Holy Chicken Scratches

Chapter 1

If I pretended that I knew what I was doing then the hordes might let me pass with skin still on my bones. However, too many people were gathered. One was bound to say, Here’s someone new we can butcher.

The crowd resembled and innocent picnic on the grounds of the seminary campus. Families sat on blankets and ate from coolers. The disrupted festivities were and unexpected but welcome entertainment.

An argument blocked the path in front of me. Like ants, they fought over crumbs. I’d rather not be on the menu. I lied to myself that I was a measly morsel that no one would make a big deal over.

As I neared I saw that one of the people on the path was a news reporter who was trying to do an interview, but someone kept interrupting.

Once again, please tell the viewers what the disappearance of the icon means.

The ascension of the Holy Talisman during the week of the Feast of the Sacrifice is a sign of God’s approval, said the interviewee, who was an older man with a gray beard and wore a cream colored robe.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by ascension. I was simply told that the historic artifact I was there to investigate was lost, but then again, I usually received vague information from my boss.

No, interrupted another man, who was much younger and wore a brown robe. The reporter held up his hand to have the young man stop, but he continued.

It means God has become angry. Too many of the supposedly devout have not been following his commands and have not humbled themselves.

I lingered on the path, as I approached them. I felt drawn into the feeding frenzy because the questions and answers were about the missing artifact. However, the argument replaced calm discussion.

We have been very devout, said the older man with pronounced emphasis. We have been conducting hourly prayer services in the Temple since the ascension. We are the only order that has managed to do that.

Undaunted, the man in the brown robe jumped right in before the other was finished.

We are the smaller order. We have only recently broken from them, he said while pointing to his rival.

The younger man was a representative from the Brownies and the older was a Cream. You’d think I was talking about snacks for the picnic, wouldn’t you? One chocolate and one vanilla. Well, the men were neither food nor palatable.

Creams and Brownies were nicknames given to two religious orders to avoid a mouthful of wordy descriptions. The nicknames came from their robes’ colors. The Creams were the Brothers from the Order of the Meek and Humble. The Brownies were otherwise known as the Brothers from the Order of the Meek and Resolutely Humble. Their names were too long, and nobody wanted to listen to a time-consuming, boastful handle when a nickname sufficed. Despite their appetizing nicknames, they did not join the picnic. They were being devoured, but by each other.

They say they are so humble, but they wear cream colored robes which are much too vibrant. Brown is a more resolutely humble color for robes. A few other brownies crowded around the reporter and cheered their representative. However, the Brownie seemed hypocritical to me. If he wanted a plain robe he shouldn’t have decorated it with all his merit badges for starting fires (in someone’s soul), or survivalist training (living on bread and water).

Cream is the historical color of our robes. These newer orders are too irresponsible. Those young rascals meddle with our traditions. We have been wearing cream colored robes for over a millennia, the Cream snorted. The crowd was silent. Breaking traditions was more exciting than maintaining them.

It is not the charge of the church to follow tradition when it is so clearly immoral, said the Brownie interrupting the Cream.

The Temple is built on tradition. The temple is tradition. Without tradition we have … I could barely hear the rest of the interview since I was well beyond them now. The hubbub from the other scattered groups masked the interview.

It was interesting they debated the colors of their garments and not the issues of their orders, but who was I to judge? I had a mission. However, it suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going. I was too focused on making it through the crown unscathed.

Earlier that morning I was focused on sleep when my boss, Ted called and said, Neal, go directly to Elliot Seminary. A religious artifact has gone missing.

I should have gotten more out of him than that, but I had just woken up. Despite being in his eighties, Theodore Duffy arrived at work well before eight A.M. I was on flextime and showed up around nine.

I’d noticed that Ted’s left ear was his good one, but when he was on the phone he always held the receiver up to his other ear. I’m sure he probably had a good reason for this, and I hoped he would someday let me in on it.

Where should I go? I asked using a very loud voice while trying to clearly enunciate all of the syllables. Talking to him was always a challenge.

Elliot Seminary, he said.

Where at Elliot Seminary?

You should know where it’s at. It’s a mile north of Highway 6.

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere so I tried another way. To whom should I speak with? I asked.

Okay, talk to you later. Bye, Ted said, then hung up.

A challenge in frustration, that’s what our conversations were. Nonetheless, I was game for anything. I thought I would be all right. I thought I would be able to wander around until I found the Seminary offices, but I quickly realized it wouldn’t be that easy. The place was bigger than I had anticipated.

The campus was about as big as a mid-sized university. The buildings were clustered together with parking lots ringing around them. The campus was located on the fringe of the suburbs and I’d heard it was there before the neighborhoods were built which eventually surrounded it. One of the oldest buildings looked to be a temple. Some of the newer buildings might have been offices.

A direction marker would have been helpful, but I couldn’t find one. I imagined that if I maintained a level of countenance that people would approach me to offer help. However, nobody ran up to me saying, You are obviously someone important. We can tell by your countenance. What can we do to help?

