Stalking and the Glory of God

A hot wind rushes through the streets of Ēnnuh; it picks up dust nestled between the pebbles in the streetside succulent beds and blows it right into Tamar’s face.  She closes her eyes, trying to shield herself—and almost immediately bumps into someone walking down the same cobblestone.  Closing her eyes wasn’t the best idea.

Tamar, it turns out, is very good at bad ideas.

Still, there’s too flaming much dust to keep her eyes fully open, so she decides to take the halfway-safe middle ground of just squinting.  That’s enough to just barely make out the shadowy forms of pedestrians, buildings, and a pinyon pine that she’d probably have bumped into already if her eyes were still closed.

“Keep it together, Tamar,” she mutters—right before a motorcycle barrels down the street.  Of course.  Of course.  It’s the one really windy day this week, and the day bringing sunglasses didn’t occur to her.  And her ways of working around that are looking more and more like a way to get herself killed.

Good thing she feels cool air to her right, then.  She turns to check it out: the doors into a store are opening. A good place to get out of the wind and heat, and maybe buy some proper eye protection while she’s at it.

There’s an entrance hall just through the doors, with warm-glowing lights.  Tamar’s always thought these things an odd formality, the space between the two sets of doors not having much use that she can see.  

Today, though, she’s glad for this fancy, carpeted space—because it happens to have a mirror.  And, fire and flames, her hair is a mess.  She sighs, giving her dark hair a quick finger-comb so it’s only sticking out most directions instead of every direction, and then tries to rub the dust from her eyes.  There.  That’s better, ish.

Now that she looks vaguely presentable, Tamar makes her way into the store proper.  She emerges into the shoe section; there are something like ten full rows of shoe displays and stacks to either side of her, selling everything from absurdly fancy sandals to heels that it probably shouldn’t be physically possible to walk in.  No thanks, Tamar thinks, and—glancing at some directions written on signs hanging from the ceiling—takes a left and a right to the accessories section.

Mostly what she sees here are cases of expensive jewelry, and spinning displays of other jewelry that is presumably cheaper, and thus able to be touched by the hands of a mere mortal.  Not that they’d let an angel touch the more expensive jewelry for free either, of course. Plastered onto the front of one of the cases is some kind of promotional image of two people wearing way too many shiny things. One’s even a demon, as though to say, even a demon can’t help but indulge in what this shop’s got to offer.

But Tamar isn’t here for jewelry.  She’d headed to the accessory section to track down some sunglasses.  She surveys the area around her, but all she really notices is the lingerie display on the wall nearest her, the traveling robe display on the next nearest wall, and a sock display a few paces to her front.

Tamar starts walking in a random direction, figuring that if she canvasses the entire store, eventually she’ll find sunglasses.  She walks past a rack displaying chocolates—who knew this place even sold those?—and finds herself in the purse section.  She’s not alone; another woman is browsing in here, picking up a brown purse, examining it, setting it down, turning—

Oh my God, Tamar thinks.  That woman looking at purses—she.  She.  Her mouth.  Her mouth glows with fire; she exhales light.  Bright light.  Like, burned by the fires of God light.  She’s one of the Holy—out shopping.

Tamar wrenches her gaze away, retreats behind the chocolate rack to try to stop herself from staring.  That’s a Holy, a Burned One, someone who has directly experienced God Themself and been forever changed by it.  They’re not so rare, she reminds herself.  Yet, she can’t think of a time she’s ever seen one in person.  She assumes the places a high school student regularly goes wouldn’t be interesting enough to attract one of the Holy.  Except, apparently, this one, who appears to be—Tamar still can’t get over this—out shopping.

She tries to catch her breath and figure this out.  That woman, it was her mouth that was her price for what she did, right?  Thinking this, Tamar can’t help but turn and peek her head out from behind the chocolate display.  The woman’s still there, looking at purses.  Her mouth still glows, the flame she breathes from it somewhere between orange and white.

Tamar ducks back.  Right, yes, it is her mouth.  Okay, Tamar thinks.  What does that mean? If it’s her tongue that’s been burned away, that means this woman has spoken one of God’s names, right?  And having done that, she’d never be able to speak again.

She closes her eyes and thinks about the color of that fire, the intensity.  She’s never understood before why the Holy pay the price they do.  To touch the glory of God is to be unable to ever touch anything else again: that’s the phrase Tamar’s heard since primary school, describing why the Holy are the way they are.  It makes her think of the feeling of awe.  Or fear.  Or curiosity.  The difference between those emotions seems to blur when one approaches Them, like the air blurs in the fire of this Holy’s breath.

