Harold the Harbinger
By Rain Sullivan
Published in Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction, February 2026
A disclaimer for my mortal readers: This narrator neither confirms nor denies the presence of singular or nonsingular gods, goddesses, or their ungendered and/or multi-gendered equivalents. As the existence of deities can neither be proven nor disproven, said topic is not the pinnacle of this tale, and religions may best be thought of as “entities” separate from said religion that are neither god, nor human, nor real. Please note, religion “attributes” and following counts in this work of fiction are, however, based on real-world statistics. Enjoy.
Location: Two levels above Lexington Avenue, NYC, Earth. Plane: Proximal. Year: 1997 according to The Eternal on High.
Above a swanky piano bar on 73rd and Lexington, there’s a second bar, a quainter, much quieter bar. It can be accessed from any door, anywhere, at any time, so long as the entrant has been selected to live life in-between, and the time is of the present or the near-future. No go-sie backsies, unless of course, the go-sie backser is returning from the near-future to the present.
The bar is The Hardy Harbinger, The Binger for short, and in its darkest, dingiest corner, there sits the most cynical of hand-selected harbingers: Harold of Lady Paganism. Beside Harold sit his almost, though not quite as cynical companions, Hemi of Ruler Rastafarianism and Helena of Leader Shinto, here to discuss another horrendous year of trying to sway the humans to their Eternal’s will and bitch about how much they can’t fucking stand the Holy Harbingers, who, by the way, are not holy, but rather lucky. And seated at the best table, four tables over, gulping down celebratory jägerbombs.
“They deserve to roll in shit,” Harold said, too dismally ancient for true jealousy but just right for a cool, even-keeled ire.
“They really do.” Hemi, the newbie, slimmed their eyes and clinked their overly frothed beer to Harold’s, not minding that he’d not raised his from its soggy napkin posing as a coaster. (The Binger generally copied what cheap bars in the corporeal plane were doing nowadays to cut corners.) “Gosh though, what I wouldn’t give to be her.” Hemi caught their cheeks in their cupped hands whilst staring down Harriet of Master Christianity with whom they’d been madly in love with since their selection post-conception of a new Eternal, Ruler Rastafarianism, back in the 1930’s. Twas only right—spin-off Eternals often chose spin-off Harbingers, who couldn’t help but pine after what they’d never be. On the contrary, Harold, who’d known Harriet since her selection (and subsequent claim to fame), reserved most of his cool, even-keeled ire for her and her alone.
“Quit staring.” Helena sighed. “It won’t do you any good.”
Hemi, assuming the comment was intended for them, replied: “You’re just sour because I haven’t lost my humanity yet.”
Helena, who no longer had the capacity for sourness but could throw a good side-eye, slurped her beer unbothered. Having been selected centuries ago by Leader Shinto, she was rather used to skimming the edge of the proximal plane, as it were. Her Eternal didn’t have the drive Ruler Rastafarianism did to conquer the incorporeal planes (such is the way of missionary Eternals), as long as he was offered enough earthly praise points to linger in the ether, Helena heard no complaints.
Harold, rather unfortunately, was hounded for praise points day in and day out by Lady Paganism. (Not here, of course, Eternals existed—in the loosest sense of the word—entirely in the incorporeal planes and could not partake in the ongoings of the corporeal or proximal planes.) To be fair, he and his Eternal had known great followership, great power. And it didn’t matter one bit that he didn’t have easy-access omens like pithy little Harriet of Master Christianity—with her cutesy light-rays-streaming-through-the-clouds act and the recent resurgence of goth attire and devil-themed tattoos that had every devout Christian crossing themselves and fattening up The Eternal on High—it was Harold’s duty to afford Lady Paganism praise points.
And so, it was easy to scowl at the Holy Harbingers—Harriet of Master Christianity, Helga of Master Islam, and Haider of Leader Non-religious/Agnostic/Secular/Atheist (who simply went by NASA)—and imagine living the charmed life of westernizing the evil eye into a tchotchke and pinning cheesy Bible verses to STEM-centric university bulletin boards for STEM-students to roll their eyes at. Haider had it the easiest these days, stealing and misplacing other Harbingers’ omens. Not that NASA cared much, they didn’t even collect the points they earned which made every Harbinger (and their corresponding Eternal) wonder if the world and every plane stacked atop it may not collapse without a bottom-up flow of energy. Another problem for another night at The Binger.
