Words Without Paper, Part II

He’d nearly forgotten about Bible study. Dalyn felt ashamed of himself.

Funnily enough, he decided later, he couldn’t really remember what it was about. He was too distracted, it seemed, by the people around him sitting at the table.

There was Nathan, to his left; he had been turned to the Lord after witnessing His power by speaking in tongues. Joshua was a devout Christian since birth. Mrs. Urbington, old enough to be known as Mrs. by nearly the whole community, had found her calling after a powerful sermon. Osmond never spoke of any amazing transformation, but his enthusiasm about religion made it obvious that whatever past he had was a dramatic one. The death of Kathleen’s older sister brought her more strongly to the faith. Many seated at the table had a strong tie to their Christian values and beliefs, a bond which nothing could break.

How stupid, Dalyn found himself thinking.

Watch yourself! he commanded his mind. You’re just as stupid as any of them. They’re not even stupid. They’re just faithful. And if faith is stupidity then I’ll be stupid any day.

None at the table had a stronger bond to the Holy Spirit than the Reverend Irving Powers, who sat with his head bowed and both hands resting on a copy of the Bible. An older man, his insightful and emotional sermons had served as the inspiration of Dalyn Blackpool many times.

Everyone had a common glow around them, a faint aura of light, perhaps yellow, even golden? A sort of—

So today they were looking in the New Testament. He’d always found them more insightful stories than—

—maybe the glow was stronger around some than others. Why, look at Panithel. Osmond! Osmond, not Panithel. Respect starts in the mind—

—good heavens, another parable is it? Oh, good, no it isn’t—

—Osmond hasn’t hardly got any glow at all! Look at everyone else. Even Mrs. Urbington, she’s got a nice healthy glow there—

—what chapter was it—

—nothing! But he’s the most devout of all of them, aside from Reverend Powers—

Dalyn found himself unfocused, distracted by these odd auras that appeared in front of his eyes. Neurological condition or not, he decided, it had some truth to it. Perhaps it was even a gift, of some kind. Still, he couldn’t explain what a single color meant.

He wondered vaguely if this was what it was like to be a hippie high on something.

Floating through the Bible study as if he were jammed into autopilot, the next thing he knew it was a half-hour later, and he was sitting on a pew with his notebook, listening to the murmur of conversation—the final ripples of energy that were expelled during the reading that he’d paid no attention to.

Absentmindedly, he began tapping his pencil lightly against the empty pew in front of him. Osmond broke his focus and startled him upon asking, “What’s with the notebook, friend?”

Dalyn wondered why the man felt obligated to end sentences with that word, as if it were vital for him to establish he was on your side.

“Oh! Nothing, really,” he replied, flipping to an empty page. “I’m just thinking, really.”

“Doodling?”

“No, not really. It’s just—I write a lot, sometimes. Wondering if I had something in me today.” He laughed miserably.

“Interesting,” said Panithel. “You know, it mystifies me—sometimes people spend their entire lives writing.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Not to get paid, either. It’s just that they have this, this drive that makes them keep going day after day, week after week. Why do they do that? Writers, I mean. Poets in particular,” he added after a short pause.

“Hmm. Well, I’m sure they have all kinds of reasons,” said Dalyn after a few seconds, as if he were mulling it over. “I mean, probably they have a lot of ideas in their head they just want to get out.”

Panithel made a brief “hmm” sound, just barely audible. He was clearly not convinced.

“What part mystifies you?” Dalyn asked.

“Well, God is everything,” said Panithel. “He created the planet, the world. He created us, most importantly. And we’re a part of Him. All of our ideas are just a distorted version of His. Well then, friend, what is there to write? We have the purest form of His Word—the Bible. Everything else—well, think of it like this.

“Take a painting. You see it as a work of art—every detail exact and perfect, every aspect of it the way its creator intended it to be. Now, photocopy it. Suddenly, the detail is lost, and you just get a pretty fair-sized image. Photocopy the copy, then copy the next copy, and so on and so forth. By the time the painting’s been passed down through all these copies, it’s become blurry, it’s lost its perfection. It’s no longer a painting, just a mere outline of one.

“You’d have to agree that we’ve strayed from God’s Word in the same way. We’ve taken it, rephrased it, twisted it—we’ve even claimed that we’ve come up with better ideas. It’s been lost in the books, and the books about books. It’s gone and branched out so far there’s no hope of it coming back—unless we read something pure and untouched. That’s why I always carry this,” he said, taking out a small paperback copy of the New Testament from his jacket’s inside pocket. “Reminds me where the truth is.”

“Hmm,” said Dalyn after a beat, and bobbed his head up and down.

“Well, friend,” Panithel sighed, resting his hand on the pew’s back, “I think I should be going. I’ve got to be ready for work…” He snatched his umbrella away from where it was leaning, and turned to leave by the rear door. “I’ll see you next Sunday!”

“Yes!” Dalyn exploded with false cheeriness that typically came from being in a church of inspired people. “I’ll see you then! Have a good day,” he ended weakly.

Panithel waved and left.

Dalyn returned to tapping his pencil thoughtfully against the open blank page, then began scratching it across the paper.