Flame it, Tamar wants another look.

She moves back out from behind the stand, taking a long look as she does so.  The Holy is in profile: her mouth closed, keeping the fire in, only a faint glow around her lips.  Then she starts to turn her head, and Tamar bolts. She tries to do it casually, well what is causal really, is it normal, okay she can just walk normally, wait is normal slow or fast, Tamar isn’t sure, but anyway she’s walking down the faux-marble path through the store, trying so hard not to glance at the Holy, keeping her eyes straight ahead, but God she’s never paid quite this much attention to her peripheral vision before.

Tamar walks right on into a circular rack of shirts and forces herself to start sifting through them like a normal person.  Breathe, Tamar, she thinks.  It’s rude to stare.  But somehow she never knew the Holy were this fascinating before, even though that should have been obvious, of course people who touched God Themself would be interesting. But maybe it’s one of those things where you hear about something a lot, and it’s just a thing, and you don’t care.  Like how she’s never climbed Point Rock, even though she’s lived in this city her whole life—probably because she’s lived in this city her whole life.  It’s just always there in Oldtown, and she’s never bothered to climb it, even though every tourist does in their first week here.  The Holy are like that, Tamar thinks.

She figures enough time has passed to let her see if she can catch another glimpse of the Holy.  But she turns, and the Holy is gone.  

Maybe it’s the angle, Tamar thinks, hoping fervently that she’ll be able to see her again.  With the kind of confidence that comes from desperation, Tamar heads into the purse section.

But the only person here now is a sharply-dressed man who is most certainly not a Holy.  Tamar sighs, and tries to scan the store—maybe the Holy is in a checkout line?  She almost laughs at how funny that is even to think, but then catches herself: the Holy have whole lives outside of turning up in odd locations or having conversations with fascinated journalists, they have jobs, albeit usually weird ones, why wouldn’t they be in checkout lines sometimes? Though even then she has an easier time imagining them shoplifting than shopping.

She rushes over to the checkout, no longer worried about how casual she seems.  But the Holy is not there.  Maybe, Tamar thinks, if she’d just turned around earlier and looked … but no, regrets won’t get her anywhere.

So Tamar runs through the store, looking at the ceiling signs, trying to get her bearings.   It’s probably pointless—the Holy’s probably already left—but she has to at least try.

But again, when she reaches the checkout on the other side of the store, the Holy is not there.

“Flames,” Tamar curses under her breath, aware of the irony of doing so.  And then she happens to glance to the side, and finds herself looking right at the sunglasses section.  Of course.

* * *

Tamar doesn’t stop thinking about the Holy for the rest of the day.  Even when she kicks off her shoes and eats some of that incredible fruit soup her parents love making, she’s still thinking about her.  About the Holy in general, as a concept.  About seeing one again.  Some thoughts half-resembling a plan start to form, but with them come what probably qualify as some ethical questions.

The types of ethical questions she might get lectured about if she didn’t bring them up first.

So when dinner is done and Tamar excuses herself from the table, hoping her parents don’t notice anything too suspicious about her, she retreats to her room.  Because in her room, she has a telephone.

It’s nothing too fancy: one of the older models that only connects to the city’s own system, so she can’t call anyone from outside Ēnnuh.  Then again, she’s rarely ever needed to, and when she feels like talking to her aunt off in Havilah, she can just use one of the library’s more modern phones.

Still, even a non-fancy phone in her room is nice.  Even better, her friend Elīya also has a personal phone in her room, meaning privacy on both ends.  And Elīya’s really good at moral quandaries.  Distressingly good, even.

So Tamar quick-selects Elīya’s personal phone from the Ēnnuh city phone registry, and puts the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?” Elīya says on the other end.

“Hello!” Tamar responds.

“There’s no school tomorrow, right?” Elīya asks.  Though she’s great at reasoning her way out of a difficult situation—hence her skill with ethics—Elīya’s memory never ceases to amaze Tamar in its awfulness.

“No, no school tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sixthday…”

“Right.”

“Actually, I kind of called to ask you something,” Tamar says.

“Aw, not even gonna ask me how my day went?”

Tamar has to mentally admit, Elīya does have a point—even though they did just see each other in class no more than six hours ago.  “That… might be the correct thing to do, now that you mention it, yeah.  So, how was it?”

