Thomas Galilei Glimpses

[Thomas Galilei]

"I am sent of God to bring you a message." Thomas locks the cathedral doors behind him.

A priest steps from the confessional at the opposite end of the chamber, a sea of empty wooden pews between the two of them. Apprehensive, Father Patterson, with his white collar, glances about, uncertain, sees that they're alone. "A message? Who are you?"

Thomas' slow footfalls echo softly in the vast emptiness of the sanctuary. "I was once as you are now."

The priest shakes his head. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Yes, of course--after I hear your confession and absolve you of your sins."

"Absolve me?"

"Yes, I meant it when I said it the first time. If you listened better, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I'm calling the cops." He pulls his cell from his front pocket.

"Turn it off."

Father Patterson powers off his phone, replaces it in his pocket. "What-- How--" He fishes the crucifix from inside his collar, holds it out before him, pointing it at Thomas.

"Ah, the crucifixion: you Italians really botched that one up, huh? Roman Empire, Roman Catholic Church--same thing: overreaching self-importance, gaudy counterfeit piety . . . selfish, scheming--you know not God, and by your drivel you keep others from knowing Him." Thomas advances nose to nose with Father Patterson. "Kneel."

Father Patterson kneels. "I . . . I . . ."

"'I'--that's the problem: too much ego. Confess."

Father Patterson sobs. "I don't know . . . God, why is this happening?"

Thomas closes his eyes, raises his chin toward the stained glass ceiling. "God says you preach prosperity and happiness, 'your best life now.' He asks how a fallen world full of sinful men, separated from Him could ever prosper. He says you are a fool; that's why this is happening. Now, confess." Thomas returns his eyes to him.

"I confess . . . I am a fool?"

"Good, now repent."

"I repent, God. I . . . I promise, I won't do it anymore."

"Stand."

He stands.

"I absolve you of your sin, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Thomas crosses the air between them.

"Is . . . is that all?"

"Almost. I suggest you rethink your outlook, lest He send me again: mortal men should fear all that they do not know, and their ignorance is great. They should fly to the security of God from the darkness without, or suffer punishment."

"I understand."

"Not yet you don't." Thomas pulls an iron stake from his coat, hands it to Father Patterson.

"What's this?"

"Almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of sin. Hebrews 9:22."

"I don't understand."

"That's what this is about: inflict on yourself the stigmata, the wounds of Christ."

"I . . . no." His hand trembles. He raises the stake as if to spear it through Thomas' heart.

But Thomas holds his stare, overpowers the man's will.

Father Patterson screams as he slams the iron stake through each of his hands in turn, and then drops the bloody instrument, weeping.

Thomas kneels, paints a cross on the man's head with the blood from his hands. Then he raises the hands and drinks, drinks the blood of the priest from his self-inflicted wounds of Christ, to the sound of the mans sobs. "Peace be with you," Thomas says, finished, standing. He pulls the priest's phone from his pocket, powers it on, calls the police, and then sets the cell on a nearby pew.

"Thank . . . you--" Father Patterson manages between shuddered breaths. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Thank God." Thomas smiles, his work complete. "Sing." He turns to leave.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me . . ."

Thomas' slow footfalls echo softly in the vast emptiness of the sanctuary.

"I once was lost, but now I'm found . . . was blind, but now I see."

Thomas unlocks the cathedral doors and leaves.

[Thomas Galilei]

"Good evening, ladies." They're hardly that--teenagers: imported, prostituted . . .

"Who the fuck are you?" The simeon asking the question is Kasamir Shikov: Russian Jew; rabbi turned "premier" sex-slaver; a.k.a. dinner. He's standing behind a grill, prepping for his season's event: a barbecue and pool party. For him, it's a perfect opportunity to showcase his wares to his most prominent and wealthy clients. For Thomas, it's a perfect opportunity to send the filth of Sacramento a clear message.

"I am the wrath of God--very pleased to meet you."

Kasamir laughs, turns to his girls and encourages them via implied coercion that they should join in. And so they stand there, laughing at Thomas. "You have about ten seconds to get the fuck off my property before--"

Thomas meets the man's eyes. "Enough. Bite your tongue."

Kasamir does, he bites clear through, dropping the pink tip onto the lawn. The girls scream, until Thomas silences them, commands them to turn around; they all do.

