I had never before thought it possible that I might lose my faith.
Indeed, on the very moment of my arrival here it was high noon exactly,
as I recall, I remember thinking I had rediscovered Heaven itself. The
sun was beaming strongly down on the streets of the city, and I had a
very real sense of the hustle and bustle, of discovery and adventure.
Even the dingy space port had seemed permeated with character and wonderment,
and insects not seen on earth buzzed around me playfully. The very name
of the place Haven carried with it the hope of something better, but also
the clear need for my ministry. I felt like a noble crusader, preaching the
good word in a land far from home. For the first time in my life, I felt
that I was needed.
The people walking the streets, the cars humming slowly along the streets: they
were my mission, and I would be their shepherd. My first breath of the air,
ripe and heavy with inconceivable, intoxicating aromas, seduced me like a
schoolboy in the arms of a woman. Scents of hyacinth, salt, and rusted steel
all told me I was finally home. It was the transcendent moment for which
all mystics yearn, that first inhalation, a moment I will never repeat: it
was ecstasy. I had only time for two more deep breaths before I had my
first regrets.
A man in a battered trench coat, with teeth nearly falling from his face, stood
outside the space port, a hand extended, welcoming me to Poseidon, his cap
tipped amiably, his smile comforting despite its hideousness. I inhaled again
as I walked to him. He gestured toward his beaten, battered car. The word
"TAXI" was printed in chipping red paint on the rusted gray door. I returned
the old man's smile and thanked him for offering his services. Taking another
breath, I placed my bags in his trunk. A moment later, I was doubled over, the
air driven from my lungs by a punch to the gut. I'll never forget it, for as
long as I live. He smiled down to me, his horrible grin hovering over me as I
lay gasping on the floor, and said, "There ain't no room for another Christ on
Poseidon, preacher-man! The only God in Haven is named Long John." He spit
something on my face, then, the bastard. I thought it was chewing tobacco, but
it was red and smelled more foul by tenfold. I saw him take my bags and leave,
and saw the people watching me and not raising a finger to help me. Some of
them laughed at me, and the others just went on about their business. My fingers
shakily reached up for my collar, then the cross I wore around my neck. For some
reason, I was not reassured by either one. I reached out to a young woman as she
passed, but felt her walk by without stopping. And then I passed out.
The sound of throbbing techno music tore me from unconsciousness. Whatever room
I was in was pitch black and smelled of grease and smoke. The smell made me nauseous.
The sound was coming from somewhere past one of the walls, and I thought I could
dimly make out the silhouette of a door, a tiny string of sodium-yellow light
pushing its way through the cracks. I stood slowly and walked over, felt a knob,
and opened the door. The light and sound nearly stunned me, but I soon gathered my
wits and sight, and found myself standing opposite a dance club, filled with frenetic
individuals, dressed in clothes made out of things that I'd have used for rewiring a
stereo or making rubber gloves . . . and their hair! Green, silver, and copper, looking
like it'd been cut with bread knives. I stumbled into the floor, looking for a place
to sit. I found the bar, and ordered something strong. I recall musing about how I
didn't know how I had gotten here. A vague confusion bubbled through my mind; I
wondered what good Samaritan had pulled me off of the dirty street. I wondered, but
I didn't care.
The gin was strong. It made me wince. When I reopened my eyes, I looked around me again,
saw people groping at each other with lust in their eyes, saw people swallow pills with
no labels and then gag and convulse. The music used words I don't think you want to hear,
and talked about killing and theft as if they were the norm. At the time that struck me
as odd.
Smugly, I watched this fantastic display of insanity, fully expecting that familiar feeling
to return the feeling that these were the very people I had come to help, to teach, and to
cherish. I waited for what seemed like hours, thinking that the next moment was the one
when I would feel needed, feel my faith. I waited and I waited. God knows I waited. And
only God knows why that feeling never came.
Eventually I turned away and took another drink. The heady Poseidon air was giving me
headaches, I thought. Or maybe it was the smoky room. A siren rang out in the dance hall,
and I asked a kid with bleached hair and leather pants what it meant. "You don't know
anything? It's midnight, man, the witching hour. What, were you raised in a cardboard
box or something?"
I was beginning to think I had been. How could a place so perfect crush a spirit so quickly?
Perhaps I was just not cut out for Haven, or for Poseidon. I looked at my watch, and saw
that it was indeed midnight exactly.
It had been twelve hours.
Yours in Christ?
Pastor John Hyrkanus
(Letter written on February 7, 2199, one week after John Hyrkanus' arrival on Poseidon.
It was never sent. John Hyrkanus' current whereabouts are unknown.)
