His daughter asked, Is this the story of a hero?
"Yes. Her name is June."
They sat together in a dark room beneath a pool of calming light. She curled against him, her toothpick legs folded up, beneath one of his heavy-muscled arms. What makes her a hero?
"She accomplished a worthwhile mission against terrifying odds," he said. He lifted his arms and clasped his hands behind his ducked cranium; then raised his head straight as a soldier should, to stretch out the kinks in his shoulder muscles. He sighed; joints up there felt weary. He said, "Life can be terrifying sometimes." He watched his daughter's face for any reaction. He watched her so much, he thought she must erode from it. Then said, "But don't lose heart." More watching her; for the pleasure. "If you quit, you can't win, can you.
No? Melly's ventured guess.
------
Do not scare her.
Every scare was a sin; the only theology he any longer believed in. He gave Melly a squeeze just in case. A signal – between Mellicent, his only child, no others likely, named for some storybook character – and him. She was of an eternal age right now. Eight years old was a type of immortality, he understood. When signals from him were like thunderbolts from the safest place on heaven or earth. She giggled, sure of his unconditional love; as safe as a pebble in his grip.
"Of course you can't," he said. Pretending to be stern. "No quitting."
He wagged a finger in her face. She mouthed a soft bite back. She was never afraid of him, he realized. Exactly as he'd hoped it would all turn out between them. He intended never to scare his only child. Save that for the job. A necessary job, all things considered. He was good at it. It didn't make him proud or happy, though. She did. Just looking at her.
"Too many people quit just before they win," he argued, almost to himself. The room light was low; a shade of illumination the utility company called Woodlands Dusk. Probably she would drift off.
"It's a tragedy," he whispered. "If only, yes? You can't quit is what I'm saying. Someday, Melly," he touched her nose lightly; not to bring her back from the sleep cabinet, but to send her off in style, with a loving touch, "you may end up like June. You don't quit, okay? You come from a family of strong women. That's in you."
And strong men! Melly defended him. Her voice was sharp yet sleepy too.
So she was awake. Just her eyes were closed, behind glasses. She'd worn glasses since her 18-month birthday. Surgery could fix her sight, if you were willing to accept 99,999 out of 100,000 odds. He was not.
"Ask your mother on that topic," he said.
What did June do? Mellicent prompted.
This was good. He'd wanted an expression of interest. He could tell too it was the last; she was running out. In Mellyville, the day was almost over. The stores were closing.
"She killed Rayrex," he said matter of factly. "She ended religion as we know it." Past time, he thought, to inoculate his divine, sweet daughter against old, false gods. Never again. The ancient curse and vow. No truer words ever spoken. Where religion came into it, humans were treacherous. The word murderous leapt to mind. He would know.
------
Melly wasn't down, though, quite
yet.
Who
is Rayex?
Children
ask questions, he thought. And
then bake knives inside. We call it fatherhood
for lack of any other culinary term.
He
corrected her pronunciation first. "Rayrex," he said slowly, so she'd
cleanly hear the second R, "was what people would call the 'closer
prophet.' Like you're taking a step closer."
Rayrex,
her father explained, spoke for God and was divinely guided. So people
believed.
Do
I believe?
"You
have to decide that for yourself, Mellicent," he sidestepped. Smiled to
himself. "My sweet Melon."
Ascension
into heaven to God's side was commonly described as climbing a ladder; a tool
well known to listeners who worked olive groves. Such ladders started wide on
the ground and narrowed as they pierced skyward, into the treetops.
Rayrex
claimed he stood on that ladder one step closer to God than either Mohammed or
Jesus. On the narrower step. He proved his contention in public to the
satisfaction of learned authorities. Some few others, too stupid to see the
truth, were silenced; mostly unlamented.