Your God, My Gods



  Your God, my gods

  by B.T. Lowry

  Copyright © 2016 by B.T. Lowry. All rights reserved.

  This is a Story Paths production. Thanks for reading. If you like it, head on over to storypaths.net/stories for more. There you'll find audio books, videos and written stories.

  This is licensed under the creative commons attribution license, which means you can use it how you’d like, but please give me credit, and reference my site. Thanks!

  Table of Contents

  Stolen Brother

  Garbage Fire

  Church

  Prayer and Old Powers

  Downtown

  Halves

  Outro

  Stolen Brother

  Pradah sprinted past the shanties that his people now called home, heading toward the chapel. An old lady straightened as he passed, her hands slipping from a steel pump handle. She hoisted a plastic bucket with a grunt. Pradah coughed and batted away a hungry crow as he ran. Acrid smoke billowed from breakfast trash-fires in front of every home.

  It was acceptable that Pradah's people had been forced to live in this rejected corner of Hiria Ilun city. Such was the enemy's war of attrition, and Pradah understood war. As tortoises and foxes survived the desert heat by burrowing underground, the Raiyan people had safekept their spirits from their conquerors.

  Now Pradah's own brother had been converted to the Ilunian religion.

  No, not yet, thought Pradah. He can still be reclaimed.

  Pradah navigated through a pack of snarling dogs, panting harder as he attained the lip of the crater containing the shanties. About five hundred huts, formed of plastic and metal strapped together, crowded the bowl-like depression. High rises clustered around like guards. Inside them, Ilunian eyes burned away the Raiyans' privacy through one-way windows. The crater housed perhaps fifteen hundred men, women and children—remnants of villages all over the realm of Raiya. What had become of the other million, Pradah did not know. Perhaps they'd ascended. Certainly they hadn't remained in Raiya; their homeland lay decimated.

  His boots left the clay-rich earth of the crater and slapped concrete. He passed under buildings a thousand levels high, Ilunians stacked within them like termites. A group of Ilunian teenagers snickered at his thick work overalls. The boys and girls sported fake hides, imitating the Raiyans' original dress. They wore their hair long and tied back, as he did. They were his own age but he saw them as children, being totally unaware of the world beyond their city or even beyond their own cliques. He'd killed a few like them, who'd been coerced by the city's government to oppose his rebellion. Pradah's gaze lingered on a boy who looked almost like one that he'd stabbed to death, with curly black hair, pale skin and thin lips. Pradah grimaced as he pushed through the kids, on toward the chapel.

  I'm not killing anymore, he told himself.

  He ran on through a grid of dead roads, such a far cry from the natural curves of hills and rivers. Men and women in dark colors stood clustered in transparent plastic booths, waiting for their mass conveyances to touch down, carry them off. They may as well have been standing alone. Each wore visors linking them to private fantasies; artificial escapes from their artificial world. Some wore pendants shaped like candles, tokens of their shallow beliefs.

  Oh Heyo, thought Pradah, why would you leave our ways of worship for these forsaken people?

  Pradah's lungs burned as he neared the chapel. He’d been powerful. Now his big muscles felt sucked dry. The pollution, poor food and contaminated water here weakened him. Dreams of killings bored holes in his sleep, leaving him fatigued each morning.

  He arrived at the arched door of the chapel, stopped and bent forward with his hands on his knees, panting. The door had been made to resemble dark iron, but scratches revealed lighter plastic beneath the surface. How many churches bore this identical door, molded in a factory? The Ilunians put no care into their ceremonial spaces. In Raiya, every drum and horn had been hand-carved, and they would paint patterns on the cave with colored minerals.

  The chapel door emerged from between small general shops, their glass displays caged in at this early hour. A blocky spire rose above the door, plated with real granite. Atop it stood a four foot candle molded of faux-bronze. In place of a flame, the candle had an eye. It was the Ilunians' representation of their violent and distant God, conjured by controlling men to subjugate their people. Humans could only see his eye, they said. It stared down and judged everyone, as if God had no better occupation. Limned by the dim morning light, the candle almost looked beautiful.

