1.11 Mina de Malfois and the Spiritual Renewal (part one)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.

Permissions: All rights reserved. All other reproduction, transmission, or storage, in any format, is prohibited unless the author is contacted beforehand and grants specific written permission. The author may be contacted at mina_de_malfois@yahoo.com.



I peered through the telescope I’d borrowed from Xena, her trunks having ominously arrived that morning. ‘What the devil is that?’ I asked out loud, even though I was alone on the balcony. I mean, I could see what it was: one emerald-green island visible from our cliff had sprouted, on the shore facing us, a number of white buildings, and the largest of these was, all too obviously, some kind of church.

I hunted down Liz, who was in her bedroom in the servants’ quarters, primly pinning a veiled hat into place. ‘Have you seen a sort of church thing on the nearest island?’ I asked her.

‘The Church of the Angels?’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s been in the works for a while. I think it finally got the go-ahead last week.’

I was flabberghasted, or possibly flabbergasted. ‘You mean players are tainting Sanguinity with religion?’ I asked, appalled.

She swivelled around to face me, and I noticed she was wearing her Ouija-board pendant. ‘Tainting?’ she asked. ‘Sanguinity is built around competing cultures of angels, vampires, and humans, Mina. Surely its scope for spirituality is obvious?’

I saw, belatedly, that I might have come across as a bit insensitive. ‘Do you belong to this...ah...Church of the Angels?’ I asked.

‘Of course not,’ she sniffed dismissively. ‘I’m a Neo-Table Rapper, thank you very much.’

Clearly this particular worm was more deeply in th’ bud than I’d realized. ‘There’s more than one in-game religion?’ I continued, not so much to get an answer--the answer was obviously ‘yes’--but because I was struggling to take this in. ‘So, wait: Warr1or’s a Sammich, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Liz patiently, ‘but that’s his ship. If you’re talking about his religion you’d call him a Resonant. Almost all Sammiches belong to the Temple of Resonance, which is more or less an offshoot of the Church of Angels.’

Curiosity overtook me. ‘What’s Arc?’

‘C of M,’ said Liz, sounding respectful. ‘I can’t believe this is news to you. There’s a huge religious and cultural market going on down in the harbour. You should check it out. Walk down with me, if you like.’

The harbour didn’t strike me as a terribly fitting site for religion, what with the quayside markets and roving packs of rough Jammies, but Liz was right. The southern end, where the docks turned into boardwalks and led out to a park, had sprung an array of tents and wooden booths and temporary buildings, each dedicated to some form or other of game spirituality. Liz quickly excused herself and ducked into the mist-shrouded tent belonging to the Neo-Table Rappers, so I was left to stroll about on my own.

It was amazing. Temple prostitutes of both sexes, draped in semi-transparent costumes, wandered through the crowds rattling collection boxes labelled ‘feedback.’ The Cult of Nice and the Cult of Mean had erected identical chapels, except that the Cult of Mean insignia featured a gun where the Cult of Nice insignia had a bottle of poison. ‘Brothers’ and ‘Sisters’ representing the Fraternity of Siblings and Cousins were handing out positively shocking brochures. Several spies flitted in and out of the Box of Shadows. The Jolly Holidays were soliciting funds for an open-air summer camp called ‘Think of the Children,’ and some group named WIKTT were raising money to open a special night school.

I passed outposts of the New Animist Lodge, the Otakukin Awakening, the Reincarnated Veterans of Historic Wars, the Cult of the Gay Unicorn, the Sacred Order of Typists, the Ark of the Otherkin, and the Whispering Assembly of Soulbonds and Muses. I had just registered that I recognized some of the women struggling with poles as they erected a huge plaid tent when one of them looked up. ‘Mina!’ she cried welcomingly. It was Mrs.Sev.

‘Looking for spiritual guidance?’ she asked me. I hadn’t been, but now that she’d suggested it I wondered if maybe I should be. I had a moderate to severe case of the doldrums. It wasn’t fandom: I was entirely satisfied with my online life. It was offline life that had begun to pall. I’d been toying with the idea of quitting my job, but the sad reality was that if I did, I’d have to find another one immediately. What I really wanted was to take a few weeks off and just recuperate from life for a bit, but that wasn’t economically feasible right now.

‘You know,’ she said suggestively, ‘we could always use a writer of your calibre under the Tented Tartan. Devotion to a fictional male is a more exhilarating experience than you might realize. Real men can’t compare to the ruthless, desirable superiority of our ideal partners.’

‘No,’ I conceded politely. ‘I suppose they can’t.’

She put her arm through mine and clung to me, making it impossible to leave. ‘I,’ she said confidentially, whispering close to my ear, ‘have a shrine to the Dark Schoolmaster in my room at home.’

