“You must be glad to get out of that hospital room,” Cleve says as we walk across town.
“Ugh, yes! Actually, though, I did go for a run in a park yesterday while you were talking with the rangers. It was nice to be out and moving again,” I tell him.
“And you weren’t attacked by briar beasts?”
“No!”
“That’s an improvement.”
The Temple of Chiron is an impressively large growth/structure. I’ve seen it before, through briar beast senses, but it’s still quite a sight with human ones. Parts of it are dead and desiccated, but there are new shroom blooms around the base and vining up the sides of the ancient growth. The doors are carved out of the massive stalk itself, so they would be hard to pick out if they weren’t already flung open. We step inside, staying in the back behind the crowd of a few dozen people listening to Sal’s sermon about their daily meditation. We’ve pretty much just walked right into the sanctuary. There are doors across the way, presumably to small preparation rooms. Lighting comes from bioluminescent life coating the walls and ceiling, and there are also art displays and home-grown Chiron iconography.
Sal’s words falter for a second as the prophet notices the new members of their audience. I’m not here to steal their limelight though. We can just wait in the back until everyone else files out and then have a chat.
Ah, but it looks like discretion is not on Sal’s mind, as they work the Child of Chiron into their closing remarks. I probably should be listening more closely, but instead I’m quietly bantering with Cleve, trying to saddle him with the title Protector of Chiron.
“I don’t know about that. We’ve got to read the prophecy first, right?” he says back.
“I’ll see if I can find something for you in it,” I joke.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not in there.”
“You never know…”
Sal’s sermon wraps up, and the cultists rise from their shroom log pews. Several of them notice me and approach. When the bowing begins, I immediately object. “No. No, no, no, please don’t do that.”
“How shall we greet you, then?” one asks.
I step towards them, hand held out to shake. “Hello, I’m Mariah,” I say.
The person takes my hand, but not in a return grasp. It’s a delicate hold of my fingers, as though they would stoop to kiss a ring, were I wearing one. “Thank you,” they whisper, tilting their head down again. “Thank you so much!” For what? For letting them touch me? ¡Ay, no! The worshipfulness of this is making my skin crawl.
I extract my hand. “No, please don’t do that,” I say again. Several other people simply lay a hand on my arm or shoulder as they pass by. “Please don’t do that,” I repeat, which then turns into a more alarmed, “Don’t touch me.” I back away, but right behind me is the interior wall of the red temple mushroom, and there is no place else for me to go. I’m trapped, and things are touching me, demanding stuff from me, wanting to take more than I’m willing to give. My breath is tight in my chest, and the edges of my vision darken. When did it get so hot in here?
I didn’t agree to this. I didn’t agree to be experimented on or tied down to a table or regarded as an object. I can feel all the eyes on me—everyone is watching me—and I duck down away from it all, holding my head in my hands. I’m not exactly curled up in the fetal position, but I’m as close as I can get while standing. The murmurs continue, now people demanding to know if I’m okay and asking what they can do for me and, no, I just, I just can’t—
“I think we’re done for today,” Cleve’s firm voice announces from directly in front of me. “Make space.” With one arm, he clears aside cultists, and with the other hand, he catches hold of my shoulder and ushers me outside. “We can do this another day,” he says. “We need to get you back to the hospital.”
“No!” I object, having gotten my bearings back a bit, enough to at least form a coherent response. “She’ll just stare at me too,” I say despondently.
“Okay,” Cleve says, not needing any explanation about who she is. “Guess we’re going to a bar?”
People watching and meeting new folks, that’s always been my thing, but I need to be somewhere less crowded, without so much stimulation. I need to calm down. What is wrong with me? “How about the seashore?” I counter weakly.
“Yup, that sounds great,” Cleve agrees, never one to pass up an opportunity to spend time outside. “We’ll just go for a walk then.”