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so
that they completed sewing the symbols into those fluttering capes
that told of the great explosions that brought the rockets burning
back to the ground. Those capes would be proud heirlooms for the
martyrs’ families to carry back with them into their subterranean
homes. But the clerics would first let those capes flutter in the
wind so that the harsh sun could deepen and bake the color of the
stitching and fabric into a hue that pleased their divine
creator.
     
    “The Maker is joyous,” Ishmael whispered as
he watched those capes wave in the breeze. “It’s a great victory
indeed when the clerics summon us twice for celebration.”
     
    Rahbin frowned at Ishmael. “Tell him,
Abraham, how we know the clerics haven’t summoned us for
rejoicing.”
     
    “Their horn didn’t sound a note for joy.
They blew a note warning of transgression.”
     
    “Mind you of that, Ishmael, the next time
you think of usurping your father’s duty by striking Abraham,” said
Rahbin. “Abraham pays better attention to the horn than you.”
     
    The horn silenced before all of the
tribesmen arrived at the tower, and those who were tardy stood
apart from the rest to offer themselves to whatever punishment the
clerics felt their tardiness deserved.
     
    The head cleric frowned atop the scaffold.
“We disrespect our Maker when we hesitate to answer his call. Each
of you will spend several hours this afternoon within the sunbox,
where you will sweat out your sin and consider your shortcomings
within the darkness.”
     
    “Praise be to the Maker!” The guilty men
shouted.
     
    The head cleric continued. “I’ve been
wondering who among our tribe remains worthy of the Maker’s kingdom
and glory. Our best men have sacrificed themselves for the Maker’s
glorious creation for so long that I wonder if those of us who are
left are deserving of our God’s graces. Perhaps these capes
fluttering in the wind were worn by the last of our great warriors.
I pray that my doubts are only torments the great devil delivers
me, for more than ever, we must be prepared to devote ourselves to
the Maker. We will soon lift our battle against the blasphemers
into the stars, and we will need all of the creator’s blessing to
reach their high castles.”
     
    The gathering lifted their hands. “Praise be
to the Maker!”
     
    The head cleric nodded. “Oh, my brothers and
sons, the great devil will tempt us like never before. We cannot
become soft. We must harden our souls for the battle awaiting us in
the stars. The unbelievers will know no planet, no moon and no
castle that will hide them from the Maker’s judgment or shield them
from the justice we will administer as our Maker’s tools.
     
    “Understand then why we who grow beards must
summon the tribe to inform our community that the great devil has
infiltrated our homes so shortly after we celebrate a great
victory. The great devil has already brought corruption to our
tribe. One of us has created without the Maker’s breath.”
     
    Abraham’s heart raced, and the men
surrounding him shifted and stared at their boots. The Holy Book
taught that creation itself was the most magical of all the Maker’s
powers. The Maker held the process of creation closest to his
heart, and that the Maker guarded all his breath shaped as sacred.
Thus the tribes created nothing casually. A man crafted neither a
crib nor a coffin without first receiving a cleric’s blessing, and
the most talented of weavers and seamstresses prayed for hours
before sitting at her loom. Each bearded cleric fasted before
picking up his pen to scribe new prayers, and none in the tribe
dared to sing unless he or she was given a sign that the Maker’s
breath filled his or her lungs. The Holy Book taught that every act
of creation, no matter how large or small, was a divine process the
required the Maker’s presence in any soul who strummed an
instrument or stroked a brush. The Maker considered any creation
undertaken without his