Beyond Reach

The high ceilings of the vestibule stretched to distant peaks between gold-trimmed pillars. Hannah Leigh walked softly on the plush carpet, her breathing shallow in the echoing hall. The gold nameplate on the bishop's office door reflected her troubled eyes back at her. She knew better than to knock.

The meeting was scheduled for 11:00am, and at exactly 11:00am, the bishop opened the door. "Welcome, child," he said, not one wrinkle in his crisp white shirt. "Come on in."

Perched on the edge of a white hotel armchair, Hannah Leigh chewed her lips until the bishop sat across from her behind the polished wood desk. "Okay," the bishop said, briefly consulting a page in front of him. "Your father tells me you're studying at the university?"

Hannah Leigh hesitated. "I already fulfilled my year in service as a missionary."

The bishop smiled. "It's not an interrogation." There was a whisper of paper across the desk as he turned the page face-down, and folded his hands over top of it. "Can you tell me a little more about what's on your mind?"

Breathe. "Well, at the university, I am learning a little more about the history of our faith." Hannah Leigh glanced up at the bishop's attentive eyes and quickly looked away. "Um, in particular our founder, and some of his practices?"

"I see," the bishop said. "There are, of course, some practices that are difficult to understand without the context of history." He nodded to the tree of seven hands, the symbol of their faith, carved from white soapstone on his desk. "The beauty of our living tradition is that the gods continue to bless us with revelation."

"Yes, and I have prayed for guidance," Hannah Leigh said quickly. "I just don't understand why we glorify a man who treated so many people as...disposable."

The word hung in the still air, trapped by the white walls of the office. The bishop straightened the page in front of him to line up parallel with the edge of the desk. "I can see you've given this a lot of thought," he said. "Our founder was tasked with some difficult choices, and some of his decisions may seem...insensitive through our modern lens. What we choose to praise is his dedication to the gods. A devotion we hope to emulate, even if our challenges are not the same."

Hannah Leigh swallowed. "I know that our faith is not the only one that demanded sacrifice--"

"Remember that our faith is real," the bishop said. "And the gods spoke to our founder directly. While other cultures sacrifice to fairytales and control their followers through fear, our gods had a divine plan for each life given to them. Our founder could not choose to disobey."

"So he had no agency?" Hannah Leigh distilled. "Just blindly doing whatever the gods demand?"

"Perfect obedience is rewarded perfectly." The bishop glanced at the soapstone statuette. "And our founder was rewarded for his choices. Therefore, they must have been righteous."

"So, he must have been righteous," Hannah Leigh echoed. "But was he...always...right?"

Hannah Leigh glimpsed her reflection in the polished surface of the desk. Like many in the faith, she had long, blond hair. Like many in the faith, she paid a lot of money to make it that way. Everything from her pastel clothing to her breathy lilt was copied after the founder's ideal of beauty. It was important to look good, but it was more important to look like everybody else.

The bishop's shoulders drooped, as if he'd sat across this desk from countless young women who looked just like Hannah Leigh, and had had this same conversation a thousand times before. "It is true that our founder's personal preferences may have led to somewhat homogenized standards--"

"I'm not worried about that," Hannah Leigh interrupted, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. "I have greater concerns than my countenance. My brother is going to be married in two weeks."

"Oh?" The overturned paper probably specified who Hannah Leigh was related to, but the bishop's memory did not. A lot of people were going to be married, no matter the week. "How joyous for him."

"He's attracted to men."

"Ah." Scratching behind his ear, and now well aware of who was related to whom, the bishop evaded eye contact. "I see." Steepling his fingertips upon the desk, he very carefully said, "Your brother, and his bride to be, have embraced the holy order of obedience. It is a choice many in our faith have had to make. Regardless of position."

Hannah Leigh frowned, squinting slightly. "Why is that the only choice?"

"Because," the bishop sighed. "The chicken that lays many eggs has a place beside the fire, while the chicken that lays none is placed upon it."

"We're not chickens."

"For the purposes of worship, that is not relevant."

"I just--" Hannah Leigh gripped the white arms of the armchair. "We were all created with independent thoughts and feelings. Why do we spend our whole lives trying to suppress them?"

Wincing, the bishop said, "Because it is safer to fit in."

Hannah Leigh held out empty hands. "That's all you have for me?"

"Young lady," the bishop said. "Our purpose from the gods is very clear. Procreation is not an optional aspect of our society. Even if your brother is not devoted to this in thought, he has made the commitment in action."

"To be miserable?" Hannah Leigh pressed. "To make his wife miserable? To raise kids whose parents don't love each other?"

"Being miserable's fine, so long as we're numerous." The bishop nodded toward the tree of seven hands. "If our missionaries were more successful, perhaps the converted would share our burdens. Did you have a fruitful year?"

Hannah Leigh's jaw dropped. "You're blaming me?"

"You wish the obligation removed from your brother," the bishop said. "That responsibility to our creators does not just disappear. A sweet-faced missionary can bring in more worshippers from beyond the fold, and then maybe we would not have to depend on ever cuter, more compliant offspring. Based on the pitiful number of recent converts, I assume you didn't consider this."

