hid herself so she will keep you hidden on your hunt. Behold the might of the Lord, my dear Sycko and you will know that His might is right. You have been blessed, brother, truly blessed. Now let us descend the hill."

A solitary drum started beating a rhythm in the dark. Then two rows of torches lit up the path down that they had to take. The brethren stood in two rows holding the blazing torches above their heads. When Sycko and Jeremiah stepped between them the brethren chanted an ancient hunting song:

Behold the hunter on his quest,

And know his prey will have no rest.

Then he must point his deadly arrow,

That brings his foes a lot of sorrow.

The pointed tip flies through the night

And when it strikes all will be right.

His shady claws Death stretches out,

Ere anyone can cry or shout.

Hither Death, come hither now,

For life to thee must needs bow.

And then the end is swift in gore,

A blood red cloak Diana wore.

All the way down Sycko felt the power of the Goddess coursing through his veins. He had never felt such strength before and he knew with utter certainty that he now had the power to do anything. He was ready, truly ready for the hunt. The torchlight flickered and the scent of smoke filled the crisp night air. When Sycko reached the end of the line the brethren turned and followed him. Their rhythmic chanting lent a magic air to the procession. Sycko's heart beat fast and he marched at the head of the column feeling like the conquering hero in a tale of olden days. Only the moon looked on, serene.

They marched through the night until their weary feet carried them back to the outskirts of town from where they took the first bus of the day. It was four o'clock and dawn was still some time off. The moon had regained its usual pallid complexion like someone who had just seen a ghost. When the tired brethren got back to the temple they quickly sought out the comforts of their beds and by the time first light broke only Jeremiah and Sycko were still awake. Jeremiah plied Sycko with generous quantities of his usual strong drink along with Dryvellers Fags.

"They somehow taste different today," Sycko said.

"Look at the packet."

Dryvellers Fags

Extra Strong

Sycko gave him a questioning look.

"I've kept these for a special occasion," Jeremiah said. "They have the Lord's special blessing and will fill your heart with strength."

Sycko inhaled deeply and felt an unusual sensation creep through his body, peculiar yet not unpleasant. He exhaled and greedily took in another lungful of smoke. The drink and the smoke combined to make him feel invincible. Six o'clock. At seven o'clock rush hour would be in full swing.

"What's it like, Jeremiah?"

"It?"

"To die. What's it like to die?

"Ah, I see," he said looking somewhat ill at ease. "I think I'll have a drink, too."

Sycko handed him a bottle.

"Death? Why death is nothing to fear for a Dryveller. A true Dryveller simply leaves all the troubles of this world behind and moves on to a better place. The word 'die' doesn't really apply to us Dryvellers. It's more like moving house into a nicer neighbourhood."

"That sounds nice."

"Yes, of course. It is nice. I dare say, I envy you not a little. You're not just moving on, you're going to the absolutely best place anyone could go to. Oh, what I wouldn't give to go in your stead."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course, it's the opportunity of a lifetime and..."

The drink had left Sycko in a generous mood.

"All right then, Jeremiah. I give my place up for you."

"Oh good Lord, no," Jeremiah said hurriedly. "That wouldn't do at all. I already told you that God himself commanded me to remain at my post here. You wouldn't have me go against God's will now, would you?"

"No, of course not," Sycko said looking somewhat crestfallen at the speedy rejection of his heartfelt offer. There was something odd, he was sure but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Jeremiah saw the frown on Sycko's forehead and understood that doubt had crept into his mind. He cursed inwardly at not handling the conversation better. There was only one thing to do, distract his mind with other matters.

"I've got some new clothes for you. Let's go and try them on. I hope you'll like them."

His curiosity piqued Sycko followed Jeremiah into his office. There, neatly laid out, was a black suit complete with a frock and a top hat.

Sycko's eyes gleamed with joy. "A top hat for me?" he said incredulously.

"Why, yes certainly," Jeremiah said. "Give him the best! the Lord commanded me and it would hardly be the best without a pukka top hat."

"Isn't the frock a bit big?"

"You'll be wearing a special waistcoat underneath. It's a bit bulky so you'll need the extra space. Here, try it on."

Sycko slipped into the waistcoat. It felt heavy and there were wires coming out of one arm. Jeremiah quickly attached the wires to one sleeve and then helped Sycko into the frock to cover everything.

"There we go," Jeremiah said. "You look great, put the top hat on and you'll look like a pukka Dryveller from top to bottom."

Sycko proudly admired himself in a mirror. He lit another one of the extra strong fags and blew smoke at his reflection in the mirror. The weight of the heavy waistcoat seemed to vanish along with the smoke into thin air.

"Splendid," he said. "What do we do now?"

"Ah, yes, good you remind me. There is one more little matter."

He took out a switch from a drawer and connected it to the wires coming from Sycko's sleeve.

"Here, hold that," Jeremiah said and put it in Sycko's hand.

"Now listen to me very carefully, my dear friend. You can see the red button here. Don't press it. I will activate the device in your clothing now and then you'll go to the bus stop and take a bus."

"Which one?"

"It doesn't matter. For you they're all going to the same place today."

Sycko was surprised the bus company had changed the bus routes for him but Jeremiah didn't give him time to think much about it.

"So, you take any bus that goes into town. Find yourself a seat if you can and wait till the bus is full. In fact you best wait until the bus is really full and you're standing at a bus stop with a long queue. The more people there are, the better. Do you understand?"

Sycko nodded and repeated the instructions. "It's simple enough. But why do you want me to go on the bus. I thought you were sending me on a hunt?"

"You're quite right, my dear Sycko. And you're going on a hunt. It's very easy. All you have to do when the bus is really crowded is to press the button I just gave you. Mind you don't press it before or play with it. The wrath of the Lord would be terrible."

Sycko nodded. "And then the hunt begins?"

Jeremiah smiled. "Exactly. Now just do as I asked you to and everything will be fine. Just think about superparadise if you're feeling bored on the bus..."

"And the 99 trillion virgins?"

"Precisely. Whatever you wish for will be yours after the hunt."

Sycko smiled happily and shook Jeremiah's hand.

"You've saved my life, Jeremiah. My life was nothing before I met you and things just keep on getting better. See you soon, I hope."

"Godspeed, Sycko. May the Lord be with you always."

Sycko left the building and walked towards the bus stop. It was a pleasant mild morning. The sky was blue with a few tufts of cotton wool clouds to embellish it. Birds were singing their happy morning song in the trees while people were on their way to work, to school or on some errands, some happy and others not so, but all going about their lives. Some of them smiled or tried to suppress a smile when they saw Sycko in his suit and top hat wondering if he had just stepped out of a time machine or if fashion had rediscovered a style that was once 'all the rage' before falling into disuse.

Sycko strode slowly yet purposefully through the street, every step taking him nearer to the bus stop and his tryst with destiny. As a warrior of God he felt invincible, immortal and superior to all those around him. His heart beat strongly and on his forehead a thin film of perspiration appeared while his eyes became fixated on the bus stop he was approaching. He took another one of the extra strong Dryvellers' Fags from his pocket and lit it. It was the last one. He inhaled deeply looking forward to the feeling of strength it gave him. He reached the stop and queued oblivious to the disapproving looks as he blew smoke into the air. His eyes gazed into a void. Then the bus came. It was a new model with a higher fuel efficiency and other marvels of technology that engineers and workers had planned and built with an infinite amount of toil and pride. Sycko didn't notice. He merely flicked what was left of his cigarette onto the road when the driver wouldn't let him board with it. He paid and looked down the central aisle. There it was, half way down the aisle a free seat by the window. Just as Jeremiah had wanted, a place in the middle. He took the seat and waited. The bus wended its way through the heavy morning traffic and at every bus stop more passengers got on until the bus was crowded. All the while Sycko was waiting and fingering the mechanism in his pocket careful not to press the button too early.

He felt an obese woman pressing into his side and suddenly realized how full the bus was. It was time he decided, not yet quite. He would wait till the next bus stop and if there was a long queue...

Slowly a smile became visible on his face though what it was that made him smile no one knew. The bus pulled up at the stop. Sycko looked out of the window still smiling. A young mother stood there patiently carrying her bundle of joy. The baby saw Sycko's smile and smiled back. Sycko was glad the moment of destiny had come. His thumb found the button and pressed it. An electric current travelled up the wires and set off the detonators that triggered the explosive material. The plastic explosive decomposed to release a variety of gases that expanded at about 26,400 feet per second (8,050 meters per second). Sycko's body disintegrated and he had ceased to exist before he even knew it. The metal and glass of the bus were torn asunder, the roof blown off and the sides turned into a deadly hail of debris that tore through the bodies of all those in the vicinity. The babies head was sliced off by a piece of debris and the mother flung through the air with her bundle of sorrow. Sixty-eight people on the bus and another twelve outside were killed instantly, many more were injured, some to die later others crippled or scarred for life. Thick black smoke rose up into the peaceful blue sky from the burning wreckage as the flames ate into the flesh of the dead and injured. People came running to help, suddenly made heroes by events while others phoned for help or merely stood gaping. A bit farther down the road stood a huge billboard with a poster that might have given Sycko food for thought had he lived a little longer.

God

A blessed and indestructible being has no trouble himself and brings no trouble upon any other being; so he is free from anger and partiality, for all such things imply weakness.

Epicurus

---
**We Shall Overcome**

No one goes to Hades

with all his immense wealth.

Theognis, Maxims

When Sycko had left the temple Jeremiah quickly sneaked out through the back door and drove home unobserved. The night had been long and tiring for Jeremiah and he looked forward to the comforts of his opulent mansion, the large airy rooms, the beautiful decoration, and most of all the huge bed that stood in the middle of what was probably the biggest bedroom in town.

He parked his limousine in the garage and entered the house through a side entrance. He walked through the large hall which was decorated with mahogany wall panels and a plush carpet. He loved walking on, or maybe one should say wading through, the carpet. Then he ascended the teak staircase to the first floor, walked down the corridor and closed the bedroom door behind himself, happy he had made it home at last.

After a quick shower he dropped into his magnificent bed and closed his eyes. He didn't bother switching on the enormous TV set that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. He didn't have to, he knew the news already. All there was to do now was to get some rest before the inevitable occurred and the police arrived to investigate. But that was of no importance. Everything was well prepared. He stretched out and enjoyed feeling the silk sheets rub against his skin. He found a comfortable position for his head on the large down-filled pillow and closed his eyes, wondering if Sycko really had gone into any kind of afterlife.

He woke up again around noon feeling refreshed yet also hungry. He rang for breakfast and his butler soon brought a large tray which he placed on a special table that fit onto the bed and allowed Jeremiah to eat in bed. The butler poured some black tea from a silver teapot into the delicate china cup and then withdrew leaving Jeremiah to his toast, soft boiled egg, marmalade and other things that made life pleasant. Jeremiah savoured every sip of tea and every bite he took. Life is beautiful after all, he thought. For afters he enjoyed a fresh grapefruit, its fresh scent providing a fitting end to a scrumptious breakfast.

He looked at the shiny brass clock with a reclining Venus of Milo on top. Nearly one, he thought and reluctantly slid out of bed. He stretched lazily and decided to get dressed reasoning that it would be awkward if the police came and took him in for questioning without allowing him to change first. And so he quickly put on one of his best suits and tried to make himself look as respectable as possible. First impressions do matter, he thought and wondered when the police would come.

Two hours later he couldn't bear the uncertainty any longer and decided to ring the temple to find out what was going on. No one picked up. Frustrated he got his keys and drove across. When he arrived there was a police cordon around the building and opposite the building a group of angry protesters were hurling abuse towards the temple. He parked his car, put on a suitably horrified expression, donned his top hat, and approached the police.

"Oh, oh," he moaned lifting his arms up. "What is it? What do I see? What has happened? Tell me, officer, I beseech you!"

The officer on duty viewed the theatrical and, indeed, almost comical figure with an expressionless face that did nothing to betray his own feelings.