Thomas grabs a Dixie cup from beside the hamburger buns and holds it under Kasamir's chin, catching the blood falling from his chin.

Kasamir tries to strike at Thomas, but Thomas catches his arm, breaks it, and then returns to catching blood. "You are an abomination in the eyes of God, a desecrater of His children." Thomas raises the Dixie cup to his lips, drinks the blood.

Kasamir tries saying something; it's incomprehensible. He weeps.

"The time for confession is past."

Kasamir screams something like: "What do you want from me?"

"First? Your safe code. Tell it to the girls."

He does, albeit against his will.

Thomas has the girls turn to face him. He tells them to empty the safe, to torch the mansion, to use the money to disappear.

They run.

He returns to Kasamir.

"Bath-tawt."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'bastard.' Secondly, I want a list of your clients' names. Write it; I don't want to hear you voice." Thomas finishes the blood, tosses the Dixie cup, removes the top of the grill so that the coals lie open.

Kasamir scribbles the list down, hands it to Thomas.

"Lastly, I'll have your manhood. Cut it off. Lay it on the coals as an offering to the God whom you've blashphemed." Thomas grabs a kitchen knife from between the tomatoes and onions, drops it before Kasamir.

Kasamir resists, but eventually complies. He collapsess before a black column of sizzling smoke upon the grill, shuddering in a pool of his own blood.

Thomas pockets the list; it seems he'll eat well. He cauterizes the man's vacant groin with a tiki torch. "Let no man say God is not merciful."

Thomas feeds, smiles as he leaves, the mansion burning behind him, teenage prostitutes fleeing the garage in stolen European luxury vehicles. The guests would be arriving soon. They'd been promised a barbecue, and Thomas had delivered. And he'd sent a message: he'd visit each of them--very soon.

[Thomas Galilei]

"I hate church," Thomas began. "As it has come to be: a once-a-week gathering full of glad-handing and sentimental charades, a venue for compartmentalized spirituality that sees no real results in our lives or our community." It's an empty house: four Kindred in the middle pews--one text-messaging--and another seated by the exit, prepared for the worst.

"Save that drivel for the Kine, that futility for those who are not Damned as we are, you and I. Condemnation leaves little room for pretense, does it not not?" A chuckle: Thomas' first evidence that anyone is listening, unless perhaps the text-er received a funny joke.

Thomas had brought a sermon, one he'd practiced and prayed over for hours, one that was thus neither fresh nor from his heart . . . one that he promptly proceeds to ball up and chuck at the text-er. "Put your fucking phone away." It had only been a flare of anger but, to Thomas' surprise, the man complies and--what's more--his tiny congregation leans in. Thomas removes his collar. He steps past the pulpit and takes a seat in an empty middle pew. "Let's cut the crap. The Sanctum hasn't seen any presence here in . . . I don't know. This building I bought reflects a priest's salary. I'm not as pretty as our Harpy, as charming as our Prince, or as bad-ass as our Bishop, the Reeve. Shit, I didn't even pass my priest's exam until my second try. Does that about cover our current condition?" A nod from the guy in the back--who hasn't elected to leave yet--two smiles, and two looks of confusion.

"I've got a long list of faults, but there are at least two things you won't see on it: me being a liar, half because I'm bad at it; and me being a Kindred. Someone decided to call our condition a curse; I've been looking for him for twenty years so I can kick his ass. This,"--Thomas bares his fangs--"Is not a curse--it's a calling.

You, me, we all have been empowered for a purpose: to drive those fragile little mortals, shuddering, into the arms of the Almighty; to be agents of trial upon the faithful, agents of wrath upon the faithless. And hell if it ain't hard: the Hunger, Rotschrek, Frenzy--"

"Amen." It's half a whisper, but someone is smelling what Thomas is stepping in.

"The infighting, the boredom . . . frankly, the bullshit . . ."

"Amen!" It's someone else, this time a little more sure.

"But I have to tell you my sincere belief: it's all worth it--every damned day we're shut out from the sun. And do you want to know why?"

They've leaned forward now; the guy from the back has moved up to join him.