“Fine,” Elīya says.

“Wow, that was a lot of buildup for nothing,” Tamar says.

“You know what they say, always try to instill good habits in your friends.”

“I’m not sure that’s actually what they say,” Tamar says, and can almost hear Elīya shrug across the line.  “But… something interesting happened, on my end, and I’m kind of planning something that I’m pretty sure isn’t technically criminal—”

“Excuse me?” Elīya asks.

“I should probably start from the beginning.”

“Yeah you should.”

“So it was really windy and dust was getting in my eyes and I forgot my sunglasses so I went into a department store to get another pair of sunglasses and to not die—”

“How come everything with you is always either ‘I almost died’ or ‘I figured out how not to die’?” Elīya asks.

“Life is a dangerous place. Besides, I only fell down the stairs twice this month…”

“Good for you,” Elīya says.  “Though what would be even better is not doing that criminal thing you were talking about.”

“Hey, I said it wasn’t criminal.  And I haven’t even told you what it is yet!”

“Then please, go on.”

“So anyway I saw one of the Holy there shopping for a purse,” Tamar says, infusing her words with dramatically-appropriate nonchalance.

“You what now.”

“That’s what I thought, that that made no sense, but… it happened.  She was there.  Her mouth was mostly fire and…” Tamar lets herself trail off, aware she’s not doing a good job at keeping the tremor of intensity out of her voice.

“Someone who was burned by speaking a name of God was shopping for purses,” Elīya says.

“Guess so,” Tamar says.  “But Elīya, it was… she was… I don’t know.  I mean, I’ve seen pictures and all, recordings… but her mouth.  I know I’m not making sense but like, just, you don’t see people whose mouths are still like, glowing… with the burn… I mean, like, she did something sacred, and she’s still burning?  And I knew that, but, I just couldn’t stop looking.”

“Uh-huh?” Elīya says, with that bemused tone that means she’s waiting for Tamar to dig herself out of admitting to staring rudely at someone.

“Well, then she left while I was trying to pretend I wasn’t looking.”

“The only thing stopping me from teasing you about having a crush is my concern for your moral sense,” Elīya says, deadpan.

“Then it’s probably good that your concern for my morals is only going to get worse,” Tamar says.  When Elīya doesn’t respond, she continues.  “So I kind of really want to see one of the Holy again.”

“Uh huh…?”

“And, like.  That’s kind of like stalking, I think, even though it’s not the same person?  Or probably wouldn’t be?  But like.  Also.  If the Holy I saw did like, publicly show up somewhere else, I’d definitely… spend some time looking at her… so like, I think my intent is basically stalking.”

“Aww,” Elīya says, “look at you, coming up with moral concerns all on your own.”

“This is what I get for being friends with you.”

“So, do you have a more specific plan I can pick apart?”

“…No, honestly, I don’t even really know where to find a Holy.”

“Now, I can’t ask you to do research,” Elīya says, “because without a clear moral judgment, that may qualify as purposefully inspiring you to do or at least strongly consider immoral behavior.  On the other hand, I can only judge so far if I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing.”

“Maybe there’s some public event, or something, where one might show up, and I could just…” stare at them, Tamar continues in her head, but that sounds strange to admit aloud.  It seems silly at best to want so much to just look at the price of one of the Holy, and yet, here she is.

“Doesn’t the bookstore have a deba–“ Elīya starts asking, then catches herself.  “Oh flame and fire,” she curses, “I may be providing you impetus for poor action.  Flame it, now I have to think about whether the intent automatically makes whatever you’re going to do bad, because if it is, I might be implicated in all this…”

Tamar still has no idea how Elīya can worry this much about moral matters, in this kind of detail.

“So, essentially, what you want to do is just look at one of the Holy for a good, long while,” Elīya says, halfway between a mutter and real speech.  “Now, this typically might be considered a subcategory of stalking if it were a specific person.  However, if you aren’t following anyone, it certainly isn’t stalking under the law.  Not that the law has absolute moral authority.  Which brings us to the point of where moral authority comes from, which is relevant here, because if it has to do with what each individual wants—consents to, perhaps—then it may be true enough that a Holy, and especially one at a bookstore debate, would want to be seen, thus making it not an immoral type of staring, if you’re just there to stare—”

“Elīya,” Tamar says.

“Just thinking aloud,” Elīya says.  “This is a really interesting moral quandary, and I might have to get back to you on this—that is, if I can trust that you won’t just go ahead and do something anyway in the meanwhile.  Which I really can’t.”