“Have you ever noticed,” Harold began, digging one thumbnail beneath the other, “how little our omens actually matter?”
Hemi wore a flabbergasted expression. Helena licked her lips before curling them into an intrigued grin. She enjoyed speculation at the expense of their entire purpose—one of Harold’s specialties and likely the primary reason they’d become such fast friends post her selection.
“How could you say such a thing?” Hemi balked.
“Go on, dear,” Helena cooed, patting the back of Harold’s hand.
“Praise counts regardless of how it’s acquired. For some, a black cat warrants a quick ‘Christ’ and Harriet, the golden child, triumphs once again. For others, Mittens, a random neighborhood cat, is the Wicca’s familiar—”
“Yeah, you get a lot of points that way?” Helena teased.
Harold rolled his eyes. “For most,” he continued, “the cat is simply a cat. There is no reaction, no altering of plans, of beliefs, of…anything. Why?”
“What’s it matter?” Hemi asked. “Some people groups recognize the black cat omen, while others do not. That’s why omen selection and proper placement is such an esteemed practice. See the near-future, return, and place the omen in order to form a correlation between omen and event. Lather, rinse, repeat, until correlation becomes causation.”
“Precisely. For no reason at all, besides a misconstrued correlation, an omen is successful. In other words, the black cat means nothing. If every time a given human loses a loved one, I show said human something to do with, let’s say, goldfish first, will they associate goldfish with death? Will they pray to the almighty goldfish? Could it become the new black cat?”
“Sure.” Helena shrugged. “But I think Leader Shinto would acquire goldfish praise points long before Lady Paganism would.”
“Fine, yes, fair enough.” Harold flipped his hands apathetically.
“So, why the black cat then?” Hemi, though not generally a fan of Harold’s compulsion to speculate, leaned closer. “If there’s nothing unique to the black cat, why is it so effective? Or why not give every human their own personalized set of omens?”
“Terminate me now, can you imagine how long that would take?” Helena mock-gagged. “There’s a reason religious texts and spiritual symbols are such effective omens: recognizability.”
Harold snapped his fingers. “Exactly, the faster the correlation forms, the sooner it’s effective. Make a symbol recognizable, catchy, popular even, and the correlation exists sans intervention. Harriet’s not wasting time convincing Catholics to dip body into blood; Helga’s not cueing Muslims to pray to Mecca five times a day. The fear of what might happen if they don’t do these things exists because they’ve taught it to one another. They know what to do, when to do it, and praise in accordance, oftentimes long before they understand why, if they ever do.”
“Almost makes you wonder why harbingers were selected in the first place, if omens exist regardless of our intervention.” Helena pouted, knowing it would get under Hemi’s skin.
“Truly.” Harold nodded. “Well, save for Eternals with smaller followings.” He motioned to the three of them. “They needed a way to level the playing field. But if one Eternal gets a harbinger, then they all do, in the name of fairness, and skewed equality, and all that.”
All three of them looked at the Holy Harbingers, more smug than before.
“They deserve to roll in shit,” Hemi echoed.
Harold clinked their glass this time. “They really do.”
“And,” Helena trilled, skating the rim of her pint with her finger, “what might that look like exactly?”
“Uh, horrifically messy, I suppose.” Hemi made a face.
“A jägerbomb,” Harold answered over them. It was customary for the three top-performing Harbingers to receive complimentary jägerbombs—despite jägerbombs, beers, chairs, tables, and mood lighting being nearly non-physical, and thus nearly meaningless, in this plane—from the barkeep upon completion of another successful year. Harold used to receive their equivalence back in the day (mulled wine in a proximal shack). Now he was consistently overlooked.
“A jägerbomb, then.” Helena raised her glass.
“Are you…are you proposing something?” Harold arched a brow.
“Rather obviously. I challenge you to acquire a celebratory jägerbomb from the barkeep.”
Harold drummed his fingers against the soggy table. “Parameters?”
“Reclaim what Harriet’s so cavalierly claimed from you.”
Harold scoffed. “Just give me another few dozen centuries.”
“Fine then, play for third. Knock Haider of NASA from his high horse.”
