UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(63)

“Getting better.”

Cavenaugh, who has been standing back, now steps in to gather them and send them on their way. “That’s enough for now,” he tells them. “But you’ll all get your chance to have a personal audience with Lev.”

“Audience?” Lev says, chuckling at the thought. “Who am I, the pope?” But no one else is laughing—and it occurs to him that his inside joke with Pastor Dan has actually become a reality. All these kids are Leviathan.

? ? ?

Sixty-four. That’s how many ex-tithes are being sheltered and given sanctuary in the Cavenaugh mansion. It gives Lev a hope he hasn’t felt since the passage of the Cap-17 law, which turned out to be as many steps backward as it was forward.

“Eventually we’ll give them new identities and place them with families we trust to kept their secret,” Cavenaugh tells Lev. “We call it the Wholeness Relocation Program.”

Cavenaugh gives Lev the grand tour of the reclaimed north wing. On the walls are framed photos and news clippings about Lev. A banner in one hallway proclaims they should all LIVE LIKE LEV! His giddiness begins to turn to butterflies in his stomach. How can he live up to all this buildup? Should he even try?

“Don’t you think it’s kind of . . . overkill?” he asks Cavenaugh.

“We’ve come to realize that by pulling these kids from their tithing, we’ve removed from them the focus of their lives; the one immutable thing they believed in. We needed to fill that space, at least temporarily. You were the natural candidate.”

Stenciled on the walls are quotes and expressions attributed to Lev. Things like “To celebrate an undivided life is the finest goal of all,” and “Your future is ‘wholly’ yours.” They are sentiments he agrees with, but they never came out of his mouth.

“It must feel strange to be the focus of such lofty attention,” Cavenaugh says to him. “I hope you approve of how we’ve used your image to help these children.”

Lev finds himself in no position to approve, or disapprove, or even to judge the wisdom of it. How do you judge the brightness of a light when you’re the source? A spotlight can never see the shadows it casts. All he can do is go with it, and take his place as some sort of spiritual figure. There are worse things. Having experienced several of them, there is no question that this is better.

On his second day there, they begin to arrange his personal audiences with the ex-tithes—just a few a day so as not to overwhelm him. Lev listens to their life stories and tries to give advice, much the same way he did for the incarcerated “divisional risk” kids he used to visit on Sundays with Pastor Dan. For these kids, though, no matter what Lev says, they take it as divinely inspired. He could say the sky is pink, and they would find some mystical, symbolic meaning to it.

“All they want is validation,” Cavenaugh tells him, “and validation from you is the greatest gift they could hope for.”

By the end of the first week, Lev has settled into the rhythm of the place. Meals don’t begin until he arrives. He’s usually called on to say a nondenominational grace. His mornings are spent in audiences, and in the afternoon, he’s allowed time to himself. He’s encouraged by Cavenaugh and the staff to write his memoirs, which feels like an absurd request of a fourteen-year-old, but they’re completely serious. Even his bedroom is absurd—a kingly chamber far too large for him, and one of the few that has an actual window to the outside that isn’t boarded over. His room is larger than life, his image larger than life and death combined, and yet all these things only serve to make him feel increasingly small.

And to make it worse, at each meal he is faced by that portrait. The Lev they believe he is. He can fill that role for sure, but the eyes of that portrait, which follow him through the room, carry an accusation. You are not me, those eyes say. You never were, you never will be. But still flowers and notes and tributes appear on the mantel beneath the painting, and Lev comes to realize that it isn’t just a portrait . . . it’s an altar.

? ? ?

During his second week, he’s called in to greet new arrivals—the first since his own arrival. They’re fresh off the hijacked van, and all they know is that they’ve been kidnapped and tranq’d. They do not yet know by whom.

“It would be our wish,” Cavenaugh tells him, “that you be the first thing they see upon their unveiling.”

“Why? So they can imprint on me like ducklings?”

Cavenaugh exhales in mild exasperation. “Hardly. To the best of their knowledge, you are the only one who escaped being tithed. You don’t realize the visceral effect your presence has on another child slated for that same fate.”

Lev is directed to the ballroom, which remains in a sorry state and is probably beyond salvation. He is sure there is some researched psychological reason for greeting the kids here, but he doesn’t really want to ask.

When he gets there, the two new arrivals are already there. A boy and a girl. They’ve been tied to chairs and blindfolded, making it clear what Cavenaugh means by “unveiling.” The man is way too theatrical.

The boy sobs, and the girl tries to calm him. “It’s all right, Timothy,” she says. “Whatever’s going on, it’s going to be okay.”

Lev sits across from them, feeling awkward and frightened by their fear. He knows he needs to put forth confidence and comfort, but facing a pair of terrified kidnap victims is different from facing adoring ex-tithes.