People are like that. At least, when you are not on the menu.

Instead, I dialed Opal Klugner’s direct number from my cell phone. Ted and his secretary, Opal, were complete opposites. Ted was very quiet, but if I merely said hello to Opal she would tell me about her day, about her weekend, about her previous or upcoming vacation and what she had for dinner for every meal on that vacation. If I didn’t find an excuse to leave, my entire day was shot.

When I first joined, about seven years ago, I would be in their office talking to Opal and completely forget that Ted was there. I would be involved in a conversation with her for an hour by the time Ted would comment on something. It didn’t matter what it was. Everything he said sounded the same to most people. Then I would have to readjust my mental image to the fact that it was supposed to be a three-way conversation.

Opal might talk for half an hour if I called her now, but it was worth the risk. Hopefully, she wasn’t out because then Ted answered her phone at those times despite the fact that Bobbie Benvue would be there too. Bobbie was a perfectly efficient receptionist.

Officially, Bobbie was my administrative assistant, but since I did all of my own correspondence, she was really more of a receptionist. She also opened the mail and made the deposit slips for the insurance premiums.

She worked fast and did a good job, but she didn’t handle criticism well. If I corrected her work she might start crying.

I’m sorry, she would say with tears.

I thought you meant to mail out the rate adjustments by next Monday, not this.

Anyone could have made that mistake.

That’s okay. By tomorrow will be fine, I would console. I didn’t like tears, especially from people I employ.

I’m really sorry. Her sniffing would carry over into my nightmares.

Yes, I really hoped Opal would pick up the phone. Ted or Bobbie? Well, I just wasn’t in the mood.

Someone picked up the phone.

Sacred Recluse Self-Insurance Group.

Whew. It was Opal.

I asked her for directions.

Go see President Frost in the Administrative Building. We need you there because we have no record of their policy with us and we need an assessment of potential liability, she told me.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

In a place far from Neal Harris and long before his troubles, there was a woman named Mary who went to see a man known as a healer. Mary earned her living through licentious hand-holding with men outside of the bonds of marriage. For this, she was a dues-paying member of the Strumpet Guild.

Mary entered and kneeled before the healer.

Four scribes sat along the periphery of the gathering. They observed the nuance of every action the healer made, but did not interact with him. They recorded their interpretations on scrolls using quill pens.

I’ve had a life full of transgressions. Please take away my guilt and heal my heart, Mary said.

If you give up your sinful life so that you can come to God and serve his people then you will become healed, the man replied.

What can I do to serve God’s people?

Take all of your worldly possessions and sell them.

Her bracelet slid off very easily since the clasp was broken. She handed it to the healer.

It is plain and not worth much, but it is all that I have.

She obviously didn’t want to part with the bracelet, but she needed to be healed more than she needed any worldly goods.

The healer, caring and mindful of her pain at having to part with her only trinket, folded his hands over hers.

This will bring food to the hungry and comfort to the sick. The blessings of the Lord.

Mary the Strumpet thanked him as the Four Recording Secretaries of Faith prepared to enter the transaction into the record for posterity to be bound and reprinted for the teaching of humankind.

Helvetica, the first scribe, wrote on his tablet, Chapter 7, verse 12: The Savior says, ‘I bless this Talisman.’ Verse 13: ‘It has the power to feed the hungry and cure the sick for those who repent of their transgressions.’

Courier, the second scribe wrote, Chapter 8, verse 1: A strumpet came to ask forgiveness from Ralph. Verse 2: Ralph does say unto her, ‘Woman go and sell your belongings to give good to the hungry and comfort to the infirm.’ Verse 3: ‘And for Mary the clouds parted and the blessing of the Lord fell upon her like a beam of sunlight for she knew she had found peace.’

New Times Roman, the third scribe wrote, A chick, an asp, a newt, an egg may be, but fry them up they taste the same to me.

Later, Gothic, the fourth scribe awoke from his nap. He saw that he must have missed something so he copied Helvetica 7:1-12 to Gothic 7:1-12. Then he took another nap after telling the other scribes, Wake me when we get to the part where some notorious official makes him sleep with the fishes.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Did she really say that? asked the first secretary, the one that looked like she couldn’t be much older than sixteen.

She was pretty and plain at the same time with the kind of uncertainty that couldn’t decide which one she would grow up to be if left to her own God-given attributes.

I really couldn’t hear what the second one was saying. They were both sitting behind a large U-shaped reception desk. The other secretary had her back to me and they were both speaking rather softly. They were probably talking without much sound so that their boss, President Frost, didn’t hear them gossiping. He probably wouldn’t have noticed anyhow since he was on the phone in the next room. I was promised by the teenage-looking secretary that the President would be available shortly and asked to please take a chair.

The office was in one of the older buildings with equipment that was a patchwork of old and new. The U-shaped desk and computer were new, but behind it was a manual typewriter on a rolling cart that looked like it was older than me.