Harold, with his almost empty pint at his lips, opted not to sip lest he clink (to do so would be to place upon himself a bad omen). “Third, huh? Time constraint?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” With a rather belabored harumph, Harold thwacked his beer to hers. “Challenge accepted.”
Location: East 10th Street, NYC, Earth. Plane: Corporeal. Year: 2002 according to The Eternal on High.
On the verge of calling it quits—something harbingers could do if they were willing to cease to exist across all planes—Harold got himself a New York City loft smackdab in the middle of the heat, humidity, and humanity of the corporeal plane. The space was what every artist or writer in every Allen-esque film chose to be host and witness to their genius: exposed brick to inspire creativity, scuzzy windows to ignite passion. Lady Paganism claimed it was unconventional but told Harold to do whatever he thought was necessary to save the Eternal her ever-thinning skin.
The other night at The Binger—almost five years ago to the human mind, but a mere blip to a harbinger of Harold’s seniority—had got him thinking, wondering. If omens, a stimulant disguised as a warning or a sign, were more successful when popularized, was a good marketing plan the true key to an Eternal’s longevity? And thus, Harold’s celebratory jägerbomb?
So many harbingers were hung up on the what. If not a black cat, a cracked mirror, a scythe, a spilled salt shaker, something, anything to get their followers to look up to the heavens and beg, or whisper sweet hopes and dreams into their folded hands. But if what didn’t actually matter, why not pick something already trendy to make omens of? Find a rising correlation and give it meaning.
Unlike those who’d dwelled in the loft prior, with their clicky typewriters and crusty paint brushes, Harold invested in a heavy duty Sony Vaio desktop computer. Wildly enough, the humans had created a semi-proximal plane of their own, the internet. Harold had known it was going to be the next big thing slightly before it had been a thing at all, but he hadn’t thought until recently to put said next big thing to good use.
If this was to be the primary place of human interaction, connection, meaning, and purpose, then it only made sense to immerse himself in their brave new world before other harbingers caught on and, once again, left him in the dust.
When he’d told Helena and Hemi of his venture to crack the tried and true (but failing for a few) Harbingerial System, Helena had shrugged and said, “Best of luck,” while Hemi had been thrilled, excited for an opportunity to pick up their performance and, if all went well, hop tables at The Binger. But as soon as Harold informed them they’d need to do their own experimenting to determine what omens were effective for Ruler Rastafarianism, they too said, “Best of luck,” before ordering another pint for themselves and Helena.
That afternoon, Harold created an AIM account and joined his first chat room: Witches of SUNY Stony Brook. But, unfortunately, it seemed none of its members actually believed themselves to be witches, and worse still, the whole lot of them refrained from partaking in any pagan ceremonies.
Undeterred, Harold joined four hundred and ninety-six similar chat rooms across the globe. Some were dormant, others discussed the on-goings of some fictional highschooler who killed vampires and repeatedly side-stepped the apocalypse, while only a rare few spoke of things like upcoming harvest festivals and meditation retreats. And though the latter would afford his Eternal her much desired praise, Harold couldn’t for the life of him determine how to sway the former to shift focus.
In an attempt to better understand the root of their obsession, he ended up watching the entirety of the vampire killer show along with one about three witch-sisters and a mildly disturbing but oddly enticing flick starring Jack Nicholson and Cher.
For months, the only conclusion Harold could draw was that humans simply wanted superhuman abilities, to curse and hex, to slay and revive. They didn’t care to worship the power right below their feet, the chemical magic in the soil and the food they ate, the wonder of flesh and bone repurposed.
Paganism and pagan-inspired lore had become two halves of a snapped branch.
Location: Orchard Street, NYC, Earth. Plane: Corporeal. Year: 2004 according to The Eternal on High.
It was a particularly crisp and shiny October day on the Lower East Side when Harold witnessed a nine-year-old named River Jones-Montgomery purchase a psychedelic Aries sticker from a sticker vending machine in the diner-cafe he’d become a regular at since upgrading to a laptop in the Spring of 2003. She’d inserted four of her father’s quarters, then cranked and cranked until out popped a cardboard encased, glittery sticker of a rather sexualized, yet cartoonish enough to overlook it, goat-girl with Aries Princess slapped across the bottom in bright pink bubble letters.