"And who are you, sir?" the officer simply asked.

"Who am I? He asks who am I! Why, I am Master Jeremiah, guardian and keeper of the most holy temple of God, and..."

"Please follow me, sir."

They went to the sergeant on duty who informed Jeremiah that he was wanted at the police station to help in an investigation. Under the eyes of a jeering crowd Jeremiah got into a police car and was driven away.

In the police station he was led to a small room with an open doorway. He sat down with his back to a dirty grey wall, a small barred window on his left and a table in front. A petite woman with dark hair and light brown eyes entered and sat down opposite him.

"I'm Inspector Knoual from the anti terrorism unit. I'm in charge of this investigation."

"But good heavens, inspector," Jeremiah exclaimed throwing his arms up in the air, "will someone finally tell me what is going on? What has happened? Has anyone attacked our holy temple? Why won't..."

"You don't know what has happened?" she asked interrupting his outbreak of verbal diarrhoea and looking into his eyes.

Jeremiah put his hands in his lap. "Why no, I arrived at our holy temple to find a vile crowd shouting the most horrible things and when I asked one of your men for an explanation I was simply taken here without any word as to what is going on. And now I really must insist to..."

"Do you know one of the members of your temple who goes by the name of Sycko?"

"Yes, certainly I know him, but what..."

"We have reason to believe that he went on a public city bus this morning and detonated an explosive device."

She pushed pictures of the burning wreckage in front of Jeremiah.

"This morning several dozen people were killed and many more injured when a bomb exploded on board a bus during rush hour. In fact we now know that Sycko was responsible. Is there anything you can tell us?"

"Sycko? But that's impossible!" Jeremiah exclaimed in feigned outrage. "He wouldn't harm a fly."

"I understand that Sycko was together with you last night?"

"Why yes, that's right. Our congregation was gathered in holy ceremony out in the country where Sycko was initiated into the sacred secrets of the Goddess Diana. It was a rather long and tiring night so when we came back to the temple in the early hours we all dropped straight into bed. That's why I only got to the temple so late. I was sleeping till noon as were all our brethren, I believe."

The police spent hours interviewing Jeremiah and the other brethren but as Jeremiah was the only one who knew about Sycko's real role in the previous night's ceremony that part of the official investigation soon ran into a dead end. All they had to work on was an online video confession by Sycko. In it he outlined the repression and terror faced by Dryvellers on a daily basis and how his act was no more than self-defence. He also stated that he worked alone and that no one else had any knowledge of his plan. The official conclusion was that Sycko had acted alone and that he was deranged.

The day after the terror attack on the bus interviews with Master Jeremiah, politicians and others were broadcast on national television. A well known presenter moderated the programme.

"...And here in the studio with us I welcome Master Jeremiah of the Dryvellist Temple."

Jeremiah inclined his head slightly. There was icy silence in front of television screens around the country.

"Now, Master Jeremiah, there's been quite a lot of controversy about Dryvellism in recent months, the affair with the weeping Diana and financial gains you're said to have made from public performances, and now this attack. How do you respond to your critics who accuse Dryvellism of wrongdoings?"

"First of all let me tell you that I dare anyone to say that the bombing of the bus had anything to do with Dryvellism."

"So you're saying there is no link?"

"Absolutely not. Dryvellism is a religion of peace. Yes, I know that Sycko was a member of our holy temple, but what of it? If a member of your TV station murders someone, does it follow that everyone working at your TV station is a murderer or that your TV station incites its staff to murder? I think we will all agree that such an accusation would be ridiculous, and it is equally ridiculous to accuse a religion dedicated to peace and love of being responsible if one member of our temple commits a crime."

"I see, so you're saying that Sycko was motivated by factors unrelated to Dryvellism? But what about the video confession he posted online? It clearly states that he bombed the bus because of what he called 'hate crimes against Dryvellism'. I mean I'm getting a little confused here..."

"That's because you didn't listen to me properly. I said that Dryvellism does not incite anyone to violence, we're entirely peaceful. The reason Sycko carried out the bombing were repeated hate attacks against our temple, so yes, there was hatred and violence involved, but it was directed against us. Sycko was a young man with a very poor education, a victim of an uncaring society, a very confused young man who apparently knew no other way to respond to repeated hate attacks against us than to resort to violence himself. 'Violence begets violence' is an old saying and it's still true."

"So then there is a link between Dryvellism and the bombing?"

"Certainly not. Sycko acted alone. We had no knowledge of what he was planning to do, and indeed, we didn't even know that the hate crimes against our community had aroused such strong and, I daresay, uncontrollable feelings in him. If I had had any inkling of his true state of mind I would have made it quite clear to him that resorting to violence in such a way is the wrong thing."

"So are you saying that violence can be acceptable?"

"Well, of course, if someone attacks me I have the right to defend myself. But that doesn't mean I am violent, does it now?"

"I understand. Now for another take on this I'm told that the president is on the line. Good evening, Mr. President."

"Good evening."

"What can you tell us about the horrific bombing of a public bus?"

"This is a terrible thing that has happened and all our hearts and prayers are with the victims and their families. I personally extend my deepest sympathies. Yet at the same time it's important not to get carried away, not to let knee jerk reactions take over. I can tell you all that Dryvellism is a religion of peace. The actions of a single, deranged individual cannot be used to blacken an entire community who have been part of our country for many years. Dryvellers are a peaceful and productive community, they're part of us and Dryvellism has provided many valuable social services to thousands of people over the years. So again my plea to everyone, don't get carried away. I have read The Holy Dryvel myself and I can assure you that there's nothing to be worried about in it."

"Mr. President, there have been angry scenes outside the Dryvellist Temple, some of them involving relatives of the victims on the bus. What have you got to say to them?"

"I would tell them to go home. We all know the terrible time relatives of the bereaved are going through and my prayers are with them and their loved ones, but demonstrating outside a religious community or even hurling abuse at them is not acceptable. Religion must be respected and anyone caught inciting against the Dryvellers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. So once again, I urge everyone outside a Dryvellist Temple to go home and to leave the investigation to authorities."

"Thank you Mr. President. Well, we all heard what the president had to say. Surely that must fill you with some satisfaction, Master Jeremiah?"

"I'm not sure that satisfaction is the right word, but if authorities finally do decide to prosecute the hate criminals that is something at least, and I might say that is something they should have done a long time ago. Without the constant hatred spewed out against our community a young man like Sycko would never have been driven to such a desperate terrible act."

"Are you implying that authorities are in part to blame for the bomb attack?"

"Maybe blame is too strong a word, yet we must acknowledge that inaction on part of the authorities, I might even say tacit support for certain individuals and groups who were inciting the public with their vile lies against us contributed to radicalizing an impressionable young man such as Sycko. If we want to avoid future problems it is imperative that we stand together against hatred and Dryvellophobia. Moreover..."

"Thank you, Master Jeremiah, but I'm afraid we're out of time. Thank you everyone for watching, until the next edition of Newsnight."

**The Freedom Defence League**

In the state where court cases

and great injustices abound,

citizens will never become friends.

Plato, Laws

John Drew, founder of the FDL, stood at an imposing six foot five. His broad shoulders and muscular arms combined with blazing blue eyes and coal black hair gave him the appearance of a veritable bulldozer ready to push aside any obstacles in his way. Yet, appearances can be deceiving, and John Drew was a good example of this. He had worked for several years at a kindergarten where he was popular with both children and their parents, and though it did happen on occasion that a child new to his class was frightened all the children quickly discovered that Mr. Drew was a lot of fun. So much fun in fact that he was the most popular teacher at the kindergarten.

John Drew didn't take any interest in politics and he never bothered to vote. If anyone berated him for not taking part in public life or doing the minimum of a citizen's duty by going to the polls he would just shrug his shoulders and say with a faint smile "Maybe you're right, but honestly I can't see the point. Whoever you vote for they all do pretty much the same anyway. And if you vote for one of the smaller parties your vote is wasted which is probably a good thing as a lot of their ideas are whacky if not outright dangerous. I'd rather think about my life and the people around me and how we can make things nicer for everyone in our own small way than waste time arguing and worrying about public affairs that I can't change anyway."

His point about voting struck a cord with many people who talked to him and who respected him for being so polite, helpful and kind, in other words a pukka gentleman.

All that changed the day when a bomb destroyed the lives of scores of innocent people, people like him who only wanted to go about their own lives, and with that gory blast the realisation suddenly hit him that public affairs could devastate his life and that of many other people who had never taken an interest in politics. From that day on he began to read about the Dryvellers and the ways they cheated and lied to people, in fact the more he looked the more damning evidence he found against them with one name standing out in particular – that of Master Jeremiah.

What rankled John Drew and even caused some bitterness was that the Dryvellers always seemed to be able to turn their own crimes into accusations against people criticizing them. It was as though no matter how great the wrong it was the victims of Dryvellism who were seen to be the bad guys. 'Adding insult to injury' John Drew thought. But what really enraged him was that authorities went along with this dirty game. They always seemed to defend Dryvellism or at least ignore the wrongdoings of its followers and the leadership.

"Something's got to be done," he muttered to himself a good many times until it struck him that it was time he did something.

"What am I sitting around griping about others not doing anything when I could do something myself," he said one day. "If everyone's like me, sitting around complaining but not doing anything then no wonder nothing is being done, but that also means there must be a good many folks ready to take action if there was someone to lead the way."

And that was the moment he decided to step out of the shadows of his happy private life, his blessed obscurity, and to come out in the open to challenge what he saw as a great injustice that was slowly destroying the land he called his own. After giving the matter some careful thought he founded the Freedom Defence League or FDL for short. Within a matter of days he managed to gather a considerable following and he arranged for their first big meeting in the gym of an abandoned school.

He stood on an old wooden crate wearing a navy blue suit and a striped red and blue tie. The multitude of voices fell silent when he lifted his hands to speak. He looked at the people who had come to hear him, there were clerks and some managers in their suits, workers and students, housewives and many other good hardworking folk who were appalled by the things happening in their country and didn't know where to turn for help.

"My fellow citizens," John Drew said in his loud and almost stentorian voice. "I don't want to be standing here any more than I imagine you want to be here. I'm just a normal guy, I'm a kindergarten teacher and I love my job. It's great teaching kids and helping them. I feel happy to see them develop and get ahead in life, and that's all I really want for myself – to have a happy life."

He paused briefly to a round of applause.

"But now I find myself in a situation where I can't just lead my life as I would like to. I can't go to work, go shopping or just go into town for fun without having to worry, to worry about being at the wrong place at the wrong time and getting killed. How can I lead a happy life if I don't know that tomorrow might be the last day of my life because some lunatic isn't happy with his life? Or that I go to work one day to find one of the kids I teach has been blown to pieces by a fanatic."

Loud cheering and shouts of approval interrupted him.

"And what about our government? Our guardians and protectors, the people chosen to govern the country? What have they done? Are they protecting us from this menace? If you have seen anything like that then let me know because all I've seen is our politicians making excuses for the terrorists..."

Loud shouts.

"...and telling us that their religion is so peaceful and wonderful. What do they think we are, a bunch of suckers and idiots? Read that terrible book yourselves and you'll find one of their laws is 'Maim, torture, kill and slaughter those who deny Dryvellism' and then listen to our government saying Dryvellism is a religion of peace and that this law is taken 'out of context'. What context I want to know. The context of blowing up buses?"

More shouting. "The government are liars!"

"And I ask you to think about the other things those oh so peaceful Dryvellers are up to. Do you still remember that sordid business of the Dryvellist Hospital and how they basically murdered people to get at their money? How they deceived and cheated people out of their money with fake miracles? Why, they've even resorted to murder to silence their critics. And what do the authorities do? Nothing. All they do is to tell us to be quiet and shut up because Dryvellers are so wonderful and peaceful. What peace is that, I wonder? The peace of a graveyard. With all that peace coming from Dryvellism we'll all be resting in peace soon! How long will they continue to abuse our patience? Enough is enough!"

