Temple

Zebulun left the celebration. Not early, as that would have reflected badly on the marshal, but as early as possible.

He changed clothes. He traded his formal wear for garb more appropriate for common folk like himself.

He wandered the streets, looking up at the stars. It was near midnight, and he still heard shouts and horns from revelers echoing through the capital. He wondered how many cared about the war, or why they fought, versus how many took any excuse for a party.

He came upon a temple. He looked up at the imposing structure. Houses of gods needed to be impressive in their own right. This one was impressive, but also seemed neglected. He went inside.

Rows of pews led up to the pulpit. Flanking it on the left was a ten-foot statue of Ram, god of light, truth, and the sun. On the right was an equally large statue of Luva, goddess of love, motherhood, and the moon. He sat in front and took turns staring up at each of them.

A door opened on the right side of the room. An old man entered holding a candle. Though old and gray, he seemed hale. He came and sat beside Zebulun.

"It’s late for temple, brother," said the old man. "I’m Brother Mark. Something on your mind?"

Zebulun looked at the statue of Ram. "Do you pray to the gods?"

"Of course," said Mark, smiling with his eyes. "It’s my job."

"But do you believe?"

Mark smiled gently. "Having a crisis of faith?"

"I’m not sure I ever had any."

"Well," said Mark, "Since you seem lost, I’ll tell you true. The old stories are a mix of history, mythology, and philosophy. I can’t claim to know which parts happened as written and which parts were made up out of whole cloth. I wasn’t there."

Zebulun looked thoughtful. "But that," continued Mark, "isn’t what matters, to my mind."

Zebulun turned to look at Mark. "What does?"

"These stories have power," said Mark. "People have been telling one another these stories for at least a thousand years. Some are probably ten thousand years old. They wouldn’t have lasted this long, were there no truth in them. Perhaps they tell us little about gods or the world around us, but they have much to tell us about ourselves."

Zebulun looked up at Luva. Her soft, maternal face promised comfort. "Such as?" he asked.

"Well," said Mark, "think of all the heroes and villains in the tales: Elijah, prophet of Ram, who brought fire down from heaven to consume an army; Deborah, servant of Luva, who brought forth water from a stone in time of drought. These are exciting tales of action that make people want to listen to them — and to tell them to others."

"The moral component is more subtle. Young people tend to imitate what they see and hear growing up. The most effective stories don’t preach to the listener, but simply set an example."

"Elijah is portrayed as an honest, honorable, faithful man. Boys want to be like Elijah not because of his honor, but because of his power: because he could bring the flame, and all men feared him. Girls want to emulate Luva not because she is all-compassionate, but because she saved her people from famine and everyone loved her for it."

"Teaching good lessons to the youth might be more important than absolute accuracy."

Zebulun took a deep breath. "Will you pray for my men? Many died in battle."

"Of course," said Mark. "Peace be with them. They no longer need grapple with such questions."