Little River Jones-Montgomery was a Cancer according to the zodiac calendar.
In that moment, and the one that followed, wherein little River Jones-Montgomery stuck said horn-y sticker to the inside of her father’s very expensive BMW window, Harold had an epiphany. With an uptick of religious non-affiliation world-wide, a large chunk of the human population was newly in need of something to believe in, even if they were disparaging of the concept of belief. They were thinkers, these modern humans, who touted science over faith but, more often than not, weren’t actually committed to peeling back the layers of truth. So, how to check one box while slyly checking the other?
Pseudosciences.
It almost felt like a joke, to come back to the stars and the moon after paganism had been reduced to little more than ‘the true origin of the Christmas tree.’ But an interest in the cosmos, star signs, albeit glitter stickers and symbol-appropriate soul mates, could be just the type of untapped popularity Harold had been on the hunt for.
He sipped his espresso with vigor, then opened his MySpace account in hopes of hatching a plan to utilize the rise in popularity of both online spaces and pseudosciences to his advantage, so that next year, when he met with Hemi and Helena for a beer at The Binger, his Eternal’s newfound heft would put those Un-holy Hacks back in their place.
Upon sending friend requests to anyone promoting anything evenly remotely related to “pseudoscience,” Harold learned neither friendship nor acquaintanceship actually mattered on the internet. Within an hour, he had over four hundred new friends—palm readers, crystal ball enthusiasts, small-town psychics, and anyone brave enough to wear half a stick of eyeliner, a metal T, and praise Mother Earth publically. Within two hours, he’d found four pagan group leaders, a pagan cult (though calling themselves a cult had Harold doubting they knew what a cult was), and a “Lit Witch Circle” that swapped pagan-adjacent texts, spells, and rituals.
On a tech-, or perhaps espresso-induced high, Harold began sharing others’ profiles with his “friends,” commenting on bulletin boards, and even linking a website with Pagan Practices 101 (a PDF he made) to his ever-growing page.
Location: Two levels above Lexington Avenue, NYC, Earth. Plane: Proximal. Year: 2010 according to The Eternal on High.
“The primary issue with popularity is that it follows the youth. The primary issue with the youth is that their collective attention span is nearly non-existent, especially compared to that of an archaic harbinger such as myself.”
“There, there, old friend.” Helena patted Harold’s shoulder as they once again took up residence at The Binger’s least desirable table. In six years of altering horoscope predictions to match instances of good fortune, pushing YouTube videos of alt chicks explaining the potential consequences of Mercury in retrograde to those on the verge of job-loss, and creating not-quite-but-close psychological quizzes to nudge people into purchasing patchouli scented sticks so they’d attempt to cleanse their aura, Harold was yet to enjoy anything but a compensatory beer with Hemi and Helena.
“Look on the bright side.” Hemi shrugged. “At least your numbers haven’t been stagnant. Who knows? Paganism might actually make a comeback. And who cares if most of your recent conversions are due to the Teen Witch phase. Chanting spells to one’s candle-crowded alter—be it to fairies, Odin, or the moon goddess—still affords your Eternal praise. Aside from natural proliferation in the Caribbean, I’ve only managed mild growth in the form of jailhouse conversions. Mind you, omen placement in such dismal settings is almost laughably simple…”
“What I wouldn’t give for a little simplicity,” Harold groaned, not having to look to know the Holy Harbingers had been gifted yet another round of jägerbombs. The plunking of their shot glasses into their steins of caffeinated swill had long ago weaseled its way into the depths of his mind and would echo there for all time if time didn’t buck up and do him the courtesy of petering out already. “Youths are neither simple, nor stagnant. They’re Wiccas today and Agnostics or Born-again Christians tomorrow. And where they get their information changes at the drop of a hat, meaning I need to be ready to catch and re-right that hat all day, every day, for what, the rest of time? I need the long-term commitment of belief to do the work for me, but one day it’s zodiac signs in the newspaper, and the next it’s moon phases in pop star en-plastered magazines. And it’s only getting worse, with things spreading like astral matter as children, literal babes, take to devices smarter than they. First Xanga, then MySpace, now Facebook. Have you seen what these modern computers can do? It’s insane. Any closer to the human brain and the humans may have actually created their next greatest enemy.”
