Scenes of the Future

Come nearer, you who stands among the darkening pillars of the temple.

You who has just seen a vision: the Goddess standing in her glory. You, for whom the sting of spirit still keens sharply in your breast, the freshest dew of revelation and election still damp like sweat on your brow. You who has been chosen this day.

Come nearer, and hear my words.

You have just been chosen—the immediate path seems light and easily, tread by many who have come before you. You will take this revelation to the people, tell them of all you have seen and felt. You will declare the strength of the Goddess, teach them to follow in Her ways. You will do it from the very steps of this temple, on the busy thoroughfare that leads between the market and the palace. The people will look up at you—your young face, yet unmarred by the wrinkled language of time—and they will listen. They will stop in their tracks, hear your clear declarations and testimonies, taste the vision alongside you as you recount again and again what you have seen and heard. When you exhort them to turn away from their vanities, the people will listen and be pleased that they have listened. The Goddess too will be pleased, both that you have shared her message and that the others have turned from sin.

Soon, however, the path will dim.

The people will still be interested in your second vision, and your third. They will hunger to know their future, and willing to change themselves to hear Her voice from your lips. By the fourth vision, however, they will begin to resist. They will pretend to listen at the steps of the temple, but when they return to their homes their lips will speak ill. They will meet together in shadowed rooms and argue about the meaning of things. They will not want to change in order to hear the Goddess’ voice. Your voice will no longer have the sweetness of youth, instead replaced by the wisdom of age. Soon, they will stop coming to listen to you. Those that hear you on their way to and from the market will scowl up at the temple. They will argue with you, and ask you how you can know the Goddess’ will when she has not appeared to you in several years. Eventually, they will stop arguing altogether. You will stand on the steps of the temple; you will preach of your most recent vision; none will listen; you will be alone on the steps.

The Goddess will appear again.

She will tell you that the people need you more than ever. In turning from you, they have turned from her. They no longer come to give offerings, no longer care for those in need, no longer cry out to Her for guidance but trust in their own wisdom. They follow diverging paths which appear to offer peace, but whose ends only lead to isolation.

You will tell the Goddess that you have tried.

But they will no longer listen to what you have to say.

After this latest vision, you will throw yourself back into the work. You will stand on the steps from sunrise to sunset. In the evening, you will visit the homes of the people of the city. You will dine with those whose faith is waning, you will want to help them but not know how when there are so many voices speaking against yours. How does a single hand—even one who has seen the Goddess—hold back the waters of the tide? You will ask yourself this as you stand on the steps of the temple, and as you lay on your small cot at night. You will ask the Goddess this during your prayers, when you beg to know why She has taught you all you know, and yet She will not appear to those who seem to need Her most. You will beg for an answer, and in response you will hear only the silence of the city as they pass by the temple steps.

Eventually, you will give up hope.

You will retire from the city. You will wash your hands of their selfishness and travel out into the wilderness, where you can be alone. You will sit under a single tree on the top of a mountain. The Goddess may or may not send animals to feed you. A spring will be provided, where you will sip each morning as you consider your relationship with the Goddess. You will have no visions from Her, though you will feel Her presence when you pray, which is all you will do when you are living for a decade under this tree. You will pray and weep and wish the world was different and wonder why you, why you, why you.

You will want to die.

Then, a vision will come. Of a city you once knew, once loved. You will see the individuals, and despite the passage of so great a time alone, you will know their faces. You will miss them and want to be with them again. You will remember a thing that you knew in the earliest days, after that first vision. That the work was never for the Goddess, but for them, the people of the city, to joy as they thrived and to suffer as they sinned. As the vision fades, you will cry out to the Goddess and ask Her to help you remember the love.

Naturally, She will give it to you.

You will return to the city. They will hardly recognize you, but some will smile as you pass through the gates. They will have forgotten the condemnation. They will have forgotten the arguments. They will only remember the Goddess, and your young face on the steps of the Temple. Some will follow you through the marketplace, and perhaps they will be disappointed when you climb the steps but do not stop to speak. You have come to be with them, but you will no longer give them visions. Instead, you will make your way to the back of the temple. I will have gone the way of the sand and dirt long before this, and so you will stand where I stand. You will pray for the people, and dine with them in the evening. You will keep a watchful eye on the young people who pass through the temple. You will know by the expression on their face when one of them has their first vision, and you will feel sorrow and joy. You will call out to that youth, extend an aged hand wrinkled by the language of time. You will say:

“Come nearer, you who stands among the darkening pillars of the temple.”

After that, I cannot say what will happen.

For I can no longer see the future.