Tamar can’t help but think that Elīya knows her all too well.

“…Well, most people probably would consider it to be less moral overall if you were sexually attracted to Holies, because that tends to make things more personal, especially things like stalking.” Elīya pauses.  “So, are you?”

“Not that I know of?” Tamar says, although she hasn’t been having the easiest of times categorizing what exactly her experience earlier today was, and what her interest is.

“That helps, I think,” Elīya says.  “Also, there is a provision in certain moral codes that acts and decisions before the age of majority count less overall, and as we are sixteen, you could treat this as a learning experience, perhaps.”

And by bringing that up, Tamar thinks, she gets to exonerate herself from the possibility of spurring Tamar to ‘immoral action’.

“If you were to do what you’re thinking of,” Elīya continues, “you would have to report back to me on any feelings of guilt, and your overall moral sense of the experience.  After all, it sounds like you have a little bit of morality these days, from my influence, so you should be able to handle that.”

Tamar raises an eyebrow, though Elīya can’t see it over the phone. “Impressive bending of moral codes.”

“I am just stating the possibilities. And this is morally appropriate enough.”

Then again, Tamar thinks, given the sheer number of moral codes and beliefs out there, one would probably have to bend them around in order to get anything done.  

“Debate, huh?”

“I can’t tell you what day it’s happening,” Elīya says.

“Elīya,” Tamar says, “can you even tell me what day today is?”

“…Well, I think there’s no school tomorrow, so maybe it’s Sixthday?”

And yet Elīya gets high marks in all of her classes, while Tamar so much as passing is something worth celebrating.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Elīya presses.

“Not really. See you Firstday, if nothing else?”

“Yup,” Elīya says.

Tamar hangs up, suddenly filled with nervousness. She’s going to go somewhere and stare at a Holy for something like a full hour.

God, what is even wrong with her?

* * *

The stars are fading into the glow of the dying night when Tamar steps out of the house that next morning.  Elīya doesn’t understand it, and neither does her other best friend Yenatru, even though at least he’s more outdoorsy, but Tamar’s always liked this time of day.  She just feels so awake when she’s kind of horribly tired.  And seeing the sunrise somehow gives her energy for the rest of the day.

Of course, now that she’s been thinking about the Holy nonstop for something like sixteen hours, she can’t help but wonder if her love of the sunrise has to do, somehow, with God.

It could also just be that the city’s gorgeous at dawn: the blue light makes the many patches of planted green in the city seem more vibrant.  Ēnnuh is already a lush place in the desert, a tall and well-sheltered garden of skyscrapers and hanging plants, unlike the more famous city of Eden carved out directly on the sharp, rocky desert plain, which Tamar’s never seen except in photographs and moving pictures—but at dawn, it’s more so.  Shadows aren’t a problem either: most houses are lined with lanterns that somehow complement the stars without competing with them.  And being a little cold is actually nice when Tamar’s hot for most of the day. Not that she usually minds being hot—but the open desert stretching outside the outskirts of Ēnnuh has a better kind of heat to her, which is why she spends as much time exploring on her motorcycle out there as she can.

But she was too distracted yesterday to charge her batteries over the afternoon before the sun set, and now they’re completely dead. At least it’s an easy walk to Hightown. Even if she prefers how, on her motorcycle, she can whisk herself anywhere at a moment’s impulse.

So she turns right, toward the sunrise—and toward the morning star, that not-star that Lucifer made for no clear reason—and begins walking.

“The” bookstore is just one of several in Ēnnuh, but it was clear last night which one Elīya was talking about.  The Ancient Regent stands out above the others both because it’s one of the largest in the city, and because it’s right where Hightown meets Tamar’s own neighborhood, Olive Heights.

It’s convenient that it happens to be to the east, because this way Tamar gets to watch the sky light up more and more on the horizon, the one pitiful cloud in the sky turning a bright pink to signal the coming sun.  The stone buildings common to Ēnnuh block a direct view of the horizon, but the change in colors and the softly blinking stars are still nice companions as Tamar walks to the bookstore.

She spends most of the walk just enjoying the colors of the sky, and the way they play off the cobblestone, the leaves of succulents, the massive stems of cacti, and the occasional pine.  The riverfront buildings past Hightown—the ones in Downtown—reach into the sky, as if they’re trying to make the sunrise better.  And in fact, they do: the Zillah building’s blue-tinted windows reflect the sun in slightly different colors as it begins to come above the horizon, and a bright shine off the radio antenna of Adah tower is visible before the sun itself is.

