Matter over Mind

Father Hermes walked down the street, his mind at ease and his body the same. Though he knew it wasn’t so, it still seemed that at this moment all things in the world were as they should be, and while time might change this, he was certain such challenges could be comfortably met head on. He rounded the corner and stepped into the sunlight that bathed this street. Yes, this moment would stay with him, tucked away like a secret book in a library.
It was then that he felt pain in the back of his skull, and the sunbeams turned dark.

Delicately Father Hermes lifted the lid off the tea pot and pulled out the bag, squeezing the last strains of flavour that remained. While normally he would have simply left it in, liquid refused to exit the spout of this particular pot as long as the teabag remained inside.
“Milk?” he asked his guest.
“No thank you Father, I prefer it black.”

“Do you get Black tea?” Father Hermes muttered as he awoke. He blinked several times, each bringing his surroundings more into focus. It looked like some sort of hospital room, with medical supplies and instruments dotted around. It certainly had that clinical smell which he would associate with such places. He tried to raise his body for a better look, only to find he was bound to the bed on which he lay.
A voice came over, and with it the pain resurfaced.
“That wasn’t much of an ice breaker” it said.
Father Hermes tried to turn his head towards this voice, but it too was tied down.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you a doctor? Am I in hospital?”
“I’m a surgeon,” the man, yes the voice was definitely male, replied. “And this is my operating theatre.”
“Is anything wrong with me?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m going to fix you.”
Father Hermes thought about the pain in his head. “What happened? Did I fall?”
“Yes Father.” The steps came closer, and from the corner of his left eye Father Hermes saw a large syringe. “That’s exactly right.”
The surgeon inserted it into Father Hermes neck, who let out a cry of pain.
“You’re lying” he said, feeling things slip and drift.
“A man in your profession should be used to that,” said the surgeon, his words sinking away.

“Let’s swap hats!” shouted Hermes as he ran around, playing in the back garden with Julius, the child from next door.
“I dunno” said Julius. “My dad says the Kippah isn’t a toy.”
“Come on, don’t be dull. I’ve never worn one before.” Hermes took off his own flat cap and handed it to Julius, who took it grudgingly.
“That’s because you’re not Jewish” he said. Yet he handed over his skull cap willingly enough.
Promptly Hermes donned it. “Well now I am!” he declared happily. “Now I can celebrate Hanukah and Christmas.” And with that he danced a wild jig.
“Hermes!” an angry voice called “What on earth are you doing!?” Hermes’ Father strode down the lawn to him. “Take that off this instant!”
Not even pausing to allow his command to be obeyed, he tore the skull cap from Hermes head.
“I’m sorry father!” Hermes squealed as he was dragged inside. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m…”

“Sorry!” He awoke on the table. The pain in his head was gone now, along with something else, but what it was Hermes couldn’t think.
“Do you say something foolish every time you awake?” the surgeon asked. “No matter, just tell me how you feel right now.”
Confused as he was, Hermes obeyed. “I feel…” He struggled for words and picked the only one that seemed right. “Less.”
“Hmm, how about that” said the surgeon. He undid the braces which had held Hermes down, who immediately raised his hands to his temples, which felt fat and itchy. It was then that he touched the stitches.
“What have you done to me!?” Hermes asked, fear and anger rising, fighting each other for control.
“I’ve fixed you,” said the surgeon. “Just as I said I would.” He looked at Hermes uncomprehending face.
“Very well, I can see such succinct explanations aren’t to your liking, so I shall start at the very beginning.” The surgeon began pacing the room slowly, self satisfied eyes running over his instruments. He began to speak.
“The French Philosopher Voltaire once wrote that if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him. I however take a very contrary view. I know that God exists, and as such I see it as absolutely necessary to kill him. But how to go about such an impossible task?”
He looked at Hermes with earnest eyes, and went on.
In the 1980’s a famous neurological experiment was carried out with electromagnetic energy. By use of a special helmet that sent out weak magnetic fields to the frontal lobes of the brain, scientists were able to induce states of religious euphoria upon anyone who wore it. Even the staunchest of atheist walked away thinking they had experienced the very will of God.”
Here he flashed Hermes a smile. “Wouldn’t that have been a handy thing for your sermons?”
“Desperate to find out the cause, more experiments were conducted with this so called “God Helmet” and it was later revealed that all such spiritual feelings are derived from a very particular, very small, area of the left hemisphere. This part of the brain, nicknamed “Heavens gate” has no other purpose but that of belief in a higher power. Which raises the question-what happens when you remove it?”
He stroked Hermes hair tenderly, tracing the stitches along his temples with a long delicate finger.
“Of course not any old person would do. You would need a man of deep spiritual convictions, one who studied and spoke to and with all his heart and mind believed in God. A man of faith. A man very much like you, Hermes.”
At this the Surgeon broke off and pulled a small test tube from his jacket. “Your parents must have had some sense of irony when they named you. Did you know that Hermes is the Patron Saint of mental illness?”
Hermes looked at the test tube held up before him. Inside was a small greyish lump.
“This is all that God is” the surgeon said. “One grain of flesh. No more. No less.”
He raised it up, and poured its contents into his mouth. Hermes watched in horror as the surgeon closed his eyes and worked the lump around his mouth. He swallowed.
“Ah, simply…divine.”
“Why? Said Hermes. “Why do this? What could have happened to you to make you so?”
“I am only what God has made me. You could never understand.”
“I understand that God will forgive you.”
“And I will forget him” the surgeon replied, drawing out his needle and again stabbing it into Hermes.
No dreams. Only Black.

Hermes awoke, saying nothing. He was exactly where he had been on the street, and it seemed that even those very same sunbeams still bore down on him, though they seemed a lot dimmer to his eyes. He wandered if the whole thing had been imagined, and with fear and doubt he raised his hands to his temples, searching for the stitches.
A young woman approached him and knelt down, her face concerned.
“Oh my God. Are you ok? Do you need an ambulance? Tell me how you feel?”
“I don’t know” said Hermes.