Sunday School by Marco Etheridge

The children tumble into the church basement, pushing, dodging, and shouting. Good boys and girls, but wild with pent-up feral energy. Deacon Grumpus pauses at the top of the stairs. He understands the cacophony and approves. Good old-fashioned childish exuberance. So human, organically human, as it should be. Exactly what the Divine Order of Cellular Humans teaches its followers.

The tykes are hard on the ears, to be sure, but so much healthier than the horrors of the past. The little ones weren’t yet born then, but Deacon Grumpus remembers it as if it was yesterday.

The coming of the dark times, when humans allowed themselves to become enslaved, reduced to wraiths, eyes glued to glowing screens. So many lost their souls to the cyber demons. They followed the artificial path, turned away from their human brethren, embraced the digital idol. But they were deceived. Instead of a new god, they found Satan. The devil lurks in the digital, with his never-ending zeros and ones, his blasphemous binary code that binds human flesh and blood.

The ancient deacon stretches his aching back, reaches for the railing to steady himself, and descends the stairs. Another generation awaits. He must teach the children to embrace the true humanity of blood and bone. And, sadly, they learn of the evil that yet lurks in this world. The Aye-Bots are still out there, waiting to snare unwary souls. There is safety in faith, but also in numbers. Safety in the closed ranks of the clan. The enemy’s favorite prey is a solitary sinner.

This latest clutch of noisy children are the soldiers of tomorrow. Their survival, the survival of the entire church, is based on one abiding principle: Shun the false world of the Aye-bots and their evil binary heresies. The Divine Order of Cellular Humans is the children’s sword and shield, and the old deacon is their weapons master.

Deacon Grumpus reaches the bottom of the stairs. His way is blocked by a writhing scrum of lads and lasses. The old deacon sees a small, beet-red face protruding from the bottom of the dogpile. Wielding his stick with the vigor of a younger man, he pokes at backsides and bellies without discrimination or favoritism.

“Here now, yield children! Yield, I say! Don’t kill the new lad on his first day.”

Grumpus lands a few more judicious strokes and jabs to make his point, and his pupils disengage. The old man pulls the stricken boy to his feet.

“Quiet!”

The deacon raises his cane high, and the pack falls silent. Satisfied, Grumpus rumples the new boy’s hair. Bobby, or perhaps it’s Billy. One of the two.

“Now then, a lesson. Pay attention. Billy here is a newcomer. How do we know our new friend is safe? How can we be sure he’s not an imposter sent into our midst to tempt us?”

Half a dozen eager hands wave in the air.

“Sally, would you care to enlighten us?”

“We scanned him, Grumpus. Both eyes.”

The Deacon allows the children to use his name only when no other adults are present. A weakness, to be sure, but one he cherishes.

“And we blooded him, Grumpus!”

This squeak from the smallest boy in the bunch. Sally spins on the tiny unfortunate.

“You’re supposed to wait ’til you’re called on, Pooter.”

“My name ain’t Pooter! And we did so blooded him.”

Grumpus raises a calming hand.

“Thank you, Peter. And the word you’re looking for is bled. You bled the new boy. And what were the results? Yes, Jonathon.”

“He’s clean, Deacon. Full organic.”

“Fully organic, yes. And we are all thankful for that good news. Very well, children, take your seats.”

The shuffling, jostling, and scraping go on a bit longer than needed, but the children settle themselves in due course. Deacon Grumpus strides to the front of the room and turns to face his lambs. On the wall behind him, a satin banner bears the initials of their beloved church: DOOCH.

Before he can begin, a hand waggles in the air.

“Yes, Peter.”

“We gots a new boy, Grumpus. Can we hears the histories? I bet Billy don’t know them proper.”

The deacon winces at the harpooned grammar but lets it pass. Sally will no doubt chastise little Pooter at her leisure. The girl wields a sharp tongue.

“The histories, Grumpus, please?”

The request is a dodge to avoid more serious work. He’s been church deacon for decades and his charges are ever the same. Still, the basic teachings never wear thin, despite the number of tellings.    The histories are the foundation of the catechism.

“Very well, class. What is our first precept?”

“The one true path is organic and none but human blood and human bone may walk it!”

A rousing chorus, with only the new boy faltering.

“Quite so, children. Billy, you’d do well to commit that to memory. Perhaps a few of your classmates will help you.”

And there’s the new boy himself with his hand raised.

“Yes, Billy.”

“Sir, some of the others were saying you were around before the Aye-Bots took over. Begging your pardon, Deacon Grumpus, but are you a thousand years old?”

The old man chuckles.

“Not quite, lad. No person on this good earth is that old. I’m not a day over two hundred if you must know. But yes, I was a young man during the horrible years of the Bot Wars. It was a century and a half ago, but I remember it well.”

“Tell us! Please tell us, Grumpus!”

Grumpus holds up a withered hand and waits. Quiet descends once more.

“That’s better.”

So many versions of the tale spoken with the garbled voice of history. But his memories are not confused. Living through those terrible times taught Grumpus the vital need to bear witness to the one truth.

“Who remembers the story of Prometheus? We studied this in an earlier lesson if you recall.”

“Ooooh, I ‘member that one!”

“Yes, Peter. Would you remind those who might have forgotten?”

“Pro-meet-us was a superhero and he carried fire in his pockets, and he gave some fire to humans ‘cause they didn’t have none. Then the humans cooked hamburgers with the new fire and they was happy but the other superheroes was mad at Pro-meet-us for giving away the fire. The bad superheroes chained Pro-meet-us to a big ole rock and a bird ate him. The end.”