And then, with the sky fully blue, Tamar is in front of the bookstore.  It’s just opened, but Tamar doesn’t need to go inside to find a flyer for the debate.  There’s one right on the door.

“Flinging Yourself into the Fiery Pit of Heaven: Yay or Nay?” reads the top of the flyer, dramatically.  It’s typical bookstore debate fare, although with three participants instead of the usual two.  The participants were probably hand-curated by the bookstore higher-ups, and probably specifically to compete with the Central Library’s own debate program: the two have been at almost-war for as long as anyone can remember.

Farther down, the flyer lists the names of the participants: “Safirah Mahalalel, Holy • they/them • recent author of ‘An Uncommon Proposal: the Superfluousness of Heaven’; Evon Lilim • he/him • recent author of “The Complexity of Life, The Complexity of Heaven’; Israfil • he/him or they/them • author of several major landscapes of Šehhinah”

Most people are probably here because they’re excited to see Israfil, Tamar thinks.  And sure, she’s heard angels also tend to be filled with God’s fire—but it’s not the same as the Holy.  They’re not burned.

It’s really quite interesting, how obsessed she seems to be.

Then she sees the bottom of the flyer, which has the date.  Oh.  It’s today’s date.  At six in the evening, apparently.

She grins, already looking towards the desert beyond the city. She’ll hit up Yenatru to see if he wants to go exploring with her. And she’ll be back here later.

* * *

The time is now.  The sun’s setting and Tamar’s at the bookstore again.  Where, in the first of its five floors, in the debate atrium, there will be a Holy.  Tamar finds her heart beating against her chest; tells herself to calm down and just enter the building.  It would be no use if she was late.

So, with a deep breath, she enters.

The central checkout area is as big as she remembers, with a number of bestsellers before  the significant large print section. 

But beyond that is the debate atrium.  And it looks like Tamar isn’t the only one heading there.

So she joins with the crowd and goes through the atrium double-doors.

Oh.  It’s big in here.

The atrium’s two stories tall and faintly gilded, with sparkling gold accents to the curved white walls. The lights on the ceiling, while a warm and soothing color, are diffused enough to prevent any shadow.  It all makes for the strange feeling that the atrium is from some other world.

Tamar finds a seat in the fourth row among the droves of mostly middle-aged philosophy and theology hobbyists; she’s one of the younger people here, although some of the few others she sees are whispering excitedly about Israfil.  She wonders if Elīya actually goes to some of these, given her interests, and decides to ask her later.

And then the three debaters walk on stage.

Tamar happens to be looking to the left, where Evon arrives, yellow eyes and horns like all demons. Yes, that’s a pretty striking look—but that’s not what she’s here to see.

So she looks to the center—and flame it, that’s just the angel.  Israfil.  Their hair is made of feathers, their suit of mirrors reflects the fire that seems to emanate from their six wings—but that’s not what she wants to look at either.

So she takes a deep breath and looks to the right side of the room, where Safirah enters.  They wear a deep orange dress slitted slightly up each side, and let their dark curls hang as they will around their face.

And their left arm is blackened.

Well, it’s more like a reddish-brown, with a slight, flickering glow under the skin.  But it’s burned, burned horribly—the skin twists and turns, and it’s easy to see how it wouldn’t be usable at all.  Adding to that impression is the fact that Safirah doesn’t move it, not even for balance: it really was their price, then.

Her breath catches.  It’s beautiful.

Actually, as Tamar continues to look at it—she’s allowed to, she reminds herself, no one will even care or notice—she realizes that the twists on the skin are actually moving.  There are patterns there, patterns of flames and not of flames at all; Tamar squints at it.  She continues to watch Safirah’s arm as the debaters take their seats, trying to follow the patterns there.  She’s becoming half-convinced that they mean something—

The announcer is loud enough to snap her out of her stare and actually look at Safirah, Evon, and Israfil’s faces.

“Welcome to tonight’s debate.  Tonight’s opponents are Safirah Mahalalel, they/them…”

Oh, Tamar thinks, he’s just repeating the information on the flyer.  So instead she focuses on Safirah’s face, trying to discern if there’s anything in the way they smile that hints at the power underneath them. The power that has burned them, changed them.  She looks long and hard, finding her eyes drawn to Safirah’s.  They seem hard, somehow.  Like diamonds.

