Myrmecomorphy

 
Fern stands in the church pew wearing her floral Sunday dress. Large peonies blossom across the fabric. Her soprano voice is absorbed by the congregation’s rendition of “As the Deer.” The chapel is full. A fan wafts sweat and rose oil in circles above the parishioners. Fern mindlessly rubs her fingers together through prayers. Her husband, Silas, stands at the pulpit, almost hidden behind a bouquet of lilies.
 
His sermon recounts the story of the Nephilim.
 
“God regretted their existence,” he says, “allowing his sons to procreate with women, to produce half-human creatures. He wiped them out with a flood.”
 
Fern tries to focus on his words. His homily is muddied by the lilies, as if Silas is speaking through water. Outside, flies pick at a rabbit carcass on the church lawn. Thoughts of necrobiomes drift across her mind. She thinks about how excess nutrients from dead animals alter plant life. She wonders what will grow in the remnants of the rabbit’s body, if another animal will carry the remains away.
 
The congregation rises, singing “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Silas raises his hand as he recites the benediction and walks down the aisle to the exit. He shakes parishioners’ hands as they leave. They laugh and hug him. They tell him their woes: health problems, spiritual concerns.
 
Fern stands silently against the wall, watching women flirt with her husband. Beneath the floorboards, worms tunnel through the dirt. Termites eat through decaying wood.
 

*

 
After church, Fern walks in the wildflower field behind the parish. Coreopsis and chicory bend with the wind. Butterflies feast on fish carrion by the river. She sits on a rock and watches yellow wings ascend from silver scales. The current carries sticks and plant debris downstream.
 
Fern records observations in a notebook, draws chamomile and coneflowers. The sun descends as she walks home. Orchard orioles join a chorus of songbirds.
 
The light in Silas’ office is on.
 
She cracks chicken eggs into a pan, pours water into a glass.
 
Silas emerges from his office. His framed degree hangs on the wall. His hair is messy. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. They talk about the day.
 
“How far do you think they’ll go?” Fern asks.
 
Silas pours himself a glass of water, sits down at the table, and exhales.
 
“How far have they already gone?” Silas replies.
 
They joined the congregation after Silas heard that a remote northwestern religious sect was looking for a new leader. Rumors about misogyny, ritual sacrifice, and their pastor’s imprisonment spread through the region.
 
“Do you think they’ll ever realize your backstory is a lie?” Fern asks.
 
Silas smiles and, once again, describes example after example of lying leaders.
 
“Some people only hear what they want,” he says. “Considering their otherworldly beliefs and inability to separate fact from fiction, I doubt it.”
 

*

 
Fern tends to her bees and sells their honey. She observes her ant farm and records notes. The ant queen is ten years old, the ovary of a superorganism. She pours urine on dead trout to attract butterflies and takes pictures as they land.
 
The congregants put lights outside at night, a ritual signal to heaven. They work their farms and gather for communal meals on Sundays.
 
Silas recites his sermons in the study; his baritone voice is muffled by oak doors.
 
In the chapel, he preaches about the end times, celestial bodies, being the elect people of God. He talks about prophecy and the afterlife. Everyone bows their heads in prayer. The congregation celebrates renewal. They roast a goat.
 
Fern reads about sawflies, how their colonies are composed of leaders and followers. She writes papers about insect hierarchies. She collects information about social roles and reproduction.
 

*

 
An elderly parishioner dies. The church is filled with flowers. At the funeral, the congregation wears white. They expect the deceased to be reborn at any moment. They whisper about souls after death.
 
The body is unmoving.
 
Silas delivers his sermon. He knows the departed is not coming back. He fabricates reasons for the lack of rebirth. Heads nod in agreement.
 
Pallbearers carry the wicker casket down the aisle. Fern thinks about necrophoresis, the removal of deceased colony members among social insects. She thinks about how the behavioral patterns and development of undertaker ants vary from other colony members.
 
She wonders if these pallbearers are any different?
 
A crowd dressed in white surrounds the grave as the casket is lowered into the ground. Wind rustles a cottonwood tree. Daisies are tossed into the hole.
 

*

 
In the parish house, Silas and Fern eat dinner. They drizzle honey over sourdough bread.
 
“They’ll believe anything I tell them,” Silas sighs, detailing ideas passively accepted by the congregation.
 
Fern pours herself more water. “Can you imagine a bee waggle dance that promised wildflowers but led to nothing?” she asks.
 
Silas wipes his mouth. “That’s how it feels to be the leader of this congregation. It’s like I’m doing a waggle dance to nowhere.”
 
“Or maybe not even nowhere, but somewhere dangerous. Bees flying through the air into a wasteland.”
“Lies only last so long,” Silas replies.
 
“Everything only lasts so long,” Fern reminds him.
 
Sunlight wanes behind Silas’s head. Gold sky disintegrates into blackness. Lamplight casts a warm glow over the table.
 
Silas calculates the average duration of cults, examines outcomes in the same way Fern calculates the lifespans of insect colonies. As they clean their plates, they talk about camouflage and how colony members only see what is necessary for survival.