Dryvellophobia
Whom the Gods wish to destroy,
they first make mad.
Euripides, Antigone
A special TV report about the Dryvellist Hospital and its connection with the Holy Temple was announced with much fanfare a week later. With the temple being back in the spotlight again the report attracted a lot of interest and much of the nation was glued to the TV screen the evening it was shown.
The report began with reminding viewers of previous controversies the temple and Jeremiah had been involved in. Then the secretly recorded material from the hospital was shown. In one room an elderly woman was shown tied to her bed. She was yelling and moaning in pain for hours begging to be released, begging for an ambulance, pleading for mercy. The nation’s horrified audience saw the only reaction from hospital staff were prayers, singing psalms and restraining the woman, even tying her wrists to the frame of the bed so she couldn’t get up. The use of earplugs by the nurses caused even more outrage among the viewers.
Similar scenes were shown in four other rooms. Also in the report were interviews with Director Lee and Master Jeremiah. Director Lee’s comments about how patients were treated with love and care, how they had their dignity restored after poor treatment at public hospitals, and how many patients had seen a miraculous improvement in their condition in even the most hopeless cases was presented in sharp contrast with the scenes from the secret recordings.
The day after the report all hell broke lose, at least as far as the Dryvellers were concerned. Before dawn police arrived with a throng of ambulances and evacuated anyone who wanted to leave the hospital. Not long after thousands of outraged citizens came and held a noisy demonstration protesting against conditions at the hospital. The police came a second time to prevent people from forcing their way into the hospital. The third group outside the main entrance were a large group of reporters who were busy showing everything live on TV and who were demanding to see Director Lee. To everyone’s surprise she decided to face the crowd and address the press shortly after nine o’clock. When the doors opened and she appeared, the press shot off a barrage of questions while the crowd booed her and tried to shout her down.
“A statement,” she said. “I want to make a statement.”
The tumult subsided a little.
“We are shocked and horrified by the actions depicted in last night’s report. We have begun an internal investigation and if we find any of the allegations to be true and not a fabrication by a third party we will make sure that those responsible will face strong disciplinary action.”
There were jeers from the crowd.
“I would also like to assure you that patients at our sacred hospital receive the highest and best care possible…”
General laughter.
“…and that our staff are dedicated individuals who have chosen their profession because they want to help others. All of us here are very worried about what may happen to the patients so brutally removed by authorities earlier today in a cloak and dagger operation which stood in utter disregard to the law. I also want to protest against insinuations made in the TV report that we stand to profit from our patients dying. This is totally false and our legal team is assessing the possibility of legal action for defamation against the producer and individuals involved in making that disgusting example of gutter journalism.”
For a split-second there was silence. Then a furious roar erupted from the crowd and Director Lee beat a hasty retreat into the building. The door fell shut behind her just in time before a hail of half-empty bottles and cans, shoes and other objects slammed into the building. Riot police intervened and began to push the furious crowd back. After a few minutes things had calmed down again but the scenes of irate protesters were replayed on TV over and over again along with comments by Director Lee and the dreadful scenes of suffering patients at the Dryvellist Hospital.
The next morning Jeremiah graced the brethren with his presence during breakfast for the first time in quite a while. Not that he wanted to be present, he had grown much too accustomed to sleeping late to have breakfast early in the morning, he felt a profound sense of disquiet if not to say anxiety due to the negative publicity that compelled him to be present. Sycko let Jeremiah have his customary seat at the head of the long table and sat down beside him just as he had done months before.
All eyes were turned to Jeremiah, seeking guidance and reassurance, all of them looking worried and quite a few with shadows under the eyes indicating a restless night.
“Good morrow,” Jeremiah sighed. “Let us break the fast together as is our wont, and then,” he paused with another sigh, “and then we will talk about the terrible things that have transpired.”