Loud shouting erupted. He wiped his brow.

"And then there is this so called 'Master Jeremiah' though I almost choke on the word master. Whenever someone talks about the crimes he and his brethren are committing he starts a rant about Dryvellophobia, about hate crime and haters. And what of it? Is it wrong to hate murder and terrorism? Is it wrong to hate fraud, deception and cheating good hardworking folks out of their money? I say it is not. There's nothing wrong with hating an evil, quite the contrary, it's the right thing to do."

He paused again, not feeling used to the exertions of making a public speech.

"So what are we going to do?" someone shouted.

"Right, what are we going to? If we just talk and moan about things in private, nothing's going to change. If anything, things are going to get worse. So we must take action. The first thing we must do is to hold a protest march. We'll march through the town and end up in front of government headquarters. When people see us marching they'll know that they're not alone. More will join us and we'll show the government how angry we are with them. The president must be made to understand that Dryvellers are not the only ones who can shout and kick up a stink. We the people have a voice too. We the people have our rights and we want our rights respected and protected. We have the right to live in peace. We have the right to live without fear. And we have the right to expect the government to do its duty and protect us from evil. If they can't do that then we don't need them anymore."

"Yeah!" "That's right!" "Let's show them!" were amongst the many shouts echoing through the gym.

After agreeing to a time and meeting place the crowd dispersed. The people, tired from a hard day at work, went to their homes and started making protest banners and placards for the march on the following day.

At the first light of dawn the protesters stirred in their beds and prepared many a hearty breakfast for they had a long day ahead. The sun had scarcely risen above the horizon when a sizable crowd gathered in the city's central park holding a multitude of placards and banners denouncing Dryvellism and the crimes committed by its followers. When John Drew was satisfied that enough had come he held up his placard which read:

Stop Dryvellism

He then set off at a slow pace towards the exit and towards the main district with several hundred demonstrators following him. As soon as they reached the first streets they started chanting slogans such as 'We want justice. Stop the terror now!' and 'No to bombs and Murder. No to Dryvellism!'

They attracted a lot of attention among the people in the early morning rush hour and as they proceeded through the streets their numbers slowly grew with many others spontaneously joining in. By noon the crowd of a few hundred was already several thousand strong and coverage on radio and TV meant that most people in town were aware of what was going on. By the time they reached the government buildings there were over fifty thousand protesters. Taken by surprise at the unregistered demonstration the police decided to watch and not to intervene as there were too many people involved. They merely walked alongside, regulated traffic and kept a close watch. One police unit in particular was not only watching but also filming the demonstration to gather evidence and identify the ringleaders.

The gates to the government compound remained closed and there was no sign that the president, or anyone else for that matter had taken any notice of the noisy crowd. Feeling frustrated and angry at being ignored John Drew decided to hand the petition they had written to one of the police officers on duty at the gates. The demonstration lingered on for another hour or so but by then it was the late afternoon and after being on their feet for much of the day the protesters decided that rumbling bellies and aching feet meant they should call it a day. By nightfall the city was quiet again but the protest march had thrown not only news reporting in turmoil, it had also caused a serious headache for the powers that be. As for Master Jeremiah, he stayed ensconced in his plush armchair surrounded by the luxuries of his opulent home and watched every news report he could find. A protest march on such a scale directed against both Dryvellism and himself was not something he had expected. And so he sat and watched and worried, trying to think of a way how to turn the situation to his advantage.

He needn't have bothered.

The protest march had left the president and his cabinet feeling threatened. How far would it go? Would it be a danger to their power? Might lawmakers feel pressured to hold a vote of no confidence? Or could protests even spread to other parts of the country and even turn violent?

After a panicky cabinet meeting that only ended after midnight the decision to crack down was unanimous. The chief of police was consulted who confirmed that the leaders of the demonstration had been identified. The police were then given the go ahead to protect national security. Tactical police units converged on the homes of John Drew and several others in the early hours of the morning. Battering rams smashed open doors and the inhabitants were surprised in their beds where they were handcuffed and dragged out of their homes like dangerous terrorists. They were charged with holding an unauthorized demonstration, incitement and endangering national security.

The news stunned the nation the next morning. Many people strongly sympathized with the protestors and that the government had decided to act so harshly against peaceful demonstrators while leaving, what many considered to be a criminal religious group, unmolested, alienated many citizens.

The state prosecutor urged the court to handle the case quickly and so the accused found themselves in court just a few days after the protest march.

On the day of the trial John Drew was brought into the court room in handcuffs. He was wearing the orange jumpsuit that condemned criminals had to wear in prison and he was flanked by a policeman on either side. Neither the press nor the public were permitted in the secret trial.

"John Drew," the state prosecutor said. "You are accused of organizing and holding an unauthorized demonstration, of inciting the public to hatred against a religious group and of endangering national security by publicly calling for the overthrow of the lawful government. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty."

"Your Honour," the prosecutor said. "By refusing to admit his guilt the accused has demonstrated a callous disregard for the laws of the land and he has amply proved that he is a continuing danger to society. I urge the maximum sentence."

The judge looked severely at John Drew. "Has the accused got anything to say in his defence?"

"Your Honour, I did not incite against anyone. I protested against crimes committed by Dryvellers. I have the freedom of speech to do so..."

"Mister Drew," the judge said slowly. "Incitement is not freedom of speech. It is hate speech. As to crimes committed by Dryvellers I must remind you that crimes are a matter for the courts to decide. Until found guilty they are presumed innocent and any accusations against them are a form of hate speech."

"Then what is freedom of speech? If I can only say what doesn't bother anyone and what the government allows me to say I could just as well be in Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany. They had the same kind of freedom of speech." He glared at the judge angrily.

"I find you in contempt of court, Mr. Drew." He took a wooden gavel and banged the table thrice. "The accused is found guilty on all three charges and sentenced to seven years in a maximum security prison."

"But there hasn't been a trial!" John Drew shouted desperately. "I want a lawyer and I..."

"The court is concluded. You had your say, Mr. Drew and if you say any more you will be held in contempt of court again. I must remind you that it is in the power of this court to extend your sentence should it be deemed necessary."

He banged the table with the wooden gavel again and everyone rose to their feet. The judge left the court room and the hapless John Drew was escorted out and taken to the maximum security prison that would be his home for the coming seven years. He spent 23 hours a day in a room just long enough for a thin mattress on a concrete bed, with a small basin in one corner and a metal bucket in the other that functioned as a toilet. The bucket was emptied once a day when Prisoner Drew was shackled and taken to a yard for an hour's walk. He was not allowed to talk to other prisoners during the walk or at any other time. At the end of the walk guards took him back to his cell where he spent the next 23 hours staring at the dirty grey concrete wall, waiting for life to pass him by.

**Vengeance**

All of man's affairs become diseased

when he wishes to cure evils by evils.

Sophocles

A few days after the bomb attack on the bus, a small group of people gathered in a church for a funeral, a double funeral. John Lessing was the father of the little boy decapitated during the blast and grieving husband to a murdered wife. When he had learnt that not only politicians but even a representative of the Dryvellist Temple would be present at the victims' funeral, he had refused to let his wife and son to say their farewells to a beautiful and cruel world the little lad had only known for ten months, in their presence. "It's adding insult to injury!" he said and arranged for his wife and son to have a private funeral in private dignity and not as a public relations spectacle. The sad wailing sound of Mozart's Lacrimosa echoed through the old church. His mother-in-law sobbed and the priest spoke what words of solace he could. A little later stout shoulders lifted a long coffin and a little coffin and slowly walked out of church. Chopin's funeral march accompanied them on their last journey. When John Lessing looked down at his wife's coffin and then the one containing his little bundle of joy, a pain and anger welled up deep inside of him that was beyond words. He clenched his fists and when he heard someone mumble "They've gone to a better place" his mind told him "They' haven't gone anywhere. They're just fucking dead". As he cast a handful of earth on each coffin there was a strong feeling growing in his heart. He couldn't describe it or understand it yet, but it slowly ate away at his heart and took over his thinking. After the funeral there was the traditional meal and then the emptiness of his home, a wardrobe filled with his wife's clothes still imbued with her scent, a little empty cot, and then the great nothingness.

As he paced up and down his empty flat thoughts raced through his mind. "This isn't happening." "It's just a nightmare and you'll wake up again. Wake up!"

But he didn't wake up and the nightmare was his life. Over and over again pictures and sounds tormented his mind, the sound of an explosion, the wailing funeral march, the sound of earth falling on a coffin, the giggling of his baby, his wife's voice,... again and again in an infinite loop.

He stayed in the confines of his home refusing to open the door even to his close friends and relatives until the day of the great protest march. When he saw John Drew at the head of thousands marching through the city to demand justice he awoke from his stunned grieving torpor. Spontaneously he put on his shoes to join the march. The walk amongst the milling multitude was like a liberating breath of fresh air. For the first time he felt there was a way out of the land of darkness he felt himself trapped in. The demand for justice and action offered the hope that he would be given the opportunity to come to terms with his unbearable loss. He marched side by side with thousands of others, and when everyone chanted their slogans he shouted out his grief, his anger and his frustration. After the march he went to have dinner before going home. It was the first time since the bombing that he was able to sleep through the night.

The following morning he prepared himself some breakfast and sat down in the living room with it. Eager to see if there was any reaction from the government to the protestors' demands he switched on the TV.

"...in what a government spokesman has described as a crackdown on rightwing extremists police units raided dozens of homes last night and arrested the ringleaders of yesterday's unrest. Four hundred officers executed 38 warrants on Thursday. In all Police said they arrested 32 people aged between 16 and 44. Twenty-seven were men and five were women. Five of those arrested were charged with national security offences and the other 13 with incitement. All those charged have been remanded in custody to appear at Court later. The other 14 people arrested have been bailed pending further enquiries, police said."

The cup of coffee dropped out of his hand spilling the dark brown liquid on his white carpet. The brown stain spread as the coffee soaked into the material. Speechless with rage he turned the TV off and spent the rest of the day brooding.

When evening turned to dusk he went rummaging through his flat for a number of things that he took to the bathroom one by one, a large empty glass bottle, an old rag, a siphon, a cork and a tin of turpentine left from the decorating work he had done some weeks earlier. He put on a pair of rubber gloves and then put the siphon in the bottle and poured the turpentine into it. Then he closed it tightly with the cork. He carefully wiped the bottle with a wet soapy cloth to make sure there were no fingerprints on it. He packed the bottle, the rag and a cigarette lighter in a small rucksack and then dressed in dark clothes and running shoes. He was just about to open the flat door when he paused and went back to the bedroom. He opened several drawers and cupboards before he found what he was looking for – a balaclava. Stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket he grabbed the rucksack and left his home.

The sky was dark and the streets were full of people, many of them heading for home after a long day at work, others going out to enjoy themselves. Nobody took any notice of the solitary dark figure walking through town, his mind focused on his target. Passing through a park he saw a stone lying on the ground. He stopped to pick it up and let it slide into one of his large pockets. After almost an hour's walk his target was in sight – the Dryvellist Temple. He looked around. Suddenly he felt very nervous. His heart was beating strongly and he felt the sweat on his hands. There was no one in sight. He took out the balaclava and pulled it over his head. Then he uncorked the bottle of turpentine and stuffed the old rag into the bottleneck. The turpentine soaked into the fabric. He hid the bottle inside his jacket, took the stone in one hand and the cigarette lighter in the other and approached the temple. The streets around the temple were deserted. 'Lucky,' he thought. 'Wouldn't want anyone around now.' He walked around the building until he found some windows. One last look and he hurled the stone at one of them. The glass shattered. He quickly lit the rag in the bottle and threw the Molotov cocktail through the broken window. Then he ran without looking back.

