Tbf a lot of Becky Chambers’ sci fi is like “Star Trek but better”: if you like the Trek universe but would like more genuine diversity among the humans that looks like how we might actually approach race and sexuality in a post-Terran future, more “alien” aliens (in everything from appearance to physiology to culture including approaches to sex and relationships), and especially if you’d like to see something that’s way less human-centric on a Watsonian level, and especially especially if you are an alienfucker and/or robofucker…. cannot recommend her Wayfarers series enough
The Market Value of Holy Water is Exactly One Glazed Doughnut
By @jonnyblackwrites
An original short story about a holy water thief, an overprotective angel, and the exchange of goods and services.
Tags: Supernatural/ Paranormal, Angels, Catholic Aesthetic, Enemies to Friends, Inspired by Buzzfeed Unsolved’s Ryan Bergara Stealing Holy Water from the Church
Rated: G
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Image Credits at end of post.
The heavy church door swung open, making the hinges squeak loudly through the sanctuary. Jason winced and cautiously tried to shut them, but they creaked with a vengeance, payback for having been disturbed in the first place. It was empty on Wednesday, but still. One of the nuns or a Father might hear.
He quickly decided closing them would be even more of a racket, and left them open. “God,” he muttered, “Wish I had some oil or grease or—”
“_I’ll _take your prayer,” said a smooth voice, making him jump. He scanned the pews and even took an extra hard look at the dais, but there was no one.
Hmm… he was hoping the sanctuary would be empty. He’d leave if whoever it was decided to stay. “It was just a wish, not a prayer,” he said.
“Oh. Those are a bit harder. I can do prayers. Wishes take a little more time… But please, don’t mind me. Carry on. I’ll just listen.”
Still seeing no one, he took a slow step back. “Why would I pray to… a ghost?”
A cool blast of air hit him in the face. When he looked back up, he saw a figure on the dais, sporting a soft cream linen suit. They had their arms crossed, and their nose turned up at him. They looked a little peeved.
“How dare you, not knowing who I am. Are you a heathen? Do you even pray? You probably couldn’t even begin to comprehend my existence.”
“So you’re not a ghost?”
“If it wouldn’t stain the carpet, I would smite you where you stand.”
“Oh!” Jason said, relieved now that there was a face to the voice. And a body. Well, a celestial sort of body. ”You’re an angel.”
The angel faltered. “…Maybe you comprehend a little, but I’m still beyond understanding. Way beyond. Like, miles beyond.”
“Listen, If i’m being honest,” he said, waving a beat up plastic bottle in the air, “I only came here to steal some holy water.”
“Hey!” The angel shouted. They took a few steps forward and raised a finger in warning. “Don’t even think about it! That’s not yours.”
“It’s not yours either, so…” he dipped the water bottle back in to the basin. Bubbles popped to the surface as it filled, echoing through the sanctuary like a little bubbling brook.
Unfortunately, this seemed to piss off the angel a bit. The air in the church grew humid, like the fog just before an unexpected summer storm, and a not unpleasant smell of ozone rose from the floor. Finally, the bottle was full and he capped the bottle, careful not to spill. He resisted the urge to smile as he stuffed it into his bag. The angel was already upset…
“Humans are so selfish, so arrogant. You’re lucky you’re adorable, or you’d all be dead.”
Jason stopped at the door, resting his hand on the knob. “That’s kinda harsh. I think it’s more than that. Free will, right?”
The angel made a sound of discontent that filled the church. It could only be compared to the same sound a toddler makes when they didn’t get what they want. A shiny new toy, perhaps.
“How would I know? I’m just an angel. Hey, don’t come back. You’re banned, _water stealer. _I’ve got my eye on you. I’ve got all of them on you.”
Jason did smile this time. He couldn’t help it. Being banned was like a badge of honor. As predicted, the door protested loudly at being shut, and he waited until it was almost closed before he promised, “I’ll be back next Saturday.”
And he was. The week had come and gone, uneventful but profitable. It being the last week of november, ghosts sightings were up, and with them the demand for holy water in elegant glass bottles. His usual clientele had come and picked up their orders, while curious onlookers were charmed with the idea of “Authentic Holy Water Vessels- Ghost Deterrent, Demon Repellant, Vampire Retardant” and bought it for the kitsch.