"Because we get to know God in ways no Kine ever could. You think God hasn't shed some blood, hasn't wrestled with His own inhumanity? You think 'omnipotence' omits Dominate or Majesty? You think 'omnipresence' knows nothing of Celerity or Obfuscate? And immortality seems a lot like Requiem, doesn't it--Jesus Christ, risen from the dead? I guess I'm saying this: to be a Vampire is to be like God. That's the start of my message. I hope you'll come back for some more, and I hope you'll bring some Kindred with you. This is our humble new beginning, Sanctified. It may be a more akin to a 'Midnight Minuscule' than a 'Midnight Mass,' but God is not impressed by bullshit, by numbers, or incense, or stained glass windows--he sees through every lie we wear or speak, right to the very truth of things, and this is that truth: we're here now, and we're not going anywhere--here to do what God has called us to do, here to have each other's backs because we share the same struggle."

Applause. Agreement. No victory is too small; every soul is precious.

"Bishop Connery is the boss, and I tell you what: we couldn't ask for a better one. But he's got a lot else on his plate: Reeve, Priscus, Regent . . . Now I'm not as important as him, so I guess you guys are stuck with me. I want you to spread the word: as of right now, my door is open for confession."

Confession Mechanics

Upon confession, Kindred receive three phantom experience toward the repurchasing of lost Humanity

"On top of that, I plan to spend most nights here, swinging a hammer around before people start thinking this place is a brothel; any of you are welcome to join me in the rebuilding. Besides that, I've got nothing at the moment--but more to follow--you can bet your souls on that." Thomas crosses the air in front of him. "Now go with God, because I'm kicking you out."

@%1; Cayce Yumyumcrow Chrisie

[Thomas Galilei]

A dream: must be Jerusalem--they're speaking Hebrew Aramaic: "Crucify! Crucify!" Must be some time ago--the language is ancient, so is their petition, the torture they demand.

Sharp pain in his back . . . ripped flesh. His jaw clenches; his temples throb; his vision swims. He glances over his shoulder: centurion--leather armor, red plume, red cape, red blood dripping from the scourge in his hands . . . his blood, Thomas' blood. He is Thomas, isn't he? The Roman speaks--it's Latin: "You're not him, Thomas."

Not who? Another blow. And another. And another. He lies prostrate, the flesh of his back ruined by bloody furrows, wet and sticky. Dust clings to his sweaty chest. He rises on shaky hands . . . hands with olive skin. He doesn't have olive skin.

The crowd mocks him: "Hail, King of the Jews." They spit and curse him . . . Jesus, he's Jesus.

"You're not him, Thomas." The centurion waves a hand.

The crowd starts hurling stones. Impacts: his thigh--his leg goes numb. His ribs--his breath goes out. "Crucify! Crucify!" they chant.

Jesus took the beating. It was God's purpose for him. He was obedient unto death . . . Thomas is not him. He catches a stone hurled at his head, chucks it back caving the throwers face. The stones start bouncing off. He feels no pain. He snatches another stone from the air, runs up and cracks a mocker's skull.

Clouds obscure the sun. The sky goes black. They would not kill this Son of God. Thomas' purpose is altogether different: he would be obedient unto their deaths--every blaspheming sycophant, every fickle traitorous son of a harlot. God would be their only refuge from Thomas Galilei. "Run!" Thomas commands them; they flee in droves. "Run for your fucking souls!" They scutter to their temples to pray, to escape his righteous fury in the arms of their Maker.

The centurion swings his scourge. Thomas catches it; it wraps around his wrist, cuts into his skin. He uses it to pull the centurion in, sinks his teeth into the centurion's neck, drains him of every sweet drop of lifeblood before kicking his dead corpse. "Amen," Thomas says.

The clouds part. A voice: "This is my Son whom I love; with him I am well pleased."

Thomas wakes, wielding a scourge made of his own blood. He falls to his knees with nothing to say but, "Yes, LORD," over and over again.

[Thomas Galilei]

Thomas greets the woman at the Intensive Care Unit's front desk. She welcomes him back, asks if he's there again to perform last rites or to take confession. "Here to prey," he tells here, though in speech she can't tell "pray" from "prey."

He follows the white-lit white floors and white walls, past the burn unit, to the little chapel at the end of the hall. He isn't surprised when he sees her there inside: Tabitha Greene. He isn't surprised because she prays there every night between shifts. She doesn't hear him enter, because he doesn't want her to. He eavesdrops on her prayer.

" . . . and for little Jenny Wertz to come out of her coma--please, God--she's so young. What did she ever do to deserve this at five years old? Take me instead if you want . . . I know it doesn't work like that, but . . . it could if you wanted to . . ."