I can’t believe that she doesn’t know that, said the young one, deeply embroiled in either new gossip or old rumors.

I didn’t really care, so I looked around. I was bored which was getting to be more of a common occurrence in my daily life. I wasn’t young enough to be entertained by trivia, yet I wasn’t old enough to be interested in philosophy.

I could always look around and find something new to me or at least new to me that day.

The room itself was a good place to start for a distraction. On the wall there was religious artwork. Well, maybe I shouldn’t call it art. It wasn’t good art, but rather a macaroni and dried bean montage of Our Savior Ralph’s sacrifice. It was edible art. If there was a drought we could pull it down, peel off the ingredients and make soup out of Our Savior. He could provide more than one type of sustenance. People became very devout whenever they looked at Ralph. They’d stare at him for hours doing mental penance for real or imagined crimes. After they were done staring, they were supposed to rise up, as Ralph had, and be clean and free of all sins and doubt. Not everyone felt that way after a session with Ralph. Meditating over an image of Ralph didn’t always produce those feelings. In some, it just produced a craving for macaroni and bean soup. It made me hungry.

Well, we didn’t expect crowds of people to show up, said the President on the phone.

The second secretary was saying something again, but I wasn’t trying to listen in. I still hadn’t seen her face, but I did have a decent view of her bottom sitting on the rolling chair. She was patting it with one of her hands. My palms grew moist. I wondered what would happen if I asked her why she had felt the need to manually supplement her conversation with visuals. People who talked with their hands usually had something interesting on their minds that couldn’t be expressed verbally.

Someone should tell her, said the young secretary.

My attention was drawn to her, but I still heard the unusual one-sided conversation from the next room. The juxtaposition of the two conversations provided just the distraction from boredom that I needed.

I can’t help it if they all brought trash and the barrels are overflowing, said the President on the phone.

He was shouting, a practice I never understood among people who wanted someone else to speak louder. Influence by example, I supposed. Although, it never seemed to work very well.

The second secretary was very shapely. She looked to be a little older than her friend, but younger than me. She was wearing a more business-like suit and it was cut to accent her form well.

Maybe she likes looking like a clown, said the young one.

She sniffed and looked superior. I sniffed too. Sitting around bored made you were more conscious of your senses. It was the first time I had thought of my nose in months.

The President’s voice boomed.

No, I can’t make the custodial services empty the barrels again today. Their company is on contract to do only certain services each day.

The girls were giggling about something. My view of the shapely secretary’s behind was partly obstructed because it was just around the corner of the desk. I shifted in my chair to get a slightly better angle.

It’s not the maintenance crew’s job to empty the barrels. I could make them do it, but they might complain to their union.

I looked up to see the girls had stopped talking and the youngish one was looking right at me. She caught me looking at her friend’s bottom.

Look away. Look at something. The drapes. I’m not really eavesdropping. I’m studying the patterns on the drapes. They have an eastern influence. Can’t she see from the expression on my face that I think these drapes are absolutely the most wonderful things that I’ve ever seen? I wasn’t looking at a bottom. I was deep in concentration and didn’t realize where my eyes had drifted.

After a minute, I glanced back to see that the secretaries were talking again and giggling.

Mr. Harris. Hello, greeted the President as he stood next to me.

He was a man with graying hair and he wore a Sire’s garb of a simple black robe and sash. I had heard he was a very powerful man in the Temple. Trying to appear dignified, I pushed bottoms and drapes out of my mind and focused on the President.

How do you do, President Frost? I said holding out my hand to shake.

Yeah, right. The same to you, he said while giving a quick shake.

Come in.

He ushered me into his office and partly closed his door.

Thanks for coming so quickly. The Holy Talisman is the Seminary’s most important relic.

He sat back in his chair behind an imposing desk and gestured for me to do the same. I noticed the chairs for guests were more drab and on a smaller scale than the one he sat in.

I nodded, quickly to make friends.

Yes, I suppose it must be.

Undoubtedly. It couldn’t happen at a worse time. Many of the Mother Assembly’s orders such as the Creams, Brownies, and Widows are here for The Feast. It is when all believers in Our Savior Ralph celebrate his sacrifice by exchanging gifts of decorated eggs and candies.

I’d heard that before. All believers in Ralph, the so called Ralphians, celebrated The Feast. Only the people from the Mother Assembly would want to celebrate here at our seminary for preachers.

Our dogma told us that the Mother Assembly is the original assembly of believers that had existed since the days of Ralph, two-thousand years ago. There are other Ralphians besides the Mother Assembly. A group of believers split from the Mother Assembly long ago. They are called Objectors, not because they are in any way more objective about Ralph, but because they object to the Assembly’s teachings.

The first Objector was Brother Yam who was a member of an obscure order in the Mother Assembly. After the split from us, he and the sect he founded were called Yammerers.

Brother