‘Home?’ I asked. ‘You mean your encampment?’

‘No, no,’ she corrected me. ‘Of course, I consider the Cult of the Tented Tartan my true spiritual home, and I only wish our village on the Produce Isle existed in the mundane world--though without those ghastly Gay Unicorn Cultists on the other shore. But no, I was speaking of my offline home.’

‘You have a shrine to a fictional character in your actual home?’ I asked, confused.

‘It doesn’t signify that he’s fictional!’ she said sharply. ‘What matters is that I love him, and I have pledged myself, body and soul, to be his for all eternity.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said weakly, looking around wildly for some escape.

‘He speaks to me,’ she confided dreamily. ‘I pray to him, and I can feel him listening. I am the only one who truly understands the Master’s tortured, conflicted soul!’

‘I’m sure you are,’ I agreed.

‘I write him poetry,’ she persisted, ‘and every night when I go to bed I...’

‘I have to go in here!’ I interrupted, frantically stepping away and pointing to a random tent.

‘The Otakukin Awakening?’ she cooed, looking pleased with my choice. ‘That’s wonderful, Mina. Perhaps, once you discover who you are, we at the Cult of the Tented Tartan can help you find your ideal fictional male, and you can mate forever with him, and find fulfilment as I have done.’

‘Yes. Quite. Marvellous,’ I said, and ducked into the tent.

Inside it was cool but dim. There were scattered pinpoints of light. When my eyes adjusted I saw these were book-lights, wielded by variously costumed avatars who lounged on a variety of chairs and cushions, each deeply engrossed in a book. A few, less bookishly, were instead bluelit by small, flickering handheld screens.

At the far end of the tent, two girls were arguing and struggling for possession of a remote control. Their strikingly similar avatars were both clad in 80s fashions, though the blonde wore a conservative business suit and the pink-haired one was tricked out as a rock star.

‘How could you?’ the pink-haired girl shrieked. ‘You know I remembered her first!’

‘If you can categorize that level of OOC-ness as ‘remembering’,’ the blonde hissed viciously, ‘then you’re obviously nothing but a misfit.’ Her pink-tressed friend burst into tears and ran from the tent. The blonde smiled triumphantly and, clutching the remote, flopped down in front of a small screen.

‘Mina,’ said a cool, low, seductive voice. I turned. Josh Amos was lounging near the entrance, dressed in blue and white and carrying, for some unfathomable purpose, a tennis racket. He stepped out of the shadows and came to stand beside me. This was the closest I’d ever been to his graceful, slim-hipped presence, and when he casually tossed his tousled brown hair my stomach did queer little flip-flops. The book-lights and screens brought out his golden highlights in a disconcerting way. There was satisfaction in his eyes when he saw me looking. I reminded myself that I was a BNF, but the stomach-flutters continued fluttery.

‘It’s wonderful to see you here,’ he purred.

‘Thank you,’ I said, but his friendliness was making me suspicious. ‘I see Squid and Squickability is getting good reviews.’ As well it might, I thought; I’d recc’d his fic in glowing terms myself. Some might wonder why I would lavish praise on Sanguinity fic other than my own, but that’s just the kind of selfless BNF I strive to be. Besides, I wanted some of fandom’s attention focussed on Josh Amos. He was, I was sure, up to something.

Just then the clock above my desk chimed a warning. ‘I have to go,’ I said to Josh, with real regret at losing this opportunity to speak to him. ‘I have--um--commitments back in the real world.’

‘Such an inferior world in so many ways,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I look forward to seeing you here again, Lady Mina.’ His avatar gave mine an appraising glance as she faded from game space.

I’d done the evening shift at work for six days in a row before I finally had a day off. That night I got off my last shift feeling sticky and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than a cool shower and bed. The heat had been so oppressive I had no appetite. A long sleep, I promised myself as I stepped out of the shower, and tomorrow morning I’ll have something healthy for breakfast.

Of course, all that gang aft agley. At around two in the morning my stomach rumbling woke me, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I fixed myself a bowl of strawberries and cream, because it was the most refreshing thing I could think of, and absentmindedly logged in to Sanguinity while I ate. Malfois Manor was gorgeous in the moonlight, and deserted, so my nightgown-clad avatar wandered the halls holding her lantern aloft just like a heroine in a Gothic novel.

I frowned, and turned up the volume. Had someone else logged in? I could hear sobbing coming from the attic. My avatar went up the narrow wooden stairs, and the hair at the back of my real-life neck stood on end. I’ll say this for the Creator of Sanguinity, she really knows how to convey atmosphere. The floorboards creaked, the crying echoed eerily, and my heart hammered just as if I was really there.