Thomas swallows, moved by the old nurse's display of piety: she didn't know he was listening; he could learn a thing about prayer from her. This is the part of his commission he hates the most: trials for the faithful. Like Tabitha, he can understand what ills need befall the wicked . . . but to feed from Tabitha . . . His objection is the same as hers for little Jenny Wertz. Alas, faith does not ask 'why'; it simply does.

Thomas steels himself and then speaks. "Remain kneeling, Tabitha. Do not open your eyes or turn around." She startles, but complies. "Do not turn, lest like Lot's wife you become a pillar of salt."

"Who are you?" Her voice waivers, but not her conviction. "What do you want from me?"

"I am come in answer to your prayer."

"You . . . you're an angel of the Lord?"

Thomas doesn't answer. "Do you mean what you offer, your life for hers?"

She thinks a moment, before answering in the positive.

"And what if it were God's will that it be so, that Jenny should fall sicker and descend into death? Would you still wish against it?"

She sobs, but answers, "Yes."

"Wrong answer, Tabitha." Was it? "Who are you to know the mind of God? Remember Job? What answer does God give for his unwarranted suffering?

"None," she answers meekly. "He . . . berates him with questions."

Indeed . . . as Thomas is doing to her now. "Suffering is not without purpose . . . it builds character, keeps focus, teaches . . ." His words feel hollow in light of the sick child. He half-feels like he's trying to convince himself.

"What, then, should I pray?"

Thomas stops. He'd thought he was trying her faith . . . but it seemed that God meant that they should try each other's. "You should . . . be as you are--on your knees. If her suffering drives you to the arms of God, then thank Him for it. Seek out his purpose in it, so that it isn't wasted . . . so that it need not be repeated. And . . . thank him . . . for what evils the young girl will be spared."

"I . . . hate it . . . I hate it."

"Faith would not be faith if you always liked what it dictated. It would be pleasure."

"I'll . . . try."

Thomas vows to do so too, quietly to himself. He stoops beside her, pulls down her collar, and feeds. And he hates it . . . hates it.

He kisses her head before he turns to leave.

Jenny Wertz died that night.

And Thomas found Tabitha there the next night, praying as she always did--still trying as she'd promised . . . and inspired Thomas to do.

[Thomas Galilei]

It burns, not the fire--though it does--but his Pride . . . like an engine, driving him toward stupidity.

Faith is silent. He'd poured the gasoline, lit the match, torched his Haven . . . all in the name of obedience. Somewhere, an angelic choir sings Carmina Burana's O Fortuna--he can hear it.

His temples throb. He grates his teeth. This is a win, he tells himself. Better your own hand than theirs. Better this Haven than the Church. But better than bad doesn't mean good. A sorry consolation for the weak.

They're there, behind him somewhere: Redfill, French. He doesn't give them the pleasure of turning round, letting them see his pain. Was this the city's way of rejecting him, his message? Perhaps he should seize their minds, walk them into the heart of the flames? His will had been as much as seized; they'd left him with no rational choice.

  Frenzy Check

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2014-10-23 12:05:00		Thomas Galilei rolls 5 to Frenzy Check: 2 (Resolve) + 3 (Composure) = 5 DP (10 Again)		2, 1, 4, 3, 9		1 success

Perhaps he should abandon his Faith, toss his collar onto the pyre? It's been more a burden recently than a source of strength.

The fire crackles, like the mandibles of a thousand insects, warmth washing over his face. Fire: that first gift of Prometheus, man's most valuable tool, lost to him forever lest it be his death. A source of light and comfort, now his supreme physical fear, just like every other animal. Perhaps he should run screaming? At least he would get to scream.

  Frenzy Check (Fear)

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2014-10-23 12:05:21		Thomas Galilei rolls 5 to Frenzy Check: 2 (Resolve) + 3 (Composure) = 5 DP (10 Again)		4, 2, 5, 10, 3, 9		2 successes

No, he can't do even that. His animal instincts are all lost to him, both fight and flight. He's left to stand and watch, beside a stack of suits he'd taken from the building. He learns what hatred is, buries it. Despair reigns. It's a dark day for Thomas' soul. Best case scenario: it's only that--a day. Worst? Something's breaks inside him--the darkness stays, and he joins the thong of villainous Priests--History's, Requiem's. Either way he's a heretic: either to his Beast by being a Priest, or to his Soul by letting it blacken like the flitting ashes of his dreams . . . dancing the warm tides of air around him. Had he turned his house to an image of Hell? Or was Hell becoming his home? No matter. The deed is done.