“Perhaps you’re playing this all wrong,” Hemi offered. “If your modern approach is scarcely out-performing the tried and true, then maybe the tried and true—”
“On my Eternal.” Harold caught his face in his hands, then sat up quick. “That’s it.”
“What’s it?” they asked.
“I’m still doing the tried and true. The whole plan was to hitch a ride to the ever-evolving trend train, but what have I done up until now besides chase it?” The last decade seemed to crumble right out from under Harold.
“You know who’s always guaranteed a ride?” Helena cooed.
“Who?”
“The conductor. Stop condemning the next app, the next fad, the next whatever. Embrace it, be at the forefront of its introduction to the population, welcome and encourage its usage, steer folks in the direction they would have likely gone anyhow but with a healthy dose of good and bad omens.
“What’s that new app you were chattering on and on about?” Helena rolled her wrist, knowing no amount of rolodexing through her memory would land her anywhere close to an answer, for she hadn’t stored said answer to begin with.
“Some photo-sharing app or another, then a video-sharing app that will fail, then a spin-off of the photo-sharing app. That’s about as far as I can glimpse.”
Helena nodded, thinking deeply despite the many snags and creaks it caused her generally docile prefrontal cortex. “Perfect. So, the trend is sharing apps, maybe even more so than what is being shared.”
“Oh for the love! It’s called social media.” Hemi rolled their eyes, only to settle them right back on Harriet of Master Christianity, who, though gleaming and glorious as ever, was developing a rather ghostly glower. Over the last several decades, Haider of Leader NASA had been exponentially gleaning praise points away from other harbingers by simply boosting the gay rights movement with good omens: sunny Pride parades on days it should have rained, strategically placed sex-positive pamphlets, that sort of thing. And it wasn’t as though Harriet or anyone here had anything against any subset of human rights—such futile human conflicts actually made little sense to harbingers who upon selection were defaulted to pansexuality and given the option to reestablish their pronouns and their names (so long as that name began with an H)—but the bulk of Leader NASA’s new points were being pulled at the expense of Master Christianity.
Helena snorted with laughter. “What in the layered planes is that?”
“A Samsung Galaxy S.” Harold shook the device.
“Maybe that’s your problem,” Hemi suggested. “You’re naturally trend averse.”
“I’ve looked ahead, Androids will perform better than iPhones globally in a few short years. It’s better I learn this system now.”
“But does that make Androids trendy?” Hemi asked.
Harold thought about that and realized the error in his ways, the exact error Helena had all but spelled out for him moments prior. In a flash, literally, Harold acquired an iPhone 4. “Top of the line,” he said, despite knowing it was middle of the line at best. “Instagram launches early next month and will have approximately 25,000 users in its first day,” he told them. “But it’s not just enough to be on it, to ride the tailwinds of what becomes popular, as you my friends have made abundantly clear with your spot-on analysis of my simpleminded oversights—”
“You have to be at the forefront of what’s to be trendy,” Hemi said, missing the point by a few freckles and hairs.
“Not what. Who. Who’s to be trendy. I’ve seen this term come up again and again in the future, influencer, and I couldn’t wrap my head around their purpose because I was so hung up on what. Still! After all these years of experimentation, I was hung up on what.” Harold shook his head. “Pathetic, really,” he snickered, “following others to see where they led me, when I should have been the one leading them.”
“So, what?” Hemi flared their nostrils. “You’re going to be an influencer now?”
“Why not? If other Eternals can have corporeal players—preachers, rabbis, shaman—why can’t I?”
“Sure, but you’re not corporeal.”
Harold shrugged. “I look it.”
“Aren’t influencers just salespersons in disguise?” Helena mused.
“And what is a preacher, or any swayer of thought sans evidence, if not a salesperson?”
“An influencer,” Helena smirked.
“Bingo.” Harold grinned.
“Huh.” Hemi leaned back. “I wonder if I could be an influencer.”
“I don’t see why not.” Harold nudged them. “Perhaps in a few years, decades, you and I will receive jägerbombs and maybe even an invite to the golden table.”
“Gag me with a spoon.” Helena stuck out her tongue.
But Hemi’s eyes brightened with renewed desperation. “Let’s go forward a month and make accounts.”
“Let’s.” Harold said, taking Hemi’s hand and venturing with them into the near-future.