Many hands quickly reached for food and drink. No one talked and everyone tried to get breakfast over with, eager to hear what the Master of the Temple had to say. Only Jeremiah didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Every mouthful he took seemed to wander around his mouth for what was an eternity for all the brethren watching him eat. They had all finished their meals and were waiting for Jeremiah to give the signal to rise. He didn’t notice. The room was silent apart from the odd clang of crockery when Jeremiah put his cup down. Slowly though, another noise was heard. Very quiet at first it gradually increased in strength until it sounded like the hum of a beehive. Confused the brethren looked around. They had never heard it before. Suddenly a window shattered into an explosion of glass. A brother sitting opposite fell to the floor with a scream. The brethren leapt to their feet and saw a large stone lying next to their unfortunate brother. Jeremiah hurried across and felt his pulse.
“He’s still alive,” he said. “Sycko, call an ambulance!”
Sycko ran off and the breakfast room exploded into uproar. Everyone was talking, shouting and yelling at the same time. Then one of them pointed out of the window.
“Look!” he shouted. “They’re coming for us.”
They looked outside and saw a huge crowd gathered below. An angry crowd surging against the walls of the temple like the tide running up against coastal defences in a storm surge.
“And call the police, too!” Jeremiah shouted after Sycko.
“Just as well the temple doors are a stout, massive affair,” Jeremiah thought.
Some of the horrified brethren stared out of the window at the angry mob below, but seeing faces at the window merely enraged the crowd even more. An angry roar erupted and various objects came flying towards the window. The brethren withdrew from the window in a hurry and pulled their fallen brother along the floor into the next room to safety.
Jeremiah peered into the breakfast room. Broken glass lay on the floor and the table, a bright red smear led from the table through the doorway to where they were now, the table was in a state never seen before. He shook his head in disbelief. “So much hatred,” he muttered. “Oh Lord, let the haters feel thy wrath and fury. Let thy will be done and let thy vengeance smite the unbelievers.”
His fists were clenched tightly and he felt his hands shaking.
“Master Jeremiah, you’re bleeding,” a brother told him.
“Eh, what?”
“Your hand, you’re bleeding.”
He gazed down at his tightly clenched fists and only then felt the pain of his fingernails digging into his skin. He opened his hands and saw the deep tears his fingernails had made in his left hand.
Later that day things had calmed down again. After the arrival of the police the noisy and violent demonstration outside the temple was dispersed and the injured brother taken to hospital, a public hospital – not the Dryvellist Hospital. The brethren set about cleaning up the mess in the temple and then uneasily assembled in the grand hall under Diana’s lachrymose eyes. After a brief talk by Jeremiah in which he denounced and condemned Dryvellophobia and hatemongers in his usual vein an embarrassed silence fell over the assembly. They sat together for some time avoiding each other’s eyes when for want of any better idea Jeremiah brought a small TV set from
his office and stood it on a chair. He switched it on.
“…and we are here reporting live from the Dryvellist Hospital where police yesterday rescued a large number of desperate patients kept in appalling conditions. We have learned today that criminal charges are being made by the state prosecution against the hospital and its administration who are denying any wrongdoing. In a dramatic turn of events Director Lee, who is in charge of the hospital, was spotted on the roof of the hospital in what appears to be a suicide attempt. The picture here in the studio of what is going on is still sketchy so we’re going live to our correspondent Cecilia Hopewell who is at the Dryvellist Hospital. Cecilia, can you tell us what’s going on?”
“Hi Harold. Well, as you can see behind me Director Lee is standing at the very edge of the roof and there is a real danger she may lose her balance and fall even if she doesn’t want to jump. Rescue services arrived here a few minutes ago and as you can see firefighters are desperately trying to inflate an airbed below where Director Lee is standing, to catch her should she fall. I am also informed by a police source that a negotiator is on her way to the rooftop. All we can do now is wait and hope that the negotiator will be able to talk to Director Lee and convince her to step back from the abyss she faces.”