He’d run out by Friday morning and decided to take the day off. But on Saturday he woke up early, reorganized his bottle collection, and headed to the church.
The moment he walked in, he felt that same blast of cool air. It was actually very refreshing. This autumn had been an uncharacteristically warm one, and the sun outside was intolerable.
“I thought I banned you from this church,” said that smooth voice again. The angel hovered over the ancient pipe organ behind the pulpit, as easy as if they were reclining on a good, worn couch.
“Oh you did,” Jason said, “I just didn’t listen. I ran out of water.”
He took out three empty bottles this time, and set them on the edge of the font, caps undone, ready to be filled.
The angel fumed, their golden curls shaking ever so slightly. “Go get your holy water from somewhere else.”
He shrugged, lowering the first bottle into the water. “Can’t. Yours is the only Catholic church for blocks. And I didn’t want to drive.”
The angel crossed their arms, watching the water level sink lower and lower. Jumping down from their musical perch, they began to pace on the dais again, like a lion watching a small, annoying child on the other side of the glass at the zoo.
“What do you do with it all, anyway? You can’t be anointing yourself all day with it.”
Jason grimaced. The angel probably wouldn’t like his answer. “I, uhm. I sell it. Well. I sell the bottles I find, and then I fill those with holy water. For the local…. paranormal investigators.”
The angel scowled. “I should have you whipped for that.”
“Pretty sure they don’t do that anymore. Besides, I’m not selling the _water. _Just the bottles I find. Real nice ones too. Antiques. Vintage. I fill them for free.”
“Mhm. Paranormal investigators? Don’t you mean ghost hunters?” The angel said, emphasizing _ghost hunters _ like a curse that tasted bad on the tongue.
Jason capped the bottle, and took out another. “They prefer paranormal investigators.”
“Ha!” shouted the angel, “I’ll bet. Troublemakers is what they really ought to call themselves. Opening doors and channels, playing with beings and rituals they don’t understand. Good riddance, I say.”
Jason laughed. “I thought angels were supposed to be nice! Protectors of us all.”
“There’s only so much we can do,” said the angel, a bit distressed, “Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, anyway.”
“That makes sense.”
“Are you kidd— another one?” Said the angel, watching Jason fill the third bottle. “Just take the whole basin, why don’t you?”
Jason took a good look at the stone font, calculating. Then he shook his head. “Too heavy.”
“It was rhetorical!”
“Don’t worry, angel. That was the last one.”
At that the angel stopped pacing. They stared at Jason as he stuffed the water bottles in his bag, wringing their hands a little. From the moment he walked in, the angel had nothing but a scowl and some harsh words for him. Now, though, just as he was about to leave, the angel seemed… concerned?
Was the angel worried? That’s what it sort of looked like. Surely, they weren’t worried for him.
“Oh,” they said, “Well, good!”
“Yup. I have to get going now,” Jason said, a little uncertain. “Bye, I guess.”
“Wait!” said the angel, at the last minute.
He turned around. “Yeah?”
“Will you… will you visit again?”
Jason looked around the sanctuary. He’d been here on a Wednesday and a Saturday, and both times it had been completely empty.
It must be very lonely, he thought, living in a place that only got visitors once a week.
The angel stared at him, beautiful, a little terrifying, and alone.
“Of course,” he said, “I always run out of holy water.”
“Oh. Well, fine, then. Right. Just don’t come on Sunday,” said the angel, “I don’t think the Father would be very happy to see you.”
“Does that mean I’m not banned anymore?” he asked.
Even from all the way across the sanctuary, he could feel the daggers in the angels glare. “No. You’re still banned. But you can come by.”
Jason nodded, satisfied. “I’ll bring you a donut. They always bring me too many at the market. I’ll bring you one.”
That seemed to soften the angel up a bit. They crossed their arms again, a little less angrily. “I like plain glazed.”
Jason laughed softly to himself. Who new you could bribe heavenly bodies with doughnuts? “You got it, angel.”
The idea that Orwell presents us in 1984 is that people subtle enough and brutal enough can take the undirected dissatisfaction and anger of a society and point it at whatever they will, using us to damn ourselves.