Brother Thomas was young. He had spent six months at the temple as an acolyte before being welcomed into the order as a full brother. It was the proudest achievement of his life. He revered and almost idolized Master Jeremiah who, in his eyes, was as close to God as any mortal could get. With Jeremiah's help he had found the way to prayer and meditation to achieve inner peace and a oneness with the divine. He was walking along a corridor when he heard the stone John Lessing had cast come crashing through a window. He opened the door to investigate and, with the hands of fate inexorably pulling him in, entered the room. Seeing the broken window he walked towards it when the turpentine filled bottle came flying in. The bottle smashed against the wall just behind Thomas where it burst into a fiery inferno that engulfed poor Thomas. The burning turpentine drenched his back. In an agony of terror Thomas ran out of the room and back into the corridor, screaming, yelling, crying for his life and for the pain to end. Horrified brethren peered out of other rooms to see the human torch run and then collapse before reaching the end of the corridor. Someone got a fire extinguisher. Little plastic flakes melted on Thomas and put out the fire. Within a few minutes the wailing siren of an ambulance joined its voice to the low moans that still came from Thomas. The horrified paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher and took him to the ambulance. A shot of morphine. An oxygen mask. The ambulance raced through the night desperately trying to stay ahead of the winged death in cold pursuit. Its icy fingers reached for Thomas who briefly awoke moaning "Let flights of angels sing me to my rest". The driver put his foot down and the roaring engine pulled slightly ahead of their unrelenting pursuer. The paramedic held Thomas' hand. It was all he could do. Thomas' hand tightened as the vehicle was overtaken. The screaming siren tore through the night carrying his lifeless body.

The next day news of the arson attack and the gruesome murder filled all the news channels. John Lessing watched everything on TV. He thought taking revenge would make him feel better. It didn't. Like an evil demon sucking away his blood, his heart darkened and hardened and thirsted for more, more, always more. The photos of a smiling Thomas didn't touch his heart. "He was one of them, so good riddance!" he muttered bitterly. "Let him rot in hell!" He didn't see the pictures of Thomas as a child, he only saw his own son and wife, and the all consuming cancer of hatred continued eating through his heart.

When the president was told of the attack on the temple he felt himself vindicated in taking strong action against the demonstrators. "There you see what kind of people they are," he said to the home secretary. "This must not be allowed to continue. Do whatever you must, but find me those bastards!" Yet no matter how much the police interrogated those under arrest, no one would admit to anything. That, of course, did not stop the media for laying the blame at the feet of John Drew and his fellow demonstrators who were now called conspirators in a relentless propaganda drive.

When Jeremiah heard of the horrific attack he was appalled at the dreadful injustice done against the holy temple. "So much for the president's word that religion must be respected!" he said angrily. "By God I swear that this shall not remain unanswered!" he yelled with clenched fists.

When the parents of Thomas were told of his fiery death they wept.

When the general public watched everything on TV they recognized an escalating tit-for-tat that was spiralling out of control and with no one in sight to save the land.

On the radio someone played Henry Purcell's funeral march, the drum beating relentlessly and the trumpets blowing air under the wings of Death.

That day a storm raged across the city. The noonday sky was as dark and sombre as though eventide was approaching. Heavy rain blown about by an icy bitter wind lashed the buildings and few people ventured outside. The main city square, where tourists and locals alike usually spent time in a street café or walked about with an ice cream, was deserted except for a solitary crow that braved the tempest and sat perched on the head of the city's legendary founder.

The wind and rain and cold seemed to quench people's thirst for vengeance on that day. They stayed in their homes or if they had to venture out they dashed to the nearest place of safety. Yet while the storm raged outside there were dark clouds of a very different sort on the horizon inside a number of buildings that day.

When the police and fire services had concluded their investigation at the Dryvellist Temple Master Jeremiah gathered the brethren in the grand hall. The weeping Diana had tears of bright red blood pouring down her pale face. Jeremiah positioned himself next to her and gazed at the gathering.

"My brothers," he said forcefully. "Today is a day of mourning for us. We have had the comfort of having Thomas as our brother cruelly taken away, but not that of having had him. He lives on in our hearts and we vow never to forget him. Young Thomas came to us seeking life and happiness and yet it is death that he found here at the hands of those who hate us for what we are. And yet, death? Is it death he found here? Not so I say unto you, my brethren, for the Lord himself watches over us. The only certainty we have in life is death, but we Dryvellers have the certainty in death of being well received by the Lord in eternity. And thus we can be sure that Brother Thomas is in a better place, a place where dreams are true, a place we true Dryvellers may all look forward to one day. And this is even more so for a martyr, and I can assure you that Thomas is a martyr. Has the Lord not promised martyrs the entry into superparadise where delights unimaginable await him who is pure of heart? It is said that cowards die many times before their deaths while the valiant never taste of death but once. And so it is with Brother Thomas. The only question I can ask you here today is this: Do you want to die many times or only once?"

The brethren lifted their fists up in the air and chanted "Martyrdom! Martyrdom!..."

Master Jeremiah lifted his hands to calm the enflamed brethren. "Brothers! The day will come when this dastardly deed shall be paid for and it is we who will present the bill. I call for a volunteer, brothers, let a volunteer rise to his feet."

The brethren stood up like a man. Jeremiah nodded satisfied, with a grim smile barely perceptible on his face.

Three days later. Another dirge and another funeral. A dark brown wooden coffin containing the unfortunate Thomas and a copy of The Holy Dryvel was lowered into the ground. His parents, relatives and friends bade a tearful farewell and threw handfuls of earth and flowers down on the coffin. The Dryvellers and brethren stood and waited until Thomas' family had moved on. Thomas' parents had never been happy about him joining the order which they perceived as having a bad influence on him.

Then Jeremiah delivered what was supposed to be a eulogy but what in fact was a poem he shamelessly copied from the Roman writer Lucretius:

Departed comrade! Thou, redeemed from pain  
Shall sleep the sleep that kings desire in vain:  
Not thine the sense of loss  
But lo, for us the void  
That never shall be filled again.  
Not thine but ours the grief.  
All pain is fled from thee.  
And we are weeping in thy stead;  
Tears for the mourners who are left behind  
Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.

He then invited the brethren to say a prayer for Thomas before he turned and walked away in a slow mournful way. The whole funeral took place under the watchful eyes of scores of reporters and some discreet security personnel. They filmed the brethren filing past the open grave in a long procession. Each of them said a little personal word of farewell and when the last of them had gone the gravediggers filled in the dark sad hole so that cheerful flowers would be able to be a companion for Thomas and a solace for his grieving parents.

When the gravediggers had finished they stood in front of the grave and looked at the gravestone.

"Aye, it's true," one of them said. "Look at that. Never seen a truer word on one in all these years I've worked here."

The inscription read:

What you are,

I was.

What I am,

You will be.
**City of Darkness**

There's no educator better than necessity.

Xenophon

The imprisonment of John Drew and the brutal crackdown of the FDL, followed by the gruesome arson attack on the temple had left the nation in shock. Yet while many were petrified by the sudden outburst of violence it had the opposite effect on Cato. His father's excruciating death in the Dryvellist Hospital and what could only be called a theft of his family estate had left deep and lasting scars. Not a day went by without these two things weighing heavily on his mind and the once cheerful young man had become quiet, withdrawn and bitter. Where once he had risen high on the wheel of fortune, his circumstances were now utterly reversed forcing him to make a living as a waiter. His sullen appearance meant he got few tips, gradually alienating him further from society, a society that he already felt deeply let down by.

One evening Cato was at work as usual. It wasn't a particularly busy evening and he didn't mind. Less work meant he didn't have to concentrate so much. When the restaurant was busy he sometimes made mistakes with the orders as he found it hard to keep his mind on the job. His thoughts kept wandering and he was often brooding when he could. This was one of the times when he had time for brooding. Suddenly he felt the manager's elbow in his side and heard the quiet reproach "Customer". A woman was sitting down at a table in a corner. He walked over and placed the menu in front of her without saying a word. The woman took a brief look at the menu and then glanced at the waiter, ready to give her order.

"Cato!" she said surprised. "How nice to see you again. How have you been?"

"Ah, hello Joan," he said with an inscrutable expression. "What can I say. I'm getting on somehow. You can see what I'm doing here. There's nothing really to tell."

Joan understood his despondent tone and look.

"I see," she said carefully. "I really want to talk with you again. When do you finish here?"

"Midnight."

"All right. I'll be waiting for you outside."

He looked surprised. "Are you sure? It's very late."

"I'm sure, Cato. See you then."

He took her order to the kitchen, surprised anyone was interested in him. But it felt good. It was a feeling he hadn't known for months.

A few hours later Joan was already standing outside the restaurant when Cato came out.

"Hello Joan," he said mildly surprised. "I thought you might not come."

"Of course I've come," she said and took his arm. Come with me. I know the very place where we can have a drink and a quiet chat together."

He followed her without a word but with a barely discernable smile on his face.

They had a few drinks in a small pub and talked about themselves, the temple and all else that had come to pass. After another drink or two Joan took him to her home in a taxi where they made passionate love before falling into deep exhausted sleep. They lay in each other's arms in a happy embrace. Outside their private little Eden the city lay quiet and dark.

After spending a blissful fortnight with Cato, Joan decided to arrange a meeting with Mark and Judas. Their private happiness was like a blossoming flower, yet one always under the threatening shadow of a crow's dark wings. For while Cato was genuinely in love with Joan he found himself unable to get his mind free from the Dryvellers and what they had done. In the end it was Joan who determined that the only thing to do was to team up with Mark and Judas again to discuss if there was anything they could do.

They met in Joan's home over dinner and a few drinks and discussed everything that had happened.

"So what I want to know," Mark said, "is how we're supposed to do anything. I mean, look at the FDL. All they did was to protest peacefully and they got thrown into prison for years."

Judas nodded. "Hey, I'm not going to jail. And what for? That protest achieved nothing."

Joan sighed. "Yes, I know, but we can't just do nothing. At least I can't. Look at what those swine did to Cato and many others. This won't simply go away, vanish into thin air as if nothing had happened. It's torturing Cato every day," she said and put her hand on his arm. "No need to say anything, dear. I know what's on your mind."

Cato looked to the floor and nodded a little.

"So apart from what we can't do, have you got any smart ideas?" Mark asked. "Because one thing's for sure. Just sitting here and talking and moaning won't get us anywhere. And I sure as hell don't want to get involved in anything violent, I mean if you're thinking of throwing fire bombs or stuff like that, then count me out. I don't even want to hear about it."

"Mark's right," Cato said. "We mustn't be violent or we'd be no different from them."

Joan nodded. "So we can't be violent and we don't want to be caught doing something useless. How about if we organize a protest where no one is caught or seen?"

Judas laughed. "How do you want to do that?"

"That's easy," Joan smiled. We'll wear masks and we'll not stay long. We'll appear suddenly in one place, hand out some flyers and talk to a few people and then we'll vanish again before the cops have time to get there."

"Shit that's cool," Judas grinned. "We'll be like the Immortals."

"The Immortals?" Mark said.

"Yea, I saw that on TV. In Persia there were these soldiers, and like, well, they wore masks and they never died, or something like that. So we'll be wearing masks and we'll never die because the coppers won't get near us."

Cato peered at Judas with his clear blue eyes. "You've hit the nail on the head, old chap. I like it. The Immortals definitely has a ring to it. It'll help us attract more attention and if the media report about the Immortals then the effect of our protest will be magnified hugely."

Mark nodded his agreement.

"All right, then," Joan said. Then let's talk about what we want to write and what masks we can use."

"Won't the protest be a bit small if it's just the four of us?" Mark asked.

"What do you have in mind?" Joan asked.

"How about if we get in touch with some FDL people. It's just their leaders in jail. I'm sure the others are really pissed off with what happened and at least some of them will join us."

"That's a darn good idea," Joan said. "And I know just where to start."

5.30pm. Rush hour. The blazing red sun has already vanished behind the city's tall buildings and soon the late afternoon will give way to a gloomy dusk that heralds nightfall. Huge crowds are milling through the town on their way home. They are pushing their way through a public square. Suddenly a person dressed in dark clothes appears. The head is covered by a dark hood with a white mask in front. Moments later there are dozens of figures all dressed alike. They hand out flyers demanding freedom of speech, the release of all FDL prisoners and a police investigation of the Master Jeremiah and the Dryvellist Temple. At the same time they start a rhythmical chant:

"Stop Dryvellism! Free John Drew!"

Many people are attracted by the unusual sight and take a flyer or even film the protestors with their mobile phones. After three minutes the protestors simply melt away. They vanish into different directions, be it into a side street, a bus or into one of the many entrances of the city's underground transport system. By the time the police arrive all that is to see is an agitated crowd, many of whom strongly disagreed with the harsh stance the government took on the FDL. So instead of finding honest citizens willing to help in their investigation the police are booed. The handful of officers who came, discover that any questions they ask are met with heated replies and in the end they are ordered to leave the scene so as not to inflame the situation any further. And all this is also recorded and quickly sent by messaging devices to colleagues, friends and family members.

A mere two hours later film footage of the protest is headline news on TV followed by footage showing the police being booed and driven away by an angry crowd of commuters. There are even some brief scenes of the first FDL march and the terror attack on the bus.

The Immortals are by this time safely back in their homes and eagerly watch the evening news.

"That's fantastic!" Joan said to Cato. "Just look at all the attention we got on our first protest. I bet that'll have the president and his Dryveller pals hot under their collars."

Cato smiled. "Yes, I suppose it will. All we've got to do now is to keep it up till things reach a boiling point. We've got to keep the attention focused on them."

Over the next week the Immortals staged a flash protest every evening in different places in town with the same results. The police invariably arrived too late to even catch a glimpse of them and authorities were getting increasingly frustrated by both their inability to stop the protests and by the apparent popularity of the protests. Despite repeated appeals and even the offer of a reward no one was willing turn them in or to try to restrain any of the protesters.

Meanwhile Jeremiah was watching events unfold seated in the posh armchair that graced his spacious living room in the opulent mansion he had bought himself from the temple's ill-gotten gains. Despite all the luxury surrounding him he was in an increasingly foul mood. Not only did the protesters keep raking up the sins of the past, they were also successful at keeping the temple's wrongdoings on everyone's mind thus making it very difficult for Jeremiah to carry on his usual business of cheating people out of their money.

"Something's got to be done," he cursed one day. "If the police weren't so bloody useless the whole matter would be long forgotten, ancient history, but what can we do to distract people from these stupid protests?"

He stared at the precious Persian carpet on his floor turning things over in his mind.

"What we need," he said at long last, "is a spectacle. A huge show for people to see what we Dryvellers are really like. Indeed," he said loudly feeling encouraged by his own idea, "a grandiose spectacle that'll be the talk of the town, no what am I saying, the talk of the nation. Something so grand and marvellous that it has never even been attempted before! The only question is, what kind of show that would be."

In spite of repeated scandals involving the temple Jeremiah had managed to amass a small fortune from various ventures and events. He decided to hire a number of famous pop stars, actors, circus performers and magicians and combine all of them in an unheard of way into the fabulous extravaganza he had envisioned. In addition to this he organized a national lottery just for this event where huge prizes were offered. He calculated that the lure of an incredible show and the possibility of huge winnings would be enough to draw in even the most hardened critics of Dryvellism. And he was right. Tickets for the show were sold out within hours of box offices opening and the rights to televise the event were successfully auctioned to the highest bidder. It was beginning to look like a winning formula for fantastic publicity for the temple combined with a substantial income. Jeremiah calculated that this one event might even net the temple more than they had ever taken in before. Not even the daily protests by the Immortals could do anything to dampen the excited spirit with which people were looking forward to the show. If anything, there were people who were beginning to look at the protesters askance. Forgotten were the terror attack, the scandal about the hospital and a score of other ill-deeds. The only thing left on people's minds was the show.

"What a bunch of gormless sheep people are," Jeremiah laughed. "Give them some great entertainment and they'll forget you burned their house down last week."

But if Jeremiah was in a jubilant mood, the opposite was true for the Immortals.

"I don't know why we're still bothering," Judas said one day to Joan, Cato and Mark. "I mean it's not like we're achieving anything. It was all right at first, but now no one cares. All they want is that darn show."

"Oh please don't say that," Joan said. "You mustn't give up."

"And why not?" he interrupted her. "Why can't I give up? Why do I have to waste time on this and risk going to jail? For what? I mean, yea like, it was fun for a while and we had them really pissed off, but it's over now. Money wins. You see what that bloody Jeremiah can do because he's filthy rich."

Mark didn't know what to reply and gloomily stared at the floor, but Cato slowly nodded.

"He's right," he said to the others. "Why should we risk anything if we're achieving nothing?"

"You're not serious," Joan said in shock. "After all you've gone through, how could you give up? Just think of your dad and your home."

"I know," Cato sighed. "But going on with a pointless protest isn't going to change the past, is it? And people don't even want to hear us anymore. That show has completely blocked out reality from their minds."

"And that's exactly why we have to carry on. We're the only ones who can still remind people of who the Dryvellers really are," Joan pleaded.

"I'm sorry Joan, but it's over," Cato said. "If Jeremiah and Co. go back to doing nasty things we've got a chance to start again, but as long as the show is a go we haven't got a chance.

The four friends sat in silence for a few minutes.

"And what," Mark said haltingly, "what if there is no show?"

"Yea, like God is going to come along and cancel the show," Judas said with a sardonic grin.

"No, I mean we could cancel the show," Mark said. "Just imagine if after all the hype the show was called off. That would leave folks with a very bad taste in the mouth to say the least and they'd be sure to remember everything else about the Dryvellers again."

"And just how do you propose to stop a huge show from going ahead?" Cato asked. "That's a mega event. There must be tons of security and police around. They've got the country's largest indoor stadium and even if we managed to get in, what could we do? Another protest there wouldn't do much good. We'd only get booed and arrested."

"Yes, Mark," Joan said. "Do enlighten us."

Mark smiled. "Actually, I know exactly how we can do it."

The day of the show drew nearer and nearer, but Mark stayed tight-lipped about what he was going to do. He merely instructed the Immortals to be in place outside the stadium at a certain time and to trust him.

The big day came. A triumphant Jeremiah was strutting around the stadium making last minute inspections before the crowds were to be admitted. Huge numbers of people were already queuing outside the gates and he was nervous that everything should be perfect. He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes to admittance.

His mobile phone rang.

"Yes?"

"We've got a problem, Master Jeremiah," the show manager said. You'd better come down to the changing rooms."

"I'll be right there," Jeremiah said with a sense of foreboding.

When he opened the door to the changing room he was greeted by a horrendous scene that left him petrified. The floor was covered in vomit and faeces. Opposite the door stood one of the lead actors clutching his bowels and throwing up. Suddenly his bowels erupted and a wet brown substance slid down his legs. The manager spotted Jeremiah and quickly crossed the room.

"It's horrible, I don't know what to do and..."

In his haste to reach Jeremiah he slipped on the wet floor and fell flat in the ghastly stinking liquid that was sloshing about, splashing brown drops all over Jeremiah's suit. Jeremiah turned on the spot and fled.

Outside the stadium the crowd was getting restive. It was twenty minutes after the gates should have been opened. Some of the people had been waiting for hours and their patience was wearing very thin. Their feet and legs were tired and all they wanted was to be let in so they could get to their seats and watch the show. Then the unthinkable happened.

There was a ring tone on the loudspeaker system that meant an announcement was to follow. A hush fell over the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen. It is with great regret that I must inform you that tonight's show has been cancelled. Please remain calm and..."

It was the moment Mark had instructed the Immortals to wait for. They were dressed in ordinary clothes like any other member of the crowd and stood in different places. Then they started to chant:

"The show is a cheat! Fuck Dryvellism!"

They shouted over and over again and it wasn't long before the rest of the crowd fell in. The jovial mood of half an hour before had turned sour. Then someone threw an empty bottle at the building. It shattered. For a moment everything was quiet. Then a furious roar gripped the crowd who threw anything they could lay their hands on and tried to fight their way into the stadium.

Instead of a wonderful show on TV the horrified nation watched a pitched battle between an angry mob and desperate riot police who suddenly found that the people they had come to protect had suddenly become their enemies. A pitched battle raged around the main entrance, but in the end the strong gates defended by riot police were too much for the unarmed crowd and after more than an hour of fighting that left scores of people wounded and rushed off in ambulances, the crowd began to waver and then slowly withdraw from the stadium.

In view of people's disappointment the chief of police wisely decided not to make any arrests.

No one saw or heard of Mark till the next day when he called Joan.

"Feel like lunch, Joan?"

"Hell, yea, we've all been waiting to hear from you. Where have you been?"

He laughed. "See you at our usual place at noon, all right?"

When they were all seated Mark calmly read the menu and placed his order.

"Oh for God's sake, Mark. How did you do it?" Cato asked.

He smiled. "It wasn't that hard, really. I've got a part-time job at the stadium and I have access to all the food and drinks that are delivered for performers, so I laced that with laxatives and some other nasty stuff. Nothing really dangerous, but enough to give anyone who ate the food the most horrible and uncontrollable diarrhoea and vomiting. You should have seen the changing room. It was drenched in puke and shit." He grinned. "Not bad for a part-time job, eh? Though I suppose I'd better start looking for a new job now."

The others stared at him not sure whether to feel delighted or sickened.

"That's great, Mark. But you know what," Joan said. "I really don't feel like eating anymore. See you later."

She stood up and left the restaurant.

The fiasco at the stadium meant that Jeremiah had to refund all entrance and lottery tickets, as well as the money he got for auctioning the TV rights. Yet at the same time he had to pay for the stadium and all the celebrities he had hired. In fact a number of them were even suing him for food poisoning.

All in all the biggest event of the year had turned into the biggest fiasco and Jeremiah suddenly found himself in a situation where he was unable to pay for everything.

There was speculation in the media as to whether the food poisoning was due to sabotage or illness, but in Jeremiah's mind there was no doubt: "Those cursed haters. They're going to pay."

**War**

War never takes a wicked man by chance,

the good man always.

Sophocles, Philoctetes

In the inky black night of a new moon four men crossed the border and entered the country. The hilly woodlands they were crossing were at a considerable distance from the nearest village and the difficult terrain meant that there were no roads or border guards. The four men had good reason to enter the country in secret. Not only were they the murderers of Brother James, who had tried to blackmail Master Jeremiah, but more importantly they had undergone clandestine military training during their stay abroad. Each of them was carrying a large heavy rucksack filled to the brim with explosives, detonators, ammunition and other deadly tools in the trade of a terrorist, though they saw themselves as freedom fighters. The names of these four men, who were about to enter the annals of Dryvellism, were Bohemon, Tancred, Herman and Richard. To be able to cross the forest in total darkness they were wearing night vision goggles. An eerie silence pervaded the land. Only the wind rose at times to cause a rustling in the leaves that came and went like the ebbing waters of the sea. Mostly it was so quiet that the only sound they heard was their own breathing and twigs snapping under their boots. The little troupe passed by in silence to avoid detection. The going was slow and arduous and their secret meeting point still a long way off. Tancred led the way with a compass, his watchful eyes both on the luminescent dial and on his surroundings to make sure they kept on the right track and to avoid falling into an ambush. To guard against the latter the four men were carrying assault rifles of a foreign make, the kind favoured by terrorists and guerrilla groups around the world.

After some ten hours of marching the exhausted men were inwardly begging for the end of their yomp when far in the east a little grey line on the horizon heralded the dawn. Not long after the black sky above the forest changed from black to grey and as light slowly entered the woodland the men were able to take off their night vision goggles from their tired eyes. Bohemon gave the hand signal for a short break in which they wolfed down some sandwiches and coffee from a thermos flask.

A few minutes later they were back on their feet again. They had to reach their rendezvous point by a certain time and there was no time to waste. Feeling confident they marched through a sparsely wooded area, but they were not alone. A hunter was out early hoping to shoot some of the deer that had been causing problems to farmers down in one of the valleys. At first he thought he had spotted the deer when he saw movement in the undergrowth, but when he peered through the telescopic lens he soon recognized the men. Curious about what they were doing he kept watching them until he saw the assault rifles. Their clothes didn't look anything like the uniforms border guards wore. He didn't know who they were or what they were up to, but armed men in the border area could only mean trouble. He waited until the group had vanished between the trees. Then he took out his mobile phone and informed the police.

Twenty minutes later the men found a dirt road used by foresters. They turned west and walked for a few more minutes until they reached their rendezvous point. Parked on the dirt road was a dark green van that Jeremiah had bought cheaply second hand. The license plates were stolen from a vehicle whose owners he knew were away on a trip. Jeremiah was sitting in the driver's seat. When he spotted the four men he opened the door and walked towards them.

"My dear brothers!" he said delightedly. "It's been a long time. Welcome home."

"It's good to be home, Master Jeremiah," Tancred said, "and better still to see you again."

"Hear, hear," Richard said. "But let's not hang around. I won't feel safe till we've put some distance between us and the borderlands and besides, we can talk all we want while we're on our way."

"I second that," Bohemon said.

"Very well, very well," Jeremiah replied. "I have no particular wish to stay here any longer myself. The sooner we're on our way to do the Lord's work, the better. So without any further ado I suggest we just get going."

A few minutes later the van turned off the dirt track onto a pukka road. After rumbling over the dirt road Jeremiah was happy to put his foot down on the accelerator and speed off. Moments later flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror. Jeremiah cursed.

"How in devil's name did the police get here?" he said.

"Never mind how," Tancred said. "Just keep going and drive like hell. We'll see to the rest."

The police car pursued the fleeing van and had soon caught up. Tancred watched it through the rear window. When it was close enough he kicked open the back door, pointed his assault rifle at the driver and squeezed the trigger. The rounds shattered the glass and tore through the driver. The police car veered off the road and disappeared into a ditch.

"Problem solved," Tancred grinned and slammed the door shut.

"Let's hope it stays that way," Bohemon grumbled. "I don't like the way they turned up so quickly just when we got onto the road. Something's not right here, I'm telling you."

"Trust in the Lord, my dear Bohemon," Jeremiah said, "and the Lord will provide. Now don't you worry about the police. We'll be in town soon enough. Everything's been arranged and taken care of."

A few hours later they arrived at their destination. A grimy old brick building in a part of town with a very poor reputation. It suited their purposes admirably. Jeremiah had been able to rent a small flat for cash without any questions asked or the need to provide identity. It was on the first floor and at the back of the building a fire escape allowed for a line of retreat should there be problems at the main entrance. They got out of the van and while the four men were grabbing their gear Jeremiah looked down the road. Not far from where they were he recognized the Jamaica Inn where he was shanghaied on the night he first met Sycko. "How very curious," he said, "that the Lord should bring me back here. There's still a bill waiting to be settled in any case." He turned and led the way into the block of flats trying to remember the name of the old man in the Jamaica Inn who had robbed him. They walked upstairs and Jeremiah opened the door.

"It may not look like much," Jeremiah said, "but I think you'll find that it suits our purposes perfectly. No one here cares about who you are or what you do. People keep to themselves and you won't find anyone here who's friendly with the police. In fact the police never venture into this part of town unless they really have to."

Herman smiled. "This place is great. And when I think where we spent the last few months it's almost like paradise."

"Exactly," Tancred said. "After living in a cave or sleeping in ditches any place with running water and a warm bed is great. But even if folks around here keep to themselves I think it's better if you leave now, Master Jeremiah. We can't risk having the van spotted in this street by anyone. In fact, it would be best to get rid of it altogether."

Jeremiah thought for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I'll be going then and will contact you through the agreed channel."

Jeremiah drove the van to a garage he knew was involved in dodgy businesses and sold it for a pittance. He removed the stolen license plates and discarded them into a small river.

The night the four belligerent monks crossed the border some of the Immortals were celebrating their success against Jeremiah. In the four days since the show was cancelled the public mood had soured. The Immortals suddenly found themselves appreciated again and the media were full of negative publicity about the temple, Jeremiah and Dryvellism in general.

One of the Immortals had a large garden where she had invited everyone for a barbecue. Halfway through the evening and after a few beers Joan climbed onto a chair.

"My friends," she called, "brave hearts do not back down!"

There were loud cheers and everyone clapped their hands.

"We've had a great victory, but there's still much to be done. Tonight we celebrate, tomorrow we'll redouble our efforts."

"Three cheers to that," someone shouted.

"Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray!" the crowd cheered.

Joan grinned delightedly. "And you know what, folks, we've got a great surprise coming for the government and that horrid temple. So all of you, have fun tonight and tomorrow morning make sure to watch the news. If those bastards think our little evening flash demos are the best we can do then they've got a big shock coming!"

Two teams of Immortals were absent from the party, though if anyone should ask about them, there were a hundred people to swear an oath in a court of law that they had been present all night long at the barbecue. These two teams had been practising for some time how to climb up the outside of a building under cover of darkness.

One team ascended the steep grey walls of the presidential palace and while the president was snoring in ignorant bliss in his large bed they set about changing the appearance of the palace. To be exact they sprayed the exterior with graffiti. When the paintwork was dry they applied a transparent protective layer on top to make it very difficult for anyone trying to remove the paint.

The second team did the same thing at the Dryvellist Temple.

Their job done the two teams quietly descended the buildings and vanished into the night like vengeful phantoms.

The occupants of the two buildings had noticed nothing, so when in the morning they got up and looked out of the windows they were surprised to see people in the streets looking up at them, pointing, gesticulating, and even laughing. It was only when TV crews and photographers arrived that they understood something was seriously amiss. When the president hurried outside with his bodyguards and looked at his palace he nearly had a heart attack. There was a huge portrait of himself with the word 'Dictator' on his chest on one side of the palace. On the top just under the roof and on the other side it said:

'Freedom of Speech!' and 'Free John Drew!'

The president was livid and hurried back inside.

When Jeremiah inspected the outside of the temple he was greeted by three slogans:

'Dryvellism is a lie!'

'Dryvellists are fraudsters!'

'Jeremiah is a Murderer!'

When Cato switched off his TV he said "Talk about poking a beehive with a stick."

Joan grinned. "Even that foolish president we have will have to realize sooner or later that he's got to side with the people. If he doesn't protect us from those religious fruitcakes and gangsters then he can't complain if we make life difficult for him."

"Did you see how he was yelling at his staff?" Cato sniggered.

"How long will it take them to remove the paint?"

"A few days at least, I'd guess. They can't wash it off or paint over it because we gave it a special coating. Mark thinks they'll have to sandblast it, and that'll take time. The media will love the spectacle so we should see everything repeated on telly for maybe a week."

"I just wonder how that bastard Jeremiah is going to take it." Joan said.

"Does it matter? Let him be hopping mad and get the heebie-jeebies if he wants to. After all the money he lost at the cancelled show he must be broke. All he can hope for is not to do anything else that might put people off from making donations."

Joan nodded. "Yea, I guess you're right. And if we keep up the pressure and he can't pay his rent the whole spook will be over before we know it."

"Fools, imbeciles, gormless twats!" Jeremiah yelled at the crestfallen brothers outside the temple. Despite their best efforts at removing the offending graffiti they had miserably failed. They had tried different soaps, detergents and cleansers all to the same effect. Even a tin of paint remover had turned out useless. The graffiti continued to stubbornly cling to the walls looking just as it had done before the brothers had tried to remove it.

"It's just paint!" Jeremiah yelled. "Any old idiot can scrape paint off a wall. Get it off or I'll get the skin of your flesh!"

He stormed off before anyone had the chance to reply.

In his fury Jeremiah went straight to the dead letter box he had set up in the park. In one corner stood the statue of a Greek athlete throwing a javelin. It was a very lifelike work of art that even went as far as replicating bodily orifices. Jeremiah walked behind the statue and looked around. There was no one in sight. He took a small scroll of paper that contained a coded message from his pocket, walked up to the athlete's behind and pushed the scroll up his rectum with one finger. It was a tight fit and he had to pull hard to get his finger out again.

"You like it mate, don't you?" a voice behind him suddenly said.

Jeremiah turned round startled. A middle aged man with greasy hair, a pot belly and thick pouty lips stood there leering at him. The man stepped closer. Jeremiah wanted to take a step back but he was blocked by the statue.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jeremiah said.

"Oh, come off it mate," the man leered. "I know just what you want. No need to pretend with me, mate. I can give it to you."

"You can what?" Jeremiah said incredulously.

The man came closer, reeking of sweat and drooling over his victim. Unable to control himself any longer he grabbed Jeremiah by the crotch with one hand and firmly placed his other hand on a buttock.

"Oh, me and you're going to be great pals," he breathed in Jeremiah's face.

Jeremiah stood in shock for an instant but then he came to again. He pushed the man away violently and exclaimed "You filthy, disgusting rat! Perverted vermin, away from me! Never have I been so insulted in my life, you sordid stinking beast! Pox and pestilence upon you! Get thee hence! Be gone with you, you wicked pernicious pustule!"

Waving and flailing his arms wildly Jeremiah assaulted the surprised man who then turned and fled.

Jeremiah breathed in deeply trying to regain his composure. "Truly the ways of the Lord are mysterious," he said at last. Making sure there was no one around this time he quickly checked that nothing of the scroll was visible in the athlete's rectum before he quickly walked away from the place of his infamy.

Later that day Richard went for a leisurely stroll in the park. Richard retrieved the secret message from the dead letter box and went back to their little flat to decode it.

"Master Jeremiah is brilliant," Richard said when they got back and told the others about where the message was hidden.

"A pure genius," Tancred agreed. "No one would ever even think of looking in such a place." He unrolled the paper and put it down flat on a table. The paper was covered in rows of numbers. He took a copy of The Holy Dryvel and opened it.

"Now let's see what Master Jeremiah has written to us," Tancred said.

"How do you decipher it?" Bohemon asked.

"That's easy. There are always three numbers. The first one represents the page, the second one a line on that page, and the third one a word in that line. It's known as a book code and it's unbreakable."

"You mean even the government or police couldn't work it out?" Richard asked.

"That's right. I told you Master Jeremiah is a genius."

"By the Grace of God," Herman said. "Let us not incur the wrath of the Lord in vainglorious pride, my brothers."

"Quite right, Brother Herman," Tancred said. "Let us be united in drivel and prayer and humbly implore the Lord for His Grace and His blessings in our undertaking."

After their prayer Tancred decoded the message and they started their preparations.

The following morning Tancred and Richard stood waiting at a lonely stretch of road in town. Richard was slowly pushing a pram along the side of the road.

Tancred checked his watch. "Should be any minute now."

Richard's grip tightened on the handles and he sent a quick prayer up to the Lord. Then he saw the familiar yellow that all school buses in the country were painted with. At the right distance he started crossing the road pushing the pram in front of him. In the middle of the road he stumbled and fell. The bus driver braked and brought the bus to a standstill just a few feet away from Richard. He opened the doors and jumped down to the road. "Are you all right, man?"

Tancred came up behind the driver and hit him hard with a sock filled with sand. The driver collapsed and Tancred dragged him to the side of the road while Richard took their weapons from the pram and boarded the bus. Twenty-seven pairs of surprised eyes looked at him as he stood at the front of the bus brandishing a submachine gun.

"Right, kids. Just shut up and stay on your seats and you'll be fine, but if you try any tricks I'll shoot you."

Terrified some of the younger ones started crying.

Tancred got on the bus, closed the doors and drove off. After a few minutes the bus turned off the road and went into an abandoned warehouse where the children were forced off the bus one by one. Bohemon and Herman tied their hands behind their backs and gagged their mouths before forcing them into the back of a truck. Then Tancred drove the empty school bus out of town and left it standing in a little wood.

Bohemon, Herman and Richard drove the children to the other side of the city. They parked next to a service shaft of the city's metro system and made the children walk down a long spiral staircase. The terrified children, some as young as six, had to walk along a long corridor that only had intermittent lighting. The corridor branched off in different directions, one of which led to an abandoned section of the metro. They crossed the dark platform and climbed down to the track. After following the track for about five minutes Tancred stopped in front of a steel door. He opened it.

"In you go, kids," he said. "This is your new home for the time being."

The three brothers followed the children through the door. There was a narrow corridor that led to another massive steel door.

"Here we are," Tancred said. "This place was a bomb shelter during the war. No one's been here for more than fifty years so we won't have to worry about any surprise visitors."

He untied the hands of one of the older boys.

"There are camping beds and boxes of food down there, and you'll find a toilet and running water in another room. Don't waste your breath shouting. No one would hear you here in a thousand years. So just relax kids and enjoy your school break. We'll be back in a day or two to see how you're doing."

He slammed the door shut and bolted it from the outside with two thick bolts he had installed the day before just as Jeremiah had instructed him.

They then drove the stolen truck away and left it standing far away at the side of the road as though it had been taken by joyriders.

At lunchtime Cato switched the TV on to see if there was any more news about their graffiti campaign.

"This morning at around seven forty-five, armed men hijacked a school bus with twenty seven children on board. The driver was later found by the side of the road where he was lying unconscious. It is not known where the bus was taken to, but a short time ago we received a video from the kidnappers outlining their demands. We have, of course, passed any information we have on to the police to help free the kidnapped children, but we have also decided, after careful deliberation, that the public have the right to know what is going on, so we are going to show the video to you now.

First the title appeared:

Blood Moon

Then a man wearing military fatigues and a balaclava spoke to the camera.

"We are the Holy Dryvellist Resistance Army. After continuing attacks and hate crimes against our community, against the true believers, God's own people, we have had no choice but to defend ourselves. We therefore issue the following demands to the government:

\- Enact legislation that makes blasphemy and Dryvellophobia a capital offence punishable by death.

\- Establish Dryvellist courts in which Dryvellers are tried for any offence committed according to Dryvellist law.

\- The teaching of Dryvellism is to be mandatory for all school children.

\- The so called theory of evolution must be banned from schools. It must be replaced by the true teaching of creationism and storkism as revealed in The Holy Dryvel.

If our demands are not fully and unconditionally met by the government within one week, we will have no choice but to execute one of the hostages every day.

"This is very distressing news and I must apologize for showing you this, but as I mentioned before, we think the public should know what is really happening. Now, I understand that some of the parents of the hostages are gathered at their children's school so we're going there live to our correspondent Cecilia Hopewell. Hi, Cecilia. Can you tell our viewers what is happening?"

"Hi Harold. Parents came to the school more than two hours ago and they have only just come out again now. This is an extremely distressing time for all of them, but I managed to talk to one of the mothers.

Hello, your daughter was on board the hijacked bus?"

"Yes, that's right. I took her to the bus myself this morning like every day. I'm so afraid now."

She burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry. Has the school been able to tell you anything?"

"Nothing. They know nothing. They told us to go home and wait. I don't know how I can wait. I only want to have my baby back. She's only seven years old. She's never done anyone any harm. Please don't hurt her, I'm begging you not to hurt her. If it's money you want we'll pay anything you say, but don't hurt my baby..."

Her husband put his arm around her and walked her away from the camera.

"That was very upsetting. Thank you Cecilia for your report. And over to the presidential palace now where the president is about to make a statement."

The camera showed the president walking to a set of microphones.

"My fellow citizens. We are all in shock at the horrible events of today. My thoughts and prayers at this time are with the kidnapped children and their families. I would like to assure you that the police are doing everything they can to free the children. I want to appeal to everyone, if you have any information that might be relevant, do contact the police. My government is offering a reward of one million for any information leading to the liberation of the kidnapped children.

At the same time I want to appeal to the kidnappers not to harm anyone. We can talk about everything, though I must stress that this government will not give in to blackmail.

We as a nation should also consider whether the blame for this terrible crime lies solely with the kidnappers or if there are other factors. For some time now there have been those, who under the guise of anonymity have continuously provoked and angered the Dryvellist community. While this in no way can serve as an excuse for violence or possibly murder we should understand that people who are provoked and insulted may at times do rash things they would not otherwise have done. We as a government will therefore have to examine whether religious groups and communities should be protected from hate speech and offensive behaviour. This country once had powerful blasphemy laws. It is high time we considered re-instating them."

Angered Cato turned the TV off.

"Well isn't that just bloody typical," he said to Joan. "Those gangsters kidnap kids and threaten to murder them and we get the blame because we dare demonstrate against fraud, lies and bombs on buses. Whatever next? Maybe rapists, robbers and murderers will get special protection from hate speech against them and anyone who criticizes their crimes will be locked up or executed? Fuck! That man is just such a wanker. How did he ever become president?"

"What about the children, Cato? We can't go on demonstrating now."

"No," he sighed, "I suppose we can't. Let's keep quiet until things are sorted out, but God help that swine Jeremiah if any of the kids are harmed. I'll strangle him myself."

**The Truth Hurts**

The greatest enemy of all

is considered he

who tells the truth.

Plato, The Republic

While everyone was preoccupied with the rapidly deteriorating situation there was one person who was trying to work out if there was a way how he could personally profit. In the evening Judas was sitting on his dingy old sofa in the living room. When he saw the news report about the kidnapped children he was sure that Jeremiah had to be behind it. And the more he thought about Jeremiah the more determined he was to find a way to get something out of the whole affair for himself. "And if I manage to help those kids as well," he murmured, "all the better."

The morning after the kidnapping Judas got up early, earlier than he had in years, and went to the temple. He was wearing a wide rimmed grey hat and dark sunglasses, a grey T-shirt and black trousers, and he carried a rucksack containing a baseball cap and some other clothes. When he got near the temple he concealed himself behind a tree on the far side of the road from where he could watch the entrance to the temple.

Several hours later, it was almost noon, Jeremiah parked his car in a side street and then entered the temple. He came out again a few minutes later and Judas carefully followed him at a distance. Jeremiah led him straight to the park where he hid another scroll in the statue's bottom, all of which Judas saw from behind some bushes. When Jeremiah had gone, Judas quickly inspected the statue and peered up the dark hole where he spotted the paper scroll.

"Now isn't that interesting," he said. "Jeremiah's posting a letter up some bloke's butt."

He took the paper out and unrolled it, but was unable to understand the coded message. He quickly rolled it up and put it back again. Then he hid himself behind some bushes and settled down for a lengthy wait.

"The good thing about not slaving away in some regular job is that you've got plenty of time," he said and smiled.

In the event he didn't have to wait long. Less than half an hour later Richard appeared and went straight to the statue without even bothering to see if anyone else was around. He took the secret message and walked back to his flat. Had he made the effort to turn round to see if he was being followed he might have spotted Judas some way behind him, but he was so sure of Jeremiah's ingenuity and the protective hand the Lord was holding over them that it never even occurred to him he was under observation.

Judas spent all day opposite the building where the four brothers were staying without seeing one of them. He waited for some time after all the lights in the windows went out and then decided that there was no point in waiting any longer. His feet were killing him and he was more than happy to go home and lie down.

But the thought of getting rich quickly at Jeremiah's expense made sure that he woke up early the next day again. Worried that he might be too late he hurried back to the spot where he had stood all afternoon the day before. This time he was in luck. After a few minutes Richard and another man, it was Tancred, came out and walked to a bus stop. Judas got on the bus with them and followed them across town until he saw them enter the metro's service shaft.

"Well, well, well," he said quietly. "What have we got here? Don't tell me Jeremiah's pals work for the metro. I'll bet those swine have got the kids hidden down there somewhere."

He jotted down the address and went to a café for breakfast and to think things over.

After some fresh croissants and a cup of invigorating coffee he made up his mind to pay Jeremiah a visit at his home.

"Let's see if I can't spoil his morning." On the way he came upon a toyshop where he bought a real looking toy gun. Then he caught a bus to the area where Jeremiah lived.

When he rang the bell he hid the toy gun behind his back. As Judas was wearing the hat and sunglasses Jeremiah didn't recognize him and opened the door. As soon as he opened the door Judas pushed the gun in his face and forced him back into the house. He slammed the door shut with one foot.

"What, what do you want?" Jeremiah stammered.

"What I really want is to blow your fucking brains out," Judas said aggressively. "But failing that I'll settle for second best, which means five million in hard currency."

Jeremiah swallowed hard. "I haven't got that. In fact I..."

Judas hit him in the face with the pistol.

"Don't give me that bullshit," he yelled. "I don't care if you have it or not, but you can get it. I know where your pals are hiding and where they're keeping the kids."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Judas told him both addresses.

"If you know what's good for you," Judas said threateningly, "you'll get those idiot kidnappers of yours to drop their religious demands and ask for money instead."

"But that's impossible."

"And why's that? It's quite simple really even you should understand it. They ask for money and release the kids. You pay me and I won't bother you again, and you can easily claim that the kidnappers weren't Dryvellers. They just used their religious demands to put the police on a false trail. When all the dust is settled you can go back to cheating people out of their money as you've been doing till now."

The plan was breathtaking, even for Jeremiah.

"I, I can't do that."

"If you don't I'll rat you out to the cops. There's a nice reward for info on those kids. If you want me to keep my trap shut you'll have to cough up a lot more than that measly million the cops are offering."

Jeremiah understood when he was beaten.

"All right, I'll try, but I can't promise they'll pay..."

"Oh, they will pay, don't you worry about that. They'll deny it in public, of course, but they'll find the dosh. That president has no guts and the last thing he wants is dead kids on the evening news. He's like you, really. He'll do anything to get himself out of trouble. You'll be hearing from me, but don't be long. I'm not patient and I'll be watching you, so don't try anything stupid. Now close your eyes and turn round."

As soon as Jeremiah turned his back to him, Judas quickly left.

The sudden violent intrusion into his home left Jeremiah in a panic. Disregarding all caution he got into his car and drove directly to the building where the four brethren were hiding. He parked opposite the building and rushed upstairs. Bohemon opened the door.

"Master Jeremiah!" he called in surprise.

"Quiet, you fool," Jeremiah said pushing his way into the flat and slamming the door shut.

"What are you shouting my name for? Do you want the whole building to know I'm here?"

"I'm sorry, Master Jeremiah, but I thought we agreed you'd never come here again. It's too dangerous."

"Will you be quiet! I do the thinking, not you. Where are the others?" he asked seeing Herman come from another room.

"They went to see the children earlier this morning. I don't know when they'll be back, maybe at noon, maybe later."

Jeremiah paced up and down the room impatiently.

"Why is no one ever there when you need them," he cursed.

Herman looked at Bohemon questioningly, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

"What is wrong?" Herman asked. "Maybe we can help."

"What is wrong?" Jeremiah said annoyed. "Everything is wrong. Call the others. I need them here now."

Bohemon and Herman looked at each other.

"But Master Jeremiah," Herman said, "we haven't got mobile phones. We agreed before our mission that it was too risky. And we thought you'd only communicate via the dead letter box because..."

"Yes, yes, because," Jeremiah exploded. "I know why. Don't give me any 'buts' and 'because'."

Jeremiah breathed in deeply, about to say more, when they heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and moments later Tancred and Richard came in.

"Brethren!" Jeremiah exclaimed before they had time to say anything. "A most terrible thing has befallen us." And he told them about the visit he had from Judas and what his demands were.

Tancred frowned. "We can't give in to that. We'd betray everything we're fighting for, everything that's sacred."

"So what do you suggest?" Jeremiah said acidly.

"I like radical solutions," Tancred said. "Let's set him a trap and kill him."

"And what if he doesn't fall for the trap or he's told someone else?" Richard asked. "How can you know it's only one man? Maybe there're others working with him."

"Pox and pestilence," Jeremiah cursed. "Maybe this and maybe that. If I needed idle chatter I'd go to market and ask a bunch of market hags. What I need is a solution. The matter is very simple. For the time being we have to give in to the demands. We'll negotiate the release of the kids and get money. We'll get enough money to satisfy that swine and for our own needs. As to our real demands to the government we can just come back to those later. They are merely postponed, not cancelled. If we're able to set a trap for that bastard and keep all the cash for ourselves, all the better. As soon as we get the cash you'll move to a different place and we'll have to change our way of communicating. It's all very simple really. Are we all agreed?"

Jeremiah looked up from the floor he'd been staring at. Tancred, Bohemon and Richard nodded their assent.

"Now where the devil's Herman? Does he think I'm just talking for fun or what's wrong with him?"

"I think I heard the front door a minute ago," Richard said.

Jeremiah quickly checked the flat.

"By the great sacred top hat, what's got into that man?" Jeremiah cursed.

"I don't think he's happy about changing our demands to money," Richard said. "Herman is very devout."

"Not happy?" Jeremiah said incredulously. "How dare he. Has he already forgotten the Laws of the Lord?" Jeremiah looked at them strictly. "Does anyone here remember the second law?"

"Obey the Lord as made manifest through the Master of the Temple," they said in unison.

"Precisely," Jeremiah exclaimed. A devout Dryveller obeys the Lord, and a devout Dryveller always knows what the Lord wants by heeding the words of the Master of the Temple. That's where true happiness lies, in obedience to me."

Shocked by Jeremiah's sudden demand that they blackmail the government for money rather than religious concessions Herman left the flat on impulse. He ran downstairs and then walked away from the building without paying attention to where he was going. "Master Jeremiah just wants money!" was the constant thought on his mind. The reasons Jeremiah had given for the change of plans had failed to register with the devout Herman, whose only thoughts were how to further Dryvellism and the Glory of the Lord. Herman walked along the streets, shaking his head and muttering. Sometimes he drew strange glances from the people in the streets, but for the most part no one paid attention to him. At first he could only think about how Master Jeremiah, the man he had trusted and believed in with all his heart, could betray Dryvellism. But the more he thought about it the surer he was of his conviction that it was a betrayal. Several hours later he stopped in his tracks and said "Master Jeremiah is a traitor. Master Jeremiah is a traitor," he shouted. People stared at him. He was red in the face and he felt the mounting anger in his heart. "What to do? What to do?" was his next thought. It was out of the question that he should help Jeremiah in any way. Even doing nothing wasn't good enough, it only meant that he allowed Jeremiah to continue his evil scheme. No, he would have to take decisive action. He looked around and suddenly realized that his feet had carried him into the vicinity of the temple without noticing it.

"Praise to the Lord, for He has guided me," Herman said. It struck him that there was a divine plan which was responsible for taking him near the temple. Then he realized that he, Brother Herman, was destined for greater things than being a mere brother. It was his destiny to save the true religion. More determined than he had ever been in his life he hurried to the temple. He entered the grand hall and went to the place that was reserved for Jeremiah. The sacred top hat was in its usual place. Herman took it and put it on. Then he called for the brethren to assemble. His voice rang strong and clear through the building. The surprised brethren hurried into the hall where they were astounded to see Herman again. And not only was he back, he was wearing the sacred top hat and calling a general assembly both of which were privileges only allowed to Master Jeremiah.

"Brother Herman," someone said. "We rejoice to see you again, but what is the meaning of this? How dare you wear the sacred top hat?"

Herman briefly related what had happened since his departure and how Jeremiah had betrayed Dryvellism for money. The brethren looked at him in disbelief. After a moment of silence a heated and even fierce debate broke out between those who believed Herman and those who could not accept that Master Jeremiah could do any wrong. Herman found himself forgotten for the moment. He thought about what he could do to convince the brethren of the sad truth. There was only one thing he could think of. He hesitated for a moment because of the camaraderie he still felt for Tancred, Richard and Bohemon, but then he thought that they had sided with Jeremiah. And who sided with a traitor deserved a traitor's dues.

Herman left the grand hall and went to Jeremiah's office. He picked up the receiver and dialled the emergency police number. He gave the location of the kidnapped children and the hiding place of the kidnappers themselves before hanging up. Then he went back to the grand hall.

Jeremiah was sitting at a table in the flat with Tancred, Bohemon and Richard. They were working on the revised draught of demands to the government in which they asked for roughly the double amount of money in return for the safe release of the hostages that Judas wanted from them.

After Herman had suddenly left them Jeremiah suffered from a sudden outbreak of verbal diarrhoea. He became so absorbed in his diatribe against Herman and anyone not willing to obey his commands that he forgot about why he had come. Finally Tancred reminded him and they were all glad to get to work again on the matters at hand.

"You will see that I'm right," Jeremiah said. The government will pay anything we ask of them and then we'll be able to push them for things we really want."

"You mean we won't hand over the hostages when they've paid the money?" Richard asked.

"That's an interesting question," Jeremiah mused. "But unfortunately I think we'll have to go through with any deal we have with them. If we don't they'll never trust us again and it'll be much harder to persuade them to do what we want. No, what I mean is when we have the money and we've got rid of that blackmailer we'll just find a new pressure point against the government. In fact I..."

Jeremiah was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Windows to the flat were smashed and tear gas grenades came flying in. Jeremiah was petrified, but the others dashed for their guns. Tancred was the first to open fire. He lay under a window, held a submachine gun up and squeezed the trigger. Moment later bullets were flying everywhere. From the building opposite police snipers opened fire. One of the bullets hit Jeremiah in the head.

That evening the liberation of the child hostages and the successful operation against the kidnappers was all over the news. People across the nation were hugely relieved that the children were unharmed. No one cared that the kidnappers were all dead, but people were shocked to hear that Jeremiah, Master of the Dryvellist Temple was among them. When Cato and Joan heard the news they jumped up from the sofa and danced for joy.

"I knew it," Cato said. "I just knew that fucking Jeremiah was behind everything. Finally we've got it in public. Now even our daft president will have to admit we're right and that Dryvellism is evil."

"What are we going to do now?" Joan asked. "The temple's still there. Being rid of Jeremiah is good, but it never was about him alone, was it?"

Cato frowned. "You're right. There's still work to be done. At least now we'll have everyone behind us. What we need now is a huge rally demanding that Dryvellism be banned. They can't possibly arrest us now, not after what happened to those kids. We'll have the whole nation marching with us. And you know what, dear? Let's strike while the iron's hot. Call everyone and we'll go into town tonight."

The only person truly unhappy about the day's events was Judas. His dreams of sudden riches had vanished into thin air and once again he had tried and failed to get a personal gain from Jeremiah. He stayed at home feeling depressed and drank one can of beer after the other while watching TV. Later in the evening reports of a sudden rally in the downtown area were broadcast. Pictures showed a huge crowd being led by the Immortals in their unmistakable masks. That gave Judas an idea.

"Jeremiah may be gone," he said, "but there's still a nice little reward out for the capture of the Immortals." He switched off the TV, put on his old worn out shoes and went to the nearest police station to file a report against Cato, Joan, Mark and a number of other leading figures in the Immortals' movement. When Cato and the others got home that night the police were already waiting for them and placed them all under arrest.

When Judas got his reward a few days later the first thing he did was to pay The Jamaica Inn a visit where he enjoyed the services that were available both downstairs and upstairs.

The Immortals were taken to court and charged with incitement and endangering national security.

They tried to defend themselves by showing that they had only demonstrated against criminal actions of the Dryvellers.

The judge replied that "The truth is no defence" and sentenced them to lengthy jail terms.

Following the Dryvellist plot and the arrest of the Immortals there was nationwide outrage. Newspapers called for urgent action, politicians called for decisive action, the president announced some steps in the right direction, and in the end no one changed anything.

And so after a few sports events, a large number of sitcoms, soap operas and other televised opium for the masses, not to mention an affair by a famous pop singer, the whole sad story vanished from the public mind. In fact, within a fortnight it had been forgotten.

**Epilogue**

Only the educated are free.

Epictetus, Discourses

Master Herman of the Holy Dryvellist Temple stood in the grand hall and looked at the assembled brethren. He felt their eager eyes resting on him, every eye adding to the heavy burden he had shouldered.

"Brethren," he said. "We have gone through hard times together. The hatred and Dryvellophobia that has ravaged our community have left indelible marks on our soul. There are those who are not with us anymore and not a day shall pass where we do not remember what they have done for us, for Dryvellism and for the Lord. It is said that a generation of Dryvellers is like a generation of leaves. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the living tree blossoms with leaves again in the spring. And are we not gathered here in our living tree, our holy temple from whence the green leaves of our faith blossom and grow anew? Are we not like the green leaves that strive up towards the sunlight to reap the energy and power they need in their daily fight for survival?"

A spontaneous burst of applause.

"I know that things have seemed very bad at times. Let us not forget that war is the last of all things to go according to schedule. We must learn to let go of our expectations and hopes and at the same time learn to accept and indeed cherish those things the Lord has thought it wise to bestow upon us. It is manifest to all of us here that we are engaged in a bitter struggle for survival, a war, against all those who deny Dryvellism. It would be foolish to pray for an untroubled life in this much troubled world. Rather we should ask the Lord to give us enduring hearts. We must endure the hate and hostility of the outside world, a world that has conspired against Dryvellism, while at the same time we must always be ready to welcome with open arms those who have the courage to admit to the truth in this hostile world. As such it gives me special pleasure to introduce you to my young friend Bill Slayer who has taken the first step away from the benighted existence he believed to be life. Let us give him a warm welcome, let us pray together."

The congregation drivelled and drooled and chanted a prayer of welcome to Novice Slayer.

By the same author

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/525960>

Captain Kim Pottinger has been based on Mars for several years and he is feeling bored with the red dustball. All that is about to change when newly arrived Dr. Larry Wathen goes with him to find out why a team of scientists investigating Cydonia, an area famous for the Face and some pyramid shaped mountains, cannot be reached by radio anymore. Of particular concern to Kim is that his girlfriend Jane is one of the missing scientists. The discovery they make shatters their understanding of both Mars and Earth. But when things begin to go awry they wonder if they will ever return to Earth...

What is the truth about Mars? A gripping adventure story that began thousands of years ago on Earth in a land long vanished beneath the waves.

The Mars Conspiracy

ISBN-13: 978-1499620160

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/525960>

Visit the author's personal page:

www.briansmith.de
IS THERE ANY WAY TO SURVIVE?   
What would happen if modern military forces fought against the armies of World War One, just 100 years ago? A massacre? And how would we fare against an alien invader 1000 years more advanced than we are?

Eight gripping apocalyptic short stories about the end of the world. As we all know from Hollywood films the end usually begins in America - the rest of the world is an afterthought. The surprising twists and humour make each of the stories unique and fascinating to read.

NEW, EXCITING, HORRIFYING TALES THAT WILL CAPTURE YOUR IMAGINATION

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/525968>

The End of America: & the rest of the world  
ISBN-13: 978-1499534122

www.briansmith.de

### Dare Quest

Series for young readers aged 8 – 12.

There is an evil man prowling the streets of London in 1892. He lures poor children with food and the promise of a better life. Where does he take the children?

A terrible murder is committed. What is the dark secret behind it?

It's a case for Sherlock Holmes.

Then Edward and Anthony are called in on the case. Who made the dare? And what is the connection between the murder and the missing children?

Can YOU survive the Dare Quest challenge?

Read them all:

The Chinese Pirate

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/505718

The Red Planet

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/506063

The Tiger

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/506260

Queen Cleopatra

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/514200

Free the Slaves

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/516725

The End of the World

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/521406

Sherlock Holmes

The Man from the Ice

The Crystal Skull

www.briansmith.de