“Now what about these charges brought against the hospital and, I understand, Director Lee by the prosecutor. I suppose they would have had a huge impact on her state of mind and might have pushed her to take this desperate step.”
“I spoke to the prosecutor earlier today and he told me that among the charges being brought are abuse, wilful neglect and murder. I don’t know if there’s a warrant for the arrest of Director Lee yet, but if she’s heard of the charges brought against the hospital and herself then it’s entirely probable that that pushed her over the edge, eh, no pun intended there, Harold. I wanted to say that such news could have put so much pressure on her that she decided to go on the roof. Whether she’s really intent on killing herself or whether this is a dramatic cry for help we cannot say.”
“I can see some activity there behind you on the rooftop. Can you tell us what is going on?”
“Ah, yes Harold. The police negotiator seems to have arrived and we can see her talking to Director Lee. From her gestures we can guess that she’s trying to calm down Director Lee, trying to deescalate the situation, but of course we don’t know what exactly is being said. What I can tell you is what a police source on the ground told me a few minutes ago, that this is still an ongoing investigation, they’re not even sure if any murder has been committed and given this the charges brought by the state prosecutor may seem somewhat rash, though, of course, we don’t know his reasoning. All this should become clearer in the coming days. So what the police here are stressing, and I’m sure this will be an important part of what the negotiator will try to bring across to Director Lee, is that she will be given a fair chance to defend herself and that at the moment it isn’t even clear whether she will have to defend herself in a court of law. Given these uncertainties there is no real reason why Director Lee should take her own life, we can only hope that the negotiator will be able to reason with her and persuade her to come away from the edge of the rooftop.”
“How are the firefighters doing? Have they managed to inflate the airbed yet?”
“Again I have not had any official word, but yes, it looks like it's ready, so even if Director Lee falls off the roof she should be safe.”
“What’s going on now, Cecilia? I can make out movement on the roof.”
“Indeed, Harold, I can see Director Lee stepping away from the edge and the negotiator is holding out her hands towards Director Lee in what looks like the end of the immediate crisis here. Director Lee has now taken another step towards the negotiator and she is cautiously lifting a hand, her right hand I think, towards her. This does look like the end of the drama here, an end that has come, I think we’re all relieved to see, without any bloodshed.”
“I can hear shouts behind you, Cecilia. What’s happening?”
“Oh my god, Harold. Things were just going fine a moment ago, but then Director Lee suddenly yanked her hand away from the negotiator. The negotiator tried to grab her but she jumped away. Now she’s running across the roof. She’s running at the very edge of the rooftop and she’s quickly getting away from the area made safe by the airbed. The negotiator is several steps behind her and we can see her calling to Director Lee. Now Director Lee is turning back towards the negotiator, we can only hope that this is another chance for…oh my god, she’s fallen. Director Lee stumbled and has fallen off the roof. As I can see she fell onto the ground below headfirst. That is a solid concrete ground where she has fallen and I think it is very unlikely anyone could have survived such a fall. The roof stands several storeys above ground. Paramedics are running towards the scene and an ambulance is on its way too. I have no official word yet but barring a miracle I think we must assume that Director Lee is dead. Back to you in the studio.”
“That is a terrible turn of events, Cecilia. Thank you. For our viewers who have just joined…”
Jeremiah jumped up in a fury and switched the TV off.
“Murderers!” he yelled his face turning crimson. “Filthy vile murderers. Did you see, my brothers? Did you see how the haters drove Director Lee to her death? How they persecuted her up to the very roof of her own hospital? The outrage, the terror! Can we Dryvellers find nowhere to live in peace?” He sighed and looked to the floor. “Let us pray, brothers. Let us pray to the Lord for His guidance.”
The brethren knelt on the floor facing Jeremiah and began to drool. With saliva running down their faces Jeremiah lifted his hands up.