He stares. The flames are his obedience, his penance, his seed of discontent; his rage, his shame . . . his spirit spent.

He isn't happy, doesn't care, doesn't pray. He stares at fire, silently saying "hello" or "goodbye."

[Thomas Galilei]

Not every feeding is righteous. Sometimes, he's not even hungry; he's just empty, wanting to hurl anything into the void within himself, in some frenzied attempt to fill it: activity, devotion . . . Vitae. Now is one of those times.

God's eternal silence makes it worse--worst; for what can be worse than unreciprocated passion? No matter, Thomas' passion finds a new outlet. To the oblivious many about him, brushing by, he's just another warm body. But they're even wrong about that.

He reads the living moving menu of passersby: businessman, artist, jogger. He settles upon a college student: young woman, athlete by the looks of it. He forms no lies about her, no inner narrative to justify his appetite. What he wants . . . needs . . . is a thoughtless carnal indulgence.

He follows her: sidewalks, crosswalks--an hour in, she sees him, decides to lose him in an alley. Stupid girl. Maybe her parents can get a tuition reimbursement?

As he nears the corner at the entrance of the alley, he learns another predator has beat him to the chase. He hears her cries as the man seizes her, thrusts her to the ground, tears at her clothing. Without thought, Thomas is upon the man, sinks his teeth deep into the man's neck, preys upon the predator, and then casts him aside like the trash he is.

"Thank you," the girl says, gaining her feet. "For saving me."

Saving? Thomas can't escape the white collar, loathes the irony. As a Kindred, he is bound to be a Priest. As a Priest, he is bound to be a failure. He takes her by the ponytail, reveals her throat by pulling her hair back, and feels the warm red froth upon his face, tastes its sweet course down his throat. He tosses her beside the other, begins to walk away, takes bets on who'll wake up first and what'll happen then . . . stops, turns, returns . . .

He lifts her in his arms and takes her some place else, not to save her . . . but because he wants to, wishes someone could do the same for him. Not to save her.

[Thomas Galilei]

Leave it to the Kine to get Christmas all wrong. God came down as an infant child; they find for themselves a fat old man, a burglar with a pension for cookies and red sweaters--mall men that fondle children on their laps. Thomas had watched one such "mall Santa" since entering the back of the line. Now he was at the front. "Next," Santa called. Thomas steps forward, smiles.

"Ho ho ho." Thomas can smell the liquor on the man's breath: peppermint Schnapps.

A blonde college student wearing elf ears readies her camera. Who needs wise men and angelic hosts when you have enslaved toy makers sans ear lobes and flying reindeer?

"No pictures, please." Fucking Hallmark. Thomas plants his ass on the fat man's knee.

Chuckles from the crowd. Even Santa flushes.

"Uh . . .*cough*, why don't you tell Santa what, uh, you want for Christmas young . . . er, mister . . . you?"

Thomas whispers in Santa's ear.

Santa listens and nods, looks out at the crowd of children and their parents, begins to see what Thomas sees: mislead sheep without a proper sense of reverence, of fear. They think they're the consumers, what with their American Express cards and shopping bags. They needed a reminder that they were prey, that winter was a season of death.

Thomas rises from Santa's knee, "asks" the blonde to borrow her camera.

Santa steps down from his throne, hushes the crowd.

They lean forward with smiling faces to hear what the jolly saint has to say.

The saint turns prophet, becomes Thomas' mouthpiece. "Listen to me, you spoiled brats and you sentimental materialists who spawned them." Santa tears off his fake beard. "Enough of your holiday drivel and meaningless coming and goings. I am the voice of God calling you to account! If you knew what you didn't, you'd spend every second of your parasitic lives on your knees, begging God not to feed you and your loved ones to the darkness."

Mothers cover their children's ears. Jaws drops. Tears well. Thomas snaps photos.

"Don't worry. You'll have your chance to beg. The darkness has your number. And before your lives are through, you will flee to either God's holy light or hell's bright fires just to escape it--bet your soul on it." Santa spits. "Merry Fucking Christmas."

