The Oracle Year(17)

Branson stared at the bone inside the reliquary.

“Is this actually a piece of old Gratus’ spine? Or did some church just need its roof fixed, and so they went down to the boneyard out back and dug themselves up a miracle?”

He looked at Jonas, his face calm.

“My secret. It’s simple enough,” he said. “I don’t believe in God.”

Jonas frowned.

“Your faith has lapsed?” he asked. “It happens, Reverend, or so I’ve heard—if you want my help, we can pray together. I’ll do everything I can, and I’m honored that—”

“No,” Branson interrupted. “I’ve never believed in God. I don’t particularly see the point.”

Jonas remained silent.

“Well, that’s not exactly true. I believe in spirituality, and goodness. But the stuff in the Bible? The specifics? No. God’s not real. At least, not the version we sell to our congregation. That’s all pablum. An ad campaign.”

He held up the reliquary again.

“Belief is a commodity. It can be packaged, bought and sold. It’s true of saint’s bones, and it’s true of my ministry.”

Jonas could feel his eye starting to twitch.

“You know our congregation doesn’t believe either, right?” Branson said.

“That’s not true,” Jonas said, heat leaking into his voice.

“Sure it is. If those folks really believed God was up there judging them, they’d be better people. But you see how they are. They lie, they cheat. They’re brazen about it.”

Branson drained his sherry glass and looked at it ruefully.

“Should’ve brought the bottle,” he said.

He set the glass down on a nearby table.

“A long time ago, I spent a while thinking about the good a person might do in their lifetime. The things they might really do to help their fellow man. Like a math problem. How much good could one ordinary person accomplish with their life? I figured it was quite a bit, if they really wanted to go that way.

“But then, I looked at what people actually do, and I realized . . . it’s not a lot, is it? Not very much at all. Folks look out for their own, and maybe they don’t actively hurt anyone else if they can help it . . . but reaching out a hand to those in need? Forget it. Most people have a hard-enough time just getting through the day.”

He smiled at Jonas.

“I didn’t like that math. I found it frustrating. So I decided to do better. I decided to do this.”

He gave the reliquary another rattle.

“Now, I don’t want to sugarcoat things. I take money—buckets of it—from many, many people. But I’m not a thief. I give good value. Our congregation . . . our customers . . . want to feel good about themselves, and better than other people, and they’re willing to pay top dollar.

“That is what our ministry is for. That’s what every ministry is for. That’s all they really want from us. Look me in the eye and deny it.”

Jonas wanted very much to look up, deny the reverend, defy him, but his eyes remained fixed on the reliquary, watching the flames dance across it.

“My flock gives me their energy, their power, their money, and they’re happy to do it. If I was selfish about how I used it, that would be one thing. I’d be a devil. But that’s not what I do, is it? I gather up all those little scrapings of goodwill and put them together, into me. And then I create change in the world. I bring light.

“And now,” Branson went on, “I have the ear of captains of industry and titans of entertainment, because I have an army. My flock. I call something the devil’s work, and they despise that thing. I call another thing blessed by God, and my people buy it, or vote for it, or go see it. That is my power, and it lets me walk with powerful men. You know President Green calls me once a month, Jonas? Just to chat.

“All that power, and I’ve tried to do nothing but good with it. How many people could say the same, if they were in my position?”

Jonas realized that he had just listened to a man spend ten minutes justifying the fact that he lied for a living.

“I don’t believe in God,” Branson said, “but I believe in belief, and its power to do good in this world. I’ve devoted my life to that principle. But now . . .”

He lifted Gratus of Aosta’s reliquary again and smiled at it.

“Who gives a shit?” he said.

Branson threw the reliquary into the fire. It smashed, and an odd, mushroomlike odor immediately wafted up.

He stepped to another alcove and removed a second reliquary, brandishing it at Jonas. The reverend’s face was turning red—the room had become stifling, and the overpowering odor of burning human remains didn’t help.

“Anthony of Padua, Jonas. Asses. The patron saint of donkeys, for God’s sake!”

A crash, as Anthony joined Gratus in the flames. Jonas shied back from the heat. The Oracle’s prediction had clearly broken the reverend’s mind. He wanted to run, wondering in a panic if he should try to warn Maria, get her out of the house. He considered what might happen if he actually had to fight Hosiah Branson—he couldn’t even picture it.

Branson stepped to the next alcove and picked up a small crystal chest—into the fire it went. The scents wafting out of the flames had taken on a new quality—notes of nutmeg, mixed with a sharp, chemical odor.