Return of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Quiz comnel?” the male face shouted.

  The two words didn't auto-translate. That meant they either constituted a proper name or were in a language I was apparently supposed to know but didn't. Note to self. Never push the third button on the right of a comm console I was less than completely familiar with.

  I put on my best badass expression and howled back angrily. “Quiz comnel?” Then I hit that last button I'd tapped and prayed it cut the link. It did. Then I had to wait with baited breath to see if old grumpy pants called back. Two minutes passed and he didn't. Okay, that was either good or it was most bad. Maybe he'd sent the cops out instead of returning the call. Since divine police would be fast, I was reassured in about ten minutes when no one had stormed the front door.

  At that juncture I attached my probes to the comm unit and figured out systematically what it was and how it worked. I confirmed that doing so was indeed much less fun than guessing what might happen. Being an adult was such a drag. Anyway, I learned that my accidental call had been to Morgue Six of DDD. Wow, DDD had at least six warehouses for the results of their dirty work. Best to avoid them. Quiz comnel turned out to be an idiom that translated as what do you want. Understandable, I suppose. Why would Gorpedder ever call that wretched place? Maybe the employees there were overworked and underappreciated so they were perpetually grouchy? My shouting back what did he want must have seemed odd to the square head, but close enough to appropriate to dismiss and return to his otherwise grizzly job.

  I discovered that there was a more conventional news program available, one with people talking and smiling at the camera. I switched one on.

  “Well, Galennprey, the news isn't always spectacular, now is it?” The woman who lobbed the staged question to her male counterpart was, in one word, stunningly scintillatingly gorgeous. Wait, that's three words. Tough. They didn't come close to encompassing her unbridled sultry beauty. Then again, she was a god, right? What other level of male-incapacitating good looks would one have?

  “No, it is not. Reports are coming in that a goodly portion of the Lower Chamber has been cataclysmically destroyed. No word as to a cause, but our reporter on the scene, Hacksay Brine, has heard rumors that a couple of gods overdid the sacred sauce and celebrated their stupor by leveling the structure. If that's the case, I bet Vorc'll have them on cleanup duty until the last mote of dust is back in its proper place.”

  “Speaking of proper places, Tantillo, have you dined at Jupiter's Jumbo Juice Joint lately? I have and I can tell you they have the best liquid-based nutrition available for gods that drink, absorb, or otherwise assimilate their food.”

  “Hang on one divine second. You're a corporeal biped. You have an oral orifice and a digestive tract. You aren't designed for exclusively liquid alimentation.” He was wagging a naughty-girl finger at her by way of emphasis.

  “Speaking of divine, I had their corned beef hash and picklewurst smoothie.” The camera panned back to demonstrate she was rubbing her tummy. “It was heavenly.”

  Lords and powers, those losers were one-bit hacks. They delivered their sales pitch like blissful animatrons. Acting lessons were clearly not a prerequisite for a broadcast career in Godville. With nausea brewing in my gut, I channel surfed to find something watchable. It took five minutes, but I discovered to my shocked bemusement their TV was crap like our TV was crap. There was for offer two soap operas, one reality contest show where gods schemed to enslave the same group of “volunteers,” and two sporting matches so gory and in such poor taste I will not relate their specifics. Spoiler alert, more “volunteers” participated, but more as targets and projectiles than actual competitors.

  I reviewed what I'd learned since my arrival in Moron City. I was dealing with Cleinoid gods who were vicious and powerful. Their enemies were antigods, but I had no clue as to where they were. Because I escaped and was presently hiding in one of their homes, I concluded that these were petty gods who did not work together. They made errors galore. They also tolerated brutally unacceptable entertainment options. That was their worst sin IMