The Godmakers

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“What folly!” the Abbod said. “You deliberately told your friend to set the mob on him. And after I expressly forbade it. Ahhh, Macrithy…”

Macrithy stood bent-shouldered in the Abbod’s study. The Abbod sat in the lotus posture on a low table facing the priest. Two fingers upraised in antennae position, knobby knees protruding where he bent across them, the Abbod stared fixedly at Macrithy.

“I was only thinking of you,” Macrithy protested.

“You did not think at all!” The Abbod was terrible in his quietly pained judgment. “You did not think of the human beings who were turned into a mob. Orne could have cast them into eternal hell. He might still do it when he comes into his full powers.”

“I came to warn you as soon as I knew he had escaped,” Macrithy said.

“Of what use is this warning?” the Abbod asked. “Ahhh, my dear friend, how could you have fallen into such error? You see, what is happening right now is the easily predictable consequence of your actions. I can only surmise that this situation is what you really wanted.”

“Oh, no!” Macrithy was horrified.

“When mouth and action disagree, believe action,” the Abbod said. “Why do you want to destroy us, Macrithy?”

“I don’t! I don’t!” Macrithy backed away from the Abbod, made fending motions with both hands. He stopped when his back encountered the wall.

“But you do,” the Abbod said, his voice sorrowful. “Perhaps it’s because I assigned Bakrish to Orne and not you. I know it was an assignment you wanted. But it could not be, my friend. You would have sought to destroy Orne… and yourself. I could not permit that.”

Macrithy buried his face in his hands. “He’ll destroy us all,” he sobbed.

“Pray he doesn’t,” the Abbod said, his voice soft. “Send him your love and your concern for him. Thus, he may come to a fortunate awakening.”

“What good is love now?” Macrithy demanded. “He’s coming for you!”

“Of course,” the Abbod murmured. “Because I summoned him. Take your violence away now, Macrithy. Pray for yourself. Pray for a cleansing of your spirit. I, too, will pray for that.”

Macrithy shook his round head from side to side. “It’s too late for prayer.”

“That you should say such a thing,” the Abbod mourned.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” Macrithy pleaded.

“Take my blessing and go,” the Abbod said. “Ask the forgiveness of the God Orne, as well. You may have caused Him great hurt.”