Mysterious Rebirth
Popalicious's was, without a doubt, a soda shop. Char had half-considered Raph was joking about it being a tavern that only sold carbonated beverages, but here they were, Raph drinking a "Your Fifth Mother from Mars," and Char drinking a "No Soak."
In Bronze Deseret, they had shady places in the underground where people could purchase alcoholic beverages. Char had, naturally, tried a few. Every kid in the third kingdom did. She didn’t expect the rumors about Gold Deseret and its soda bars to be true though.
Raph glanced furtively around the soda shop as if waiting for something or someone to jump out of nowhere. Raph was interesting, and Char was excited to hear his story. (They had shared pronouns and other trivial information on the ferry over.) Apparently, and this shocked Char, Raph was the son of a member of the Mercurial Quadrant Quorum of Seventy. It wouldn't necessarily be a big thing except Raph’s father had previously been assigned to do missionary work toward the Mercurites. Since his mother had been called into the Seventy, their life had been a little less frazzled, not on the front lines of the gospel message, but the fact that his father had led out the first messengers to the Mercurites would definitely lead to a bunch of stories they could learn.
“What brought you to Golden Deseret?” Char asked, sipping on their No Soak. It was a soft flavor, smooth, but kind of just sat there, in the mouth, at the same time. They weren't sure whether they liked it or not.
“A mystery,” Raph responded, still looking around. “We should go somewhere else.”
“Why?” Char asked, enjoying—well, not exactly enjoying, more like suffering through on the expense of some else—the No Soak.
“Too many voices.”
Raph grabbed his drink and exited the shop. Without much else to do, Char followed him. He led them to a local park and sat on a bench. The bench rested on the edge of a small pond with a towering angel Moroni in the middle. Its gold-plating glittered in the water that flowed from its raised trumpet.
“Better?” Char asked. The No Soak was not improving as they drank deeper from it.
“A little.”
“A little . . . Enough to tell me about this mystery? Or to share a different story?” Char probed. One of the first rules of the narratist was to ask questions to have someone tell the story they wanted to tell. The pinnacle narratists, people like Jedediah Snah or Yistel Yvrel, could just sit and look at a person, and the person would start telling them their story. Char . . . wasn’t that advanced, one could say.
“The mystery, right.” Raph looked over his shoulder. “In the Mercurial Quadrant, I heard rumors about things.”
“Rumors . . .” Char said, leaving the word open.
“Yes, rumors.” Raph nodded enthusiastically. “They talked about the resurrection for the dead.”
“What about it?”
“That it was a false doctrine, that it couldn't be, that we needed to instead be reborn.”
Char slanted their head, questioningly.
“The resurrection of the dead is returning to the body after one dies. A rebirth—a mysterious rebirth—is changing the body. Being reborn. Changed. Born again.”
“Aren't we supposed to be born again?” Char asked. They had failed most of their required religion classes—sleep during lower school was much better than listening to someone drone on about the great works of people that occurred planets away. But they remembered that moment in the Testament when the Lord said to be born again. And they remembered it meant baptism—all of the brochures and study guides said so. “Isn’t the act of joining Golden Deseret, the act of baptism, the being reborn?”
“Well, yes, but this rebirth was different.” Raph looked around the park again. “This rebirth occurs after people die.”
“They get resurrected?”
“No, they're reborn. I went to a few meetings of these people. And they weren't baptizing nor were bodies being resurrected. Someone would die—they’d stab them—and then they’d be reborn, then and there.”
“That’s definitely not resurrection,” Char responded.
“Not at all,” Raph said, nodding fervently. “Anyway, you're a narratist, and I know narratists are meant to narrate the past, present, and future, so . . . I figured I should tell you.”
“How did you find me?” Char asked, narrowing their eyes. It had been suspicious enough that Raph had singled them out of the crowd, but as a narratist, Char was capable of getting themself out of most hullaballoo. Also, Raph didn’t seem too tough on his own.
“You look like one,” Raph said, shrugging. “And I felt prompted to meet you. I felt prompted to come to Golden Deseret. I felt prompted to find this weird group and their weird rebirth.”
“Close to the Spirit,” Char said, nodding. Even though they didn't know too much about the scriptural stories, they did know about the Twelve Gifts, one of which was discernment. Each narration held one of the Twelve Gifts, and when a holder of the Twelve Gifts found a narratist, they were meant to pursue it to the end of the galaxy—even the outer darkness.
“So . . . ?” Raph asked.
“So, what?”
“Will you help me find this cult and their mysterious rebirth?”
Char might not be the best narratist, but Char knew what to respond immediately. “I will.” They took one more look at the No Soak, shook their head, discarded it in a rubbish bin, and set off into the golden gleams of the highest empire, on the hunt for a narrative.
I am participating in #Archtober from the ARCH-HIVE. They challenged creators to create something every day, or every other day, for the month of October and base it on a theme. I’m free writing for 30 minutes every two days based on the two-day schematic and theme rules they’ve established. So, the writing will probably not be super coherent, but it’ll be fun.