“Mighty Lord,” he said. “We implore you for your strength and wisdom in these trying times. See how your poor servants are persecuted unto death. Behold the suffering at the hands of those who would destroy thy humble servants. We beseech thee, smite thy foes, cast them into the eternal hell fires, let them suffer in perpetuity for they have sinned against us, thy loyal and obedient followers. Oh Lord, we who believe in thee, we who recognize the holy bond of drivel, beg thee for thy aid and succour. Drivel, drivel, drivel.”
All the brethren said ‘drivel’ thrice to mark the end of the prayer and then rose to their feet.
“Well said, Master Jeremiah,” one of them said and shook his hand.
Sycko smiled. “An excellent prayer, Jeremiah. With God on our side, what have we to fear? The Lord will punish them!”
“Hear, hear,” Jeremiah said. “Brother Sycko is entirely right. God will punish the vile unbelievers, may they rot in hell. And we who are the Lord’s humble servants will do our duty to the Lord. Is it not our duty in this hour of need to assist the Lord in His fight against the enemy?”
There were some assenting voices and cheers.
“And I ask you this,” Jeremiah went on. “How are we to help God in His fight against the foe? Does God want us to simply stay in His temple and keep begging for help? Not so, I say. God wants us Dryvellers to go out there and do what we can to thwart our opponents. I ask each and every one of you to bring to your mind the laws of the Lord, those golden rules that fill our lives with meaning and peace. Do those laws not command us to bring eternal peace to the enemies of God so that we Dryvellers may live in peace?”
A resounding cheer rang out.
“Hooray for Master Jeremiah,” one voice shouted.
“Death to the unbelievers,” someone called.
“Dryvellism will rule the world,” a brother yelled.
Satisfied with the result Jeremiah looked at the infuriated brethren. How easy it was to incite them, he thought.
“What we need now,” Jeremiah said, “is a volunteer. A brother willing to do his duty to God and fulfil the oath he has sworn. A man glad to accept the Lord’s kind promise of superparadise and the 99 trillion virgins. In one word, a pukka Dryveller. Is there amongst you anyone worthy of the name Dryveller?”
The whole crowd eagerly surged
forward to volunteer, waving their hands, shouting their names and doing everything to get Jeremiah’s attention. Yet one man in particular managed to shout louder than anyone, managed to push everyone else aside and was the undisputed winner in this contest for martyrdom – Sycko.
Jeremiah, Master of the Temple, looked at him approvingly. “Very good, Brother Sycko. I always knew I could count on you. My loyal friend, how I envy you for this wonderful step you’re taking. If only I was free to do so, I would be the very first to go, but alas, my duties to the Lord keep me bound to the temple so that His will may be done.”
He pressed his lips together and slightly lowered his head to let everyone see how upset he was at not being able to take Sycko’s place. The brethren quickly rallied around him sympathizing with his plight.
“We understand, Jeremiah,” Sycko said. I’m sure the Lord will not hold it against you that you are so loyal to Him in doing your duties. This should not distress you. But I by no means want to take something that should rightfully be yours. If you think it better I’m sure you could take my place and we who are left behind here will manage even without you. It may be hard, but…”
“Oh no, no, no,” Jeremiah quickly said. “That wouldn’t do at all.”
The brethren looked at him feeling slightly surprised at his quick rejection of Sycko’s kind offer.
Jeremiah felt the blood going into his face. “Eh, erm, the thing is, well, to tell you the truth it is the Lord himself who commanded me to remain at my post, so you see, tempting as Sycko’s offer may be, it is quite out of the question for me to accept it.”
He put his hand on Sycko’s arm.
“Nevertheless, my dear Sycko, I would like to thank you for your kindness. It has truly touched my heart how you would put me before yourself. Such selfless dedication is the true mark of friendship and loyalty and we would all do well to remember it.”
He embraced Sycko and then took his hand while the brethren around them started singing ‘For he’s a jolly good Dryveller’.
The Martyr
Death is an evil;
the Gods have so decided.
Had death been good,
Gods would also die.
Sappho