Chapter 10 - The Choice at the Gate
God reached out his hand.
In his open palm, a small object materialized out of golden light.
It was the chipped ceramic cup.
It was dry, dust-coated, and empty. The crack along its side looked dark and jagged against the immaculate white marble of the villa.
"You have two paths, Julian," God spoke, his voice filling the vast room with a quiet, absolute gravity.
"The first path is to remain here. This villa is real within this realm. You will live forever in this blue silk suit. You will never feel pain, age, or sickness. You will watch the moon hover over this peaceful, empty city for eternity. You will be a king of nothing, but you will be safe."
God gestured toward the cup in his hand.
"The second path... is to take this cup back."
Julian looked at the cup, then up into God's radiant face. "Back where?"
"To the dark," God said. "To the black rain. To the rotting pine cabin in Sector 9. To the cold dirt floor, the starvation, and the Enforcers who hunt in the night. If you return, you will be dirty again. You will be tired. Your hands will bleed, and your throat will burn with thirst."
God stepped off the stairs, holding the crude clay cup out toward Julian.
"If you return," God added softly, "you will have no palace. You will have no fine clothes. You will have only the knowledge that out there in the dark, someone else is thirsty... and you might be the only one left with half a cup of dirty water to give."
Julian stared at the chipped cup.
He looked at his reflection in the marble floor—the handsome, clean noble in his midnight-blue suit. He thought about the straw mat. He thought about the freezing wind that tore through the pine slats. He thought about the iron knife buried in the dirt, and the sheer, agonizing terror of waiting for the Enforcers' boots to strike his door.
He could stay here. God had offered it. It wouldn't be a sin to accept a gift offered by the divine, would it? He had earned it with his last drop of water!
His fingers twitched at his sides.
Then, he looked out the window one last time. He imagined his brother, lying shivering in a ditch three miles into the marsh, listening to the black rain. He imagined the old men, the children, the broken soldiers wandering the toxic valleys, their throats burning like lye, with no one to open a wooden door for them in the middle of the night.
If he stayed here in his golden cage... he was no better than the Enforcers who locked their gates against the refugees. He was just a beggar who had managed to buy his way inside the castle.
Julian stepped forward.
May you like
He didn't hesitate. He reached out his hands—his clean, manicured hands—and took the crude, chipped ceramic cup from God's palm.
"I don't want the palace," Julian said, his voice steady, dropping all trace of fear. "Give me back the storm."