  Before entering, Pradah reaffirmed to himself that he wouldn't kill the woman inside. He remembered the words of a prayer as they'd passed from the lips of Ayur Sona, the village's spiritual leader: please connect me to the Creator, the original man and woman who are one in two, and two in one.

  Ayur Sona had been an ambassador to the realm of the gods, and the Creator beyond them. He'd known many secret truths. He’d trained Heyo. Where was he now? Looking down from some higher realm, surely.

  Pradah prayed to the Creator's female aspect, that like a mother she would forgive him for all he'd done. Lend me strength to walk the warrior's path and not kill this woman; show me some other way to free Heyo from her false teachings.

  But it was so hard to connect through prayer here. The dense clouds blocked his words above, the sewage pipes below. Could they even hear him?

  He opened his eyes and looked through the chapel door into darkness. He walked through the door into the chapel's narthex then pushed open the waist high gate leading to the main hall. Daylight passed through colored glass on the west wall and formed dusty columns in the stale air. The walls were stone plated and a strip of red carpet ran through empty gray pews, to where Pradah's little brother Heyo stood at the altar, with Mata Lapsan. He was a slender, dark-haired boy of fourteen with braided hair like Pradah’s. He wore loose robes, blue like his eyes. Mata wore a red robe. Graying hair fell across her angular face and her withered hands trembled, holding a bronze pot. Pradah had interrupted some ritual; Mata stirred the contents of the pot while Heyo looked in. The pot sat on a shiny yellow cloth, draped on a rectangular altar table. Behind them hung an embroidered tapestry, bearing the stylized candle with a single eye for its flame.

  Mata turned to Pradah. He narrowed his eyes. It was she who headed the conversions. He swallowed down violent rage as he neared the altar. He walked slowly, unsure of what he'd do when he arrived. He passed cracked and marred pillars and dusty banners hanging from the roof. Her people seemed afraid of fresh air and the lessons of the land. They huddled in boxy buildings, weaving their fantasies. The air smelled stale. Mata had less money behind her than he'd thought.

  Heyo's brow furrowed in concentration as he took the pot from Mata and raised it, ready to pour liquid onto the highest part of his body in some ritual of consecration.

  “Heyo! Stop!” Pradah broke into a run.

  Mata's expression turned from surprise to stubborn resolve. Pradah grinned. She wants a fight? A fireball grew inside him telling him to strike now. He subdued it so that he could think. I'll just frighten her. If Heyo doesn't stop coming here, then I'll destroy this place.

  He stopped between metal poles fencing the altar, focused on Mata. “Leave him!” He reached out to Heyo, but the boy took a step back.

  Mata held Pradah's gaze with small yellow eyes and spoke in her rough language, full of khas and ghas. A moment later, a glittering box strapped to her waist repeated her words in the Raiyan language, but in Mata’s gravelly voice. “You don’t understand, Pradah Yowan. I’m saving him.”

  "Saving him? You people killed us with dishonorable weapons, destroyed our land then dragged the living here to work for you. You'll save us
? Leave us our souls at least!" Pradah hated his own pleading tone even as it sounded from Mata's translator.

  When he'd first come to Raiya, Pradah had carved a deity of the Creator from stone and performed worship every morning. He’d offered his food and his prayers. The Ilunians had broken his deity, but he still worshiped the Creator in his heart and mind; a golden woman and a dark man who were more beautiful than the sun and moon. Certainly more beautiful than some candle.

  He wanted to strike this woman down, but that would bring repercussions. Teams of soldiers with energy weapons would bear down on the shanty town. They'd burn homes, torture even women and children to give the message, 'never dissent again.'

  Heyo set down the bronze pot, his glance cast down. The altar looked clean but smelled of mold.