Santa steps down. Now, the tears are flowing. Heads shake. Eyes are wide with horror. They had been fools before. Now they had been warned.

As security escorts Santa from the premises, Thomas follows. He wonders if his blood will taste of peppermint Schnapps. "Ho ho ho."

[Thomas Galilei]

Lucid? Hardly, else a dream would not be what it is: fragments of memory reassembled with the glue of imagination; clarity through abstraction, orchestrated, perhaps, by our smarter subconsciousness--or, perhaps, by the whispers of God. Prophets and seers let slip their minds from clumsy physicality to mingle with the immense and spiritual. Maybe when he gets it, he can leave, these cold dark cycles . . . are they some encoded torture for his edification? Here, now, another lap around this wicked carousel.

Iraq. He's a prisoner all over again. What day is it? The desert sun is always hot. Sun? His heart races with fear . . . to no avail. Is he Kine, or free, perhaps from day curse? Pounding at the door. His captors, no doubt, always with the same mantra, an imperative: deny. But Thomas knows better than others what life on Earth is about: suffering. And what is this but that? The pain, it works away his weakness . . . makes him . . . holy, yes. That's the secret that they'll never know. They come each day with ill intent, with threats, and bodily harm. But Thomas, he likes it. It makes him more like God.

What's this? The door opens. Redfill? Emma French? This can't be. He's dreaming. He must be dreaming. "Burn your church," they say, only their voices aren't their own--they're many, a multitude. Through the door, Thomas sees his Haven in flames. But the church stands, and . . . he's in it? What? A moment ago he'd been in his cell, and . . . Josephine? She's naked. Wait, he's naked too. They kiss. It's bliss. It's heresy. He's a priest. That's a secret that can't be kept from God. He likes it, Thomas, in his mind . . . he wants her. He wants it all. Cleanliness. Filthiness. He wants both without contradiction, and he wants contradiction too. They separate and, as he gazes into her eyes, they go angry.

A hiss, the sound of burning brand on flesh. She screams. She's clawing, biting him. He's bleeding. The pain . . . he can't stay conscious, but he can't let--

He opens his eyes. She's gone. Like all the faithful cadre in the prison camp. His blood flows from his hands, his feet, his side . . . stigmata--the wounds of Christ, God's son, God's self. The punishment, Thomas' punishment, it's the same. God crushes whom he loves, crushes them until they're dust . . . until they're ash . . . and even this is mercy; Thomas deserves much worse. How else to know God but to suffer as He suffered? The pain--Thomas likes it. He savors the cold and dark, savors the void, as all was before God created the universe. That empty black--that's what God saw. That's what Thomas sees again. Create: it's his new imperative. Speak light into the darkness, yes . . .

Dreaming. He must be dreaming. But how did it come to be so, and how long ago? Lucid? Hardly, else a dream would not be what it is . . .

[Thomas Galilei]

Suboptimal: fresh from torpor with only hours before Court, one where his friend is fated to fight to the death.

Vitae: he needs some, as much as he needs the time it would take him to get some.

He hails a cab. Cabbie asks him where he wants to go, and Thomas tells him. It's the only place he ever wants to go: church, his church. The one he shares with his imperiled friend. The cabbie drives.

Silence: his thoughts consume all the energy words would need. What is the greater sin? Failing to prevent the Monomancy? The Pride of believing he could have? The desire to stop it after it's been set? The weakness of lacking the power or position to guarantee he could stop it? A dead friend?

None of this would have happened if he hadn't botched Josephine's ceremony. False assumption? Perhaps it was inevitable? Erim would still have been Erim. And Baldwin would still have been Baldwin. He wonders if his friends sees serpents approaching, if he hears their hisses echo in his mind.

It seems Thomas can offer God nothing without tainting it with his dirty hands. Josephine's induction. Erim's conversion. Erim had seen the light, glimpsed it maybe. And, in time, who knows what might have happened. Who knows what might happen yet?

Thomas hands the cabbie a twenty.

What does God want from Thomas Galilei in this?

"Change?" the cabbie asks.

Change. Is that what God wants? How?

The cabbie holds a fist full of singles through the sliding plastic divider between them.

In his hunger, Thomas hones in on a vein on the cabbie's wrist. It beats like a drum in his ear. The answer to how: God provides.