Location: Two levels above Lexington Avenue, NYC, Earth. Plane: Proximal. Year: 2023 according to The Eternal on High.
In just over a decade, Harold increased Lady Paganism’s praise point count by tenfold in North America alone as @HaroldThePagan. Touted as one of Instagram’s earliest and most influential users, @HaroldThePagan inspired thousands across all platforms to teach one another the craft of aesthetic potionology just in time for #SpookySzn, how to compare astrological readings to Enneagram personality traits, and the benefits of bringing evergreen boughs into their overpriced Sprinter Vans in honor of the Winter Solstice LIVE for their six million followers.
Hemi, @YourRastaResource, too had found success by promoting Black influencers realigning the Rastafarian narrative with pre-Eurocentric framings of divinity, spirituality, and religious practices. But, all in all, found less success than Harold as, across the board, Christian-God-based faiths were on a decline.
As it turned out, Haider of NASA’s gambit to politicize, rather than popularize, belief had turned out to be the superior play. As such, neither Harold nor Hemi were top performers at The Binger that night.
“There’s always next year,” Helena told them. “Or, and this is surely a ludicrous suggestion, you could simply consider yourselves winners, walk up to the bar, and order your own round of jägerbombs.”
“It’s not about the jägerbombs, it’s about being gifted the jägerbombs.” Hemi sighed.
“Dishonesty is unbecoming in a harbinger, Hemi dear,” Helena teased. “It’s not about the drinks, or the gifting of the drinks, is it? It’s about Harriet.”
“For me,” Harold interjected, “it’s solely about the jägerbombs.” Though, he wouldn’t have minded taking Harriet down a peg.
“Hush.” Helena waved him off. “Hemi, there’s no rule stating you cannot approach her. Their table isn’t magical, their jägerbombs aren’t magical, well, not any more magical than our table and our frothy beers.”
At the mention of magic, an entirely relative thing, Harold found himself momentarily spinning in a maelstrom of both true meaning and deep monotony. They were players and placers of pons, being equally played and placed by yet more players who, for all Harold knew, were also being played and placed. From plane to plane, and sub-group to sub-group, the influence of others, be it top-down, bottom-up, or lateral, consistently resulted in change: good, bad, or neutral. A shift in the human population’s way of sharing information. A redistribution in belief systems, processes, and needs. A revision of things that were once tried, and true, and tradition to make room for the new. And yet, the option to proliferate, refute, or ignore said influence still existed for each individual player.
Harold shimmied out of his booth seat and spun to face the dingiest table at The Binger. “Hemi, I’m going to the bar to order myself a jägerbomb, would you like to join me?”
They grimaced. “It’s so tacky.”
“I—I think tacky, or at the very least ‘cringe,’ is on trend now,” he said, bringing an index finger to his chin.
“Ha. Ha.”
“C’mon, let’s be tacky, let’s be so tacky we not only order ourselves a round but the whole bar a round.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?”
Helena flicked an appreciative, all-knowing grin Harold’s way. “You get it.”
“I think I finally do.” He grinned back.
All night long, Harold table hopped with Helena, plunking shots into steins, and getting to know other harbingers of other Eternals not on High, all the while watching Hemi receive praise and flirtatious nudges from Harriet for having the guts to shake up the name of the game.
Thank you for reading. <3 Rain
Sources:
- Leibovitz et al. https://www.commentary.org/articles/liel-leibovitz/paganism-afflicts-america/#:~:text=But%20the%20researchers%20asked%20again,groups%20within%20the%20U.S.%20Army
- MacIntyre https://www.nationalgeographic.com/culture/article/where-to-go-to-explore-pagan-culture
- In An Ethos of Blackness, Vivaldi Jean-Marie reexamines the movement’s core beliefs and practices. https://news.columbia.edu/news/fresh-perspective-rastafari-culture-and-cosmology
- Winnail https://www.tomorrowsworld.org/magazines/2019/november-december/the-rise-of-modern-paganism
- https://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/paganism/rites/worship.shtml
- https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/2012/12/18/global-religious-landscape-exec/
- https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/paganism-witchcraft-are-making-comeback-rcna54444
- https://abeautifulresistance.org/site/2021/10/20/the-challenge-of-earth-based-paganism-in-the-social-media-age