  Mata’s stiff skin relaxed. For a moment, a spark of beauty dawned on her face. “Pradah, I’m not your enemy," she said through her machine. "I married one of your people, had a child by him.”

  "You only wed Tinsa to gain entrance into our community, so that you could do this." Pradah gestured to Heyo then looked back to her. "You're not doing God's work. There's no devil but if there were, you'd be doing his work."

  “Pradah, it’s not what you think," said Heyo in his soft voice. His fine eyebrows knotted. "The Creator's plans are greater than what we see here. There must be some reason for our two cultures to join.”

  "Yes," said Pradah, "The reason is cheap labor."

  Heyo held Pradah's gaze with big blue eyes and spoke softly, "She's helping me become a better ayur."

  Mata glanced between them, her long fingers fidgeting with the broad metal buttons on her crimson robe. She addressed Pradah in broken Raiyan, “I found breaked…”

  She gestured to Heyo. Yes, he'd been addicted to powders, but he would have recovered. Pradah would have helped him.

  “I’m trying to God fix him for,” she said in her weak Raiyan. She would have pulled a more sentimental Raiyan in with her attempt to speak it.

  Pradah grinned and replied in simple Raiyan so that she would understand without the translator, “You no can give him to God. You no have God.”

  She lowered her gaze then caught his eyes. “You no know the Creator,” she spat. “You worship so many gods. You should worship only one.” She gestured to the embroidered candle behind her.

  “You disrespect so many gods,” countered Pradah. “Your people have defiled mine. My brother is an ayur, more than any of your priests! He's traveled to realms not glimpsed by your bogus prophets. He had powers of foresight before he came here. He could see into a man, know his heart. He could read the minds of animals. He’s met gods. This foul place has stolen that from him. You've stolen it, but I won't let you take his soul.”

  Even as he said this, Pradah didn’t know what he'd do. Beat Mata? Kill her? It wasn’t within the warriors’ codes; she was a physically inferior opponent. Yet he’d broken the codes in so many ways since arriving in this place. Then, killing had seemed the best way to defy the government. It did have its merits. He fingered the metal poles of the railing bounding the altar and his hands roamed to a tapering spike. He'd brought no weapon, but these could puncture flesh. A single strike to the temple—

  Not yet.

  Pradah looked to Heyo. “She isn't simply feeding homeless people or freeing Raiyans from drugs. She’s pulling us away from our culture, but she’ll not take you, not while I’m your protector.”

  "The Creator's our protector," replied Heyo.

  Mata’s voice softened as she gazed at Pradah. “You can come too.”

  Pradah sputtered as the anger reignited. She would show mercy to him?

  “You know what I think of your religion?” Pradah pressed his palm on a spike and pushed down until the cool metal pierced his skin. Heyo cried out, jumped over and tried to pull Pradah’s hand up. Pradah pushed him away and pressed down further, digging the tip deeper. The pain made him feel alive, just a little, as though he were battling in Raiya again. He pressed until the spike made a hump on the top of his hand. Hot blood ran down the pole to the purple carpet of the altar. He slid his hand off and turned it palm upward, pooling the blood. He looked to the bronze bowl where it sat on a table, then arced his hand toward it as though throwing a ball. Blood flew in droplets and trails. Some landed outside of the pot while some tainted the water, spreading in swirling lines.

  Mata brought her hands to her mouth. Her machine translated, “Desecration,” but she made no move.

  Pradah turned to Heyo. "Come with me."

  Wide eyed, Heyo looked to Mata, then complied. That was good. Pradah would have struck her. He'd not have been able to stop himself. The wound reminded him of battle. He strode back through the pews, blood dripping onto red carpet. He waited until he emerged onto the street before clutching his burning hand and turning to see if Heyo had followed.

  "Well that was foolish," said Heyo from behind.

  Pradah turned and grinned. It was a small victory, but if Mata thought him capable of extreme acts, maybe he wouldn't have to carry any out.

  Garbage Fire