Then Safirah begins their opening speech, apparently having been spurred to do so by the announcer: “This will come as no surprise to those of you who have read my writings, but my answer to the question posited by this debate is no.  Not for myself. Yes, as you can see, I have experienced the glory of God firsthand, here, in this life”—they use their right arm to lift their left, for emphasis—“and that’s not the only thing I intend to experience.  I’m one for variety, and if there’s one thing we know about the world after the Resurrection, it’s that it’ll have a lot of that.

“Our lives argue for us—they argue for what we want to happen after the Resurrection, what kind of new world, or worlds, I suspect, God will create then.  And I want to experience that—I want to experience it all.  Heaven is already right here in my arm; in my other arm, maybe there can be something else.” Safirah smiles, sharp.  “But I’ll have more to say once I have something to respond to, so move this onto the next speaker, if you will?”

“Then, Evon Lilim,” the announcer says.  “Your opening words.”  It seems like he’s really going to make this audience wait for Israfil—probably a good move, for the suspense.

But what Tamar really cares about is that flame under Safirah’s arm…

“Unlike my debate partner here,” Evon begins, his voice smooth if fairly high, “I say for myself ‘yay’. This is not because I disagree with any of their points—at least so far—but that I feel some of the most interesting variety that can be found is here on Šehhinah, right now.

“The world as is, the first world, the first draft if you will—that contrasts more than I imagine anything else will with God’s Heaven.  And it is also for that reason that I have no wish to be Holy—I will save that experience, make my life after Resurrection as different as it can be from my life now. That is what I believe will give me the most joy.”

“Now, Israfil, your opening?” the announcer says.

Israfil shifts then, moving two of their wings around their torso, the fire in them catching the mirrors on their suit—and seeming to fill the room with light.

Clearly, this is a practiced maneuver.  Tamar finds it impressive, even if it isn’t as breath-stoppingly amazing as Safirah’s burned arm…

“People have argued about Heaven since the Covenant,” they start. “And by people, I mean not just humans, but angels and the Fallen as well—all of us will have much to choose, in the days to come.

“As for me… well, I’ve said it before, but not in a book, and maybe not this century, so I wouldn’t be shocked if none of you knew this: that for me, I do not know what I will wish to do after the Resurrection.

“I came to existence this way, God’s fire in my veins—and I have loved it, have loved most of all my role in helping make the world, in adding what is of me to what exists physically. Truly, God would not have been able to make any of this without Their angels—and I say that not just to toot my own horn, but because it is true. Their soul is many things, but ground, water, air… are not among them. So of course They could not have manifested those into existence, not without more varied souls.

“And as I said, I have loved it.  I have never wanted this way of being to change, never wanted to fall—

“But roles, too, will change after the Resurrection, I imagine. And so I cannot say if I will want to be similar to how I am now, then, or if I will want to undergo some great change.  And as for what that might be… well, I’m still thinking.”

A tilt of their head suggests that their introduction is over—and so Tamar looks back to Safirah’s arm.  The burns, the swirling burns, seeming to draw her in with their suggestiveness, their hints of what has happened to them… she is so curious….

“Does anyone have a response to anyone else?” The announcer asks.

Safirah raises their arm—the non-burned one, of course.

“I have a response to Evon,” they start.  “You speak of contrast, of this world being maximally different from Heaven—but the point I would like to raise is that one of those differences is length.  Your life here is only likely to last what, ninety years? And Heaven could be eternity. It seems that those two timespans could never hope to balance each other out, or be two sides of one coin, as your book suggests. Not that I suspect you are foolish enough to have not thought of that, but…”

They totally suspect he’s foolish enough.  Tamar’s seen that look on Elīya’s face more than enough times to know.

“…But anyway, that is my objection.  If not for that detail, I would have a very similar opinion of the world’s variety.”

“Evon, your response?” the announcer asks.  “Or Israfil, do you want to get involved here?”

Neither of those possible directions the debate can take seem as interesting as Safirah’s arm, so Tamar zones out.  That’s one of her skills—being able to not bother hearing or paying attention to things, to anything but the one thing she cares about at the moment.

She’s here for Holy-staring, after all.

God, the patterns of the burn really do seem to be moving—and wait, the glow… oh.  The glow beneath their skin moves too, in a different way from the marks on the skin itself.  In the glow also, Tamar swears she can see patterns, if only it would stop moving for a second.  She wonders if they’re the same patterns as the ones on the skin.  Do they complement each other?  Do they mean something different?