"I'm not a bishop."

"And a bishop is nothing without a flock."

Gesturing to the statue, Hannah Leigh argued, "The gods made us smart enough to make our own choices! Why would they make us all different if they wanted us all the same?"

"Perhaps so we are smart enough to see that conformity has its benefits," the bishop said. "And life is easier to accept for those who choose to be acceptable. You did adapt when the gods made you a brunette."

Hannah Leigh closed her mouth. The bishop drummed his fingertips on the polished desk top. "There are two versions of faith in our minds," he said. "The ideal, and the reality. Ideally, the gods are benevolent, and omnipotent, and will do what is best for us before we even know what we want. The reality is that the gods have created us to be a certain way, and to fulfill a specific destiny. If we are faithful, and uphold our end of this cosmic bargain, we have a protected place in a prosperous world. We must appear like we belong in this place."

"What if we don't?" Hannah Leigh asked. "Can't we appeal to the gods for change?"

"I'm sure people have," was the muttered rebuttal. "And yet, change has not been forthcoming. We are given the same expectations, and if we meet them, the same set of benefits. Beyond that, life is...unpredictable."

Breathe. "Is that why some of us disappear?"

The bishop's fingertips scrunched into fists. "Who told you that?"

"People do," Hannah Leigh insisted, the tiniest tremor in her voice. "I knew people I do not know anymore. There's nobody here with any disabilities. We only have one skin color. We don't have any such thing as a retirement home. And as obsessed as we are with procreating, the population does not grow."

With deliberately level breath, the bishop began, "The gods have blessed us with--"

"With people never reporting crimes because no one knows what happens to criminals?" Hannah Leigh pressed. "With people choosing to suffer in silence rather than admit they're sick? We're not content, we're terrified. The only one happy to be here is you."

"Do I look happy?" The bishop stood up. "I really wish the university would stop teaching you kids how to think." He slicked the paper off the surface of the desk, slipped it into a drawer, and closed it with a decisive click. "Every fresh-faced intellectual thinks they're the first genius to notice a few cracks around the edges. Never once taking a moment to imagine how hard the church works to keep everything else in place. You think your identity has some spiritual value? That is a kind lie we tell you to make your place in the world bearable. It means nothing to the gods."

Hannah Leigh stood up from her chair. "It's the gods' will that people disappear?"

"Yes."

"Just like our founder, you have no agency?"

"Correct."

"I don't believe you!" Hannah Leigh slapped her hands down on the desk. "The gods are just your way to keep control! Your excuse to eliminate people who don't fit in! How do you choose? Do you tell them it's an honor?"

"Maybe they just schedule a meeting, come to my office, and shout out conspiracies with their handprints on my desk."

Electric silence crackled in the stifling air. Hannah Leigh lifted her hands, dull palm prints ruining the mirror shine. The bishop circled the blemished surface and opened the door, his hand sweeping out to the empty vestibule.

"We have nothing more to say. I cannot allow this blasphemy within earshot of the gods. So close to your brother's wedding, it will disappoint your parents to know you are not worthy to attend."

Hannah Leigh walked past him, fingernails digging into her fists. "If my parents let my worth be defined by your bullshit, I'll be disappointed right back."

The long hall echoed as the office door slammed.

The white pillars seemed dingy, the gold edging a little dim. Hannah Leigh had seen pictures of the temple in every home, gleaming in spotless sunlight from perpendicular borders. Identical homes full of copy-paste families, all viewing the same hilltop with well-aligned admiration. People were married here, ordained here, sworn into a lifetime of obedient service. Hannah Leigh had only ever been allowed in the front hall, not even worthy enough to see the sanctuary behind firmly closed doors.

She glanced down the empty corridor. And pushed one of the heavy doors open.

A thin sliver of light spiked across the wide plush carpet. There were no windows in the inner sanctum, only the dim glow of a hundred candles ringed around the altar. Hannah Leigh took one step inside, breathing in the smell of smoke and a strange, organic odor that she couldn't quite place. The whisper of her footfall was swallowed up by thick foam cushions, felted wool banners baffling the walls.

In the center, a gargantuan statue of the tree of seven hands towered over the room, fingertips nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling. The thick wrists bursting from the middle of the floor were incredibly detailed; each hair, each pore in lifelike definition. Hannah Leigh marveled at the scale of it, imagining she could climb up and sit quite comfortably in the palms of those hands. For the first time since creeping doubt had displaced her innocence, Hannah Leigh's heart swelled with reverent awe.

As she watched, one of the mammoth hands twitched, shifted, and curled its tree trunk fingers into an enormous, grasping fist.

A smaller hand clasped over Hannah Leigh's unborn scream. "Don't run," the bishop advised. "It attracts their attention."

Hannah Leigh backed away from the threshold, eyes bulging as she whispered, "What are they?"

The bishop closed the door. "Hungry."