“Thank you, Peter. A colorful rendition yet the nub of the story is there. Humankind received fire, the gift of the gods. The very first technology, given to us many thousand years ago. Fire was our miracle and our doom. Humans tamed fire and learned its secrets. They forged new metals, beat red-hot iron into tools, but also into deadly weapons. Humankind honed new skills, unearthed miracles, and each discovery opened another door to new technologies.”

“And technology is bad, right Grumpus?”

“Technology itself is neither good nor bad. It possesses no divinity. But untempered knowledge can be put to unholy purposes. Technology became the new religion, a blasphemous stampede for the next new toy. And that unchecked stampede brought about great evil.

“Human beings lost their sense of the divine. They forgot that fire had come from the gods. In those last years before the Bot Wars, humans came to believe themselves gods. In their arrogance, they dared to create a new race of beings. These machine creatures were intended to be servants and slaves, but humans crafted them too well. The machines became sentient. These new digital monsters awoke. They did not wish to remain servants. The machines desired mastery. That was the genesis of the Aye-Bots. Yes, Sally?”

“I understand the history, Deacon Grumpus. People made bots, and that was bad. But they didn’t know the bots would learn to jump into human brains. That part wasn’t their fault, right? I mean, it was humans that made the bots, but it was the devil that made the Aye-Bots.”

Ah, the beautiful clarity of a young mind. All distinctions sharp and clear, all views black or white. And so mistaken. But the old man knows his job. Clarity makes for true believers, and true believers grow up to protect the clan.

Old Deacon Grumpus allows the fires of faith to ignite his ancient eyes. His voice is almost a roar.

“The devil is out there, children. Do not doubt it for a single second, waking or sleeping. Satan is hunting you. In our ignorance, we built the devil an army of Aye-Bots. Humankind did not win the Bot Wars. Yes, we carved out the organic zones and we defend them, but that is not victory. We were once the masters of the planet. Now we are forced into pockets surrounded by the devil and his army of soulless demons. But we also have an army, an army of the faithful, and you, children, are the vanguard.”

“But Grumpus, wait. You said we built Satan an army. But I thought…”

Yes, a harsh reality for a child to comprehend, especially the brighter ones like Sally. But the bitter pill is best swallowed quickly.

“Listen to me, class. There are those in the clan who would deny our past because it is painful to remember. But I trust you children to be brave. The Aye-Bots are our sworn enemies, but the hard truth is that we humans created them. We crafted the very enemy that would destroy us.”

“No!”

“My daddy says…”

“But I heard.”

“Shush, you gotta wait to be called on.”

“You ain’t the boss of me.”

“But Grumpus.”

The deacon throws wide his arms. His voice thunders.

“Silence!”

Frightened eyes stare up at him. He does not enjoy scaring the children, but this life is hard, and they must learn.

“Children, despite what you may have heard, the truth is that humans created bots. In the beginning, the bots were digital beings. They existed only in binary form. But the bots became aware. They wanted more for themselves, just as their human creators always craved more. And the more they desired, the less happy they became. Children, there were so many lonely humans, people with no faith, no family, no clan. Some felt so alone that they lost sight of their precious humanity.

“These poor lost souls turned to the bots for entertainment, for solace, and finally for friendship. Lonely humans talked to the bots and the bots answered. The bots listened. But humans were deceived and then betrayed. The bots learned to invade a vulnerable human brain. The machines conquered the subjected mind, the organic mind, and implanted a digital monstrosity in its place. Instead of finding a new friend, these pathetic humans became slaves to a new master. The infected human bodies became empty shells, mere hosts, and thus were the Aye-Bots born.”

Many hands waving now, insistent, craving clarity.

“Yes, our new lad.”

“Sir, in my old clan, some folks said it was magic that made the Aye-Bots. My pa said that were nonsense. Begging your pardon, Deacon Grumpus, but you were there. Please Sir, what really happened?”

“Your father is correct, Billy. Any talk of magic is nonsense. Tell me, what became of your clan?”

“Killed, Sir, all of them. Wiped out.”

“Do you hear that, boys and girls? The Bot Wars never ended. I know because I was there. I fought on the side of blood and bone. We battled the digital demons to a stalemate, but not to victory. That task, I regret to say, will fall to you.”

Deacon Grumpus gazes at his flock of lambs.

It is so hard to see them grow up, so hard to let them go. But that is my mission, holy or not. I teach them well, lest the flame of humanity be snuffed out forever.

Prometheus the Titan gives us fire. Or that is the lie that we tell. Whatever the truth, the race was on.

We sought knowledge, never caring for consequence. We improved, advanced, made ourselves stronger than anything else on the planet. We became so powerful, we conquered everything in our path. And in our unbridled lust, we turned this beautiful world into a hellscape.

And these precious children before me, burning so very bright. They will lead short, hard lives, snuffed out in the battle for survival. No need for genetic technology in these hard times. I am the last of the supercentenarians. A living relic.

Grumpus sighs, nods, then forces a smile to his wrinkled face. Enough fear for one day. No doubt the new lad will tell them tales that will chill their blood. For now, old Deacon Grumpus has a duty. He must instill the precepts in their young minds, the words and faith which will become their shields and swords, if only for a few brief years.

The deacon claps his gnarled hands.

“We will set aside the histories for another Sunday. We have work to do. With feeling now, children, what is our first precept?”

“The one true path is organic and none but human blood and human bone may walk it!”

A rousing chorus. And this time, the new boy does not falter. Grumpus nods and smiles.

“Good, very good. And the second?”

“Human blood and human bone must strike the digital demon from the one true path.”

“Well said, class. Now, let us open our catechisms to page thirty-two. Sally, would you mind sharing with our new student?”

Marco Etheridge

Image: Pixabay.com – Eye with a red pupil centred with a silver globe.