God doesn’t communicate in words, Tamar knows, so they’re unlikely to be letters—but then, what? Images, maybe, feelings, sensations, textures? Or, since that glow in Safirah’s arm is of God—no, is God, Themself, Safirah chose to have part of their body be burned into by that strange other person—perhaps it’s not something consistent at all.  Maybe it reflects whatever God’s thinking about, right now, at this moment, or what if it’s even what God and Safirah are thinking, saying in reaction to each other…?

Tamar puts a hand to her mouth in amazement.

“While it is true that the patterns of fire and feathers and spinning wheels in Heaven will be infinite, and therefore infinitely varied,” Israfil’s saying, “it is true that some types of sensory experiences will not be common.”

“That is why I intend to get my fill of those here,” Evon responds.

“But again, how does a lifetime compare to eternity?” Safirah asks.

So they’re ganging up on Evon, then. Elīya would probably have an opinion about that. But Tamar’s not really sure which side she takes—other than curiosity about infinite patterns of fire.

“I would say that its brevity, its very finitude, gives it value, such value as to make it meaningful, and so to try to extend these experiences beyond life would make them less important,” Evon responds.

“And yet,” Israfil begins—

—and Tamar goes ahead and zones out again.

She has prayed to God before, of course.  Out of curiosity, mostly when she was younger—but though she felt the vague turnings of wheels, the sense of God having a whole bunch of eyes, it all felt distant.

Like, sure, praying leads to a feeling of a flurry of flames of flapping wings that responds to your thoughts, but it always seemed just… that? A flame like the sun being there suddenly… but yet no closer than the sun.

But having seen a Holy’s mouth, wreathed in flame… a Holy’s arm, burned to a crisp and still swirling…

Tamar grins, watching those patterns, watching them…

“Surely God could create ground, if the ground was feathers, or perhaps eyeballs,” Safirah’s saying.

Yeah, Tamar has no idea what that’s in response to.  She’s been missing a lot of this conversation.

But the experience of God still swirls in Safirah’s limp arm, the pulses of flame under it seeming almost bright enough as to sear into Tamar’s eyes…

And then people start moving out of the atrium, because the debate is apparently over.  Wow.  Okay.  Apparently staring at one of the Holy can do things to you and your sense of time, or at least can do things to Tamar, whose engagement with time is already conditional at best.  Still.

Tamar forces herself to stand, one of the last ten people to do so.  The paths between seats in the atrium are already fairly clear as she begins walking out of the atrium, preparing to go home, thinking she ought to wonder what she’s going to say to Elīya in her moral report, but not really wondering that, because she’s still more than a little distracted by the things she never quite saw in Safirah’s burns.

And then she just happens to catch Safirah walking through not some back door behind the stage, but just the other, usual, door on the other side of the atrium.  One that if Tamar turned around, she could easily go through herself.

Think about this, Tamar, she tries to tell herself, but she’s already walking that way—not for any reason, she half-attempts to convince herself, oh no, certainly no reason at all. 

She walks at a quick pace that’s just slow enough to not seem out of place with the setting.  This, Tamar thinks, should probably be disconcerting: it’s one thing to stalk someone, and a whole other thing to be good at it.

But she makes it to the door and casually opens it.  She sees the turn of Safirah’s dress among the many bookshelves.  And she turns to follow.

What in God’s names are you doing, Tamar? she asks herself as she strides along the slate floor.  But all she can answer herself with is that this is her only chance to—to do what, even she doesn’t know.  To commit a crime, probably.

Tamar catches Safirah exiting through one of the side doors, and half a minute later makes it through that door herself.  It opens into a small street that might be called an alley, although Tamar’s never been that sure about what the exact distinction between an alley and a not-alley is.  The sun’s already down, so here in this maybe-alley Tamar finds darkness that was conspicuously missing from the atrium—and Safirah walking forward, arm seeming brighter out here in the night, going God knows where. Literally. 

Tamar—again, stupidly, foolishly, criminally— follows, trying to keep her footsteps a little quiet on the not-quite-clean cobblestone, on this thin path between backs of buildings.

She’s only made it past two of those buildings when Safirah suddenly turns.

They run at her, and Tamar barely has time to register the hard lines of Safirah’s face before she finds herself pinned to the back of the nearest building, Safirah’s right arm pressing Tamar’s shoulder into the wall with surprising strength.  Tamar shouldn’t be surprised that instead of looking at the face of the person pressing her against a wall, nor even at the arm that’s doing the pressing, her eyes end up drawn to that burned left arm, so close now, still swirling.

