Birthright

The old man closed his eyes and lay motionless for a number of minutes, and Mihal opened one of his

books and began reading aloud. It was a prayer of penitence. “I hope you're doing that for your own benefit,” said Rodat, reopening his eyes. “I don't mind being kept awake, but I'll be damned if I'll let you beg God to pardon me.” “You may be damned if I don't,” said Mihal. “Please allow me to aid you in the only way I know. Your soul may not matter to you, but it's vitally important to me.” “Why?” rasped the old man. “Yours couldn't matter less to me.” “Because I entered the priesthood to serve people,” said Mihal. “That is my only goal in life, and my greatest pleasure.” “Then I feel even sorrier for you than you do for me.” He closed his eyes again, and soon his breathing, although weak, became regular.

Per Mihal sighed. It seemed so futile, sitting here with a man who wanted nothing that he had to offer, and yet that made the offering no less important. He wondered, as he sat and stared at the dying man, why religion was having such difficulty in reestablishing itself after a six-millennium hiatus. Originally it had died off because it tended to pile dogma atop dogma, pyramiding them up to the sky. Then, as Man learned to live in the air and beneath the sea, as he controlled first his environment and then his destiny, more and more of the dogmas fell by the wayside. The basic laws of religion began eroding, and when Man finally reached the stars and performed acts that religion had reserved only for God, it spelled the temporary end of religion. But religion was more than just a series of dogmas and rituals; it was a means to comfort the oppressed with the promise of a day of judgment when all wrongs would be righted and all losers made over into winners. Man didn't need that comfort when he ruled the galaxy, but now he was a loser once again.

But this time, reflected Mihal, Man didn't grab for the bait as readily. He was willing to worship God, but on his own terms, not God's. Mihal had seen many things in his brief life: poverty, lust, greed, pride, fury, resignation, nobility. The one thing he hadn't seen, outside the cloistered walls where he took his training, was a single Man who felt any need or desire to ask God to forgive the race for what it had done. Love, devotion, and worship were all parts of Man's spiritual makeup; apology, it seemed, was not. And yet, did that make him any the less worthy of salvation? After all, Man was what he was, an animal that would always remain true to his nature. And since God had provided him with that nature, surely there must be a purpose to it. And what God created and gave purpose to, God must love. Mihal disdained ivory towers, but he was an idealist nonetheless, and his job was to bring comfort to God's downtrodden children. If they didn't particularly want that comfort, that just made his job all the more challenging.

He became aware of a sound behind him, and turned to see a girl of sixteen or seventeen standing in the doorway, a woven basket in her hands.

“Is he dead yet?” she asked.

“My God, what a callous question!” said Mihal.