“Who are you,” Safirah says, quietly yet firmly, “and why are you following me?”

Tamar runs through what feels like dozens of thoughts: how much can a Holy hurt her? Can they set fire to her? Would they give a fuck about the ethics of beating her up here? Can they really take her in a fight one-handed? Can she lie?  What can she say other than that she was, essentially, stalking them?  Her eyes twitch around as she considers this, but her gaze always returns to the same place.

So she just lifts her chin, her gaze fixed on that swirling, glowing arm.

Safirah sighs, long and rough.  They raise their left leg and press Tamar’s chest to the wall with their knee.  That done, they remove their right arm, the one that originally did the pressing, from Tamar’s shoulder.

Tamar considers getting away, wondering if maybe a knee-press is less strong than an arm-press; but then she notices that Safirah’s using their now-free right arm to grab their left, lift it up—

—touch Tamar’s head with the limp, burning fingers—

And it feels warm, it feels burning where it touches her skin, but also cool, like mint, the cool strong enough to itself burn, and she isn’t sure how, but she feels it go beneath her skin, the cool somehow sticking even to her thoughts, even while her skin remains hot, too hot—

A sound.

The hot and cold fade, Safirah no longer touching Tamar.

Tamar’s mind slowly processes what she is seeing.

Safirah now stands a foot away, no longer holding Tamar to that wall.  Their right hand is raised to their mouth, and their back is curved, and that sound—that sound is laughter.

Tamar blinks a few times.

Safirah’s laughter fades into quiet giggles, and they look at Tamar and say, “Oh, kid, you were afraid you were stalking?”

Tamar isn’t sure if she should answer that question, but she nods slightly anyway.

“Not to say”— another giggle interrupts Safirah’s speech—“that you entirely weren’t stalking. Oh but you were so curious! That’s really sweet, especially when I was half-expecting an actual attack.”

Tamar finally makes it to the point where she manages out one word: “What?” Ēnnuh’s nowhere near that dangerous.

“Depending on what you’re asking, for starters, I did read your mind, if that answers your question.”

Tamar had figured out that much.

“Or—well, the other obvious question I can answer is, yes, an attack.  Nothing to do with the city itself, but as I’ve directly argued that little to nothing would be lost if the option for Heaven were removed—not that I expect or want such to happen—I’ve been a target for a decent share of nasty letters lately. Now, usually those types don’t actually follow up on their threats, but when I heard suspicious and yet poorly concealed footsteps behind me in an alleyway… I admit I may have jumped to conclusions. As I think I am generally skilled at not doing in the context of writing, debates, and so on, this one included.”

Tamar might agree with them—if she’d been paying attention to anything they actually said during the debate.

“I can’t say I’m sorry about the stalking,” she ends up saying bluntly. Flame her. 

But Safirah looks impressed if anything, like their respect for this stupid kid in front of them has somehow increased.

“It happens,” Safirah says.  Then they seem to think about that a little, rubbing their chin with their right hand.  “Or, I don’t know if it happens frequently, but I guess I am a public figure now, which does increase the chances.  Anyway, it’s better than an attacker.  Although perhaps I should repay you for treating you like one…?”

Tamar spends a moment thinking about this, and then her mouth opens and she says words she hadn’t known she’d even formulated in her head: “Are you hungry?  I know a good sandwich place…”

Then, of course, Tamar mentally kicks herself repeatedly for having somehow asked someone she just got into an altercation with in an alley out to, what, dinner?

But Safirah just gives a bemused smile.  “As a matter of fact, I would love to know what a local Ēnnuhian considers to be a good sandwich place in this city.”

Tamar tries—tries—to keep her eyes from overtly lighting up.

“Who knows,” Safirah says, “maybe I’ll be able to provide information to help you make that decision on whether to eventually try and become one of the Holy yourself.”

Was she considering that? Tamar wondered.  Was that why she was so fascinated with them, these past two days?

“Well,” Safirah says, inclining their head, “we’ll either talk about that or we won’t.  But first, you’re the one who knows where this place is, so lead the way.”

And so Tamar manages to get herself walking forward, in the direction of Plateau Eatery, with one of the Holy—no, Safirah, a person who seems to have rather more qualities than just being a Holy—following her.

She has never been quite this uncertain where her life is going to go, nor quite this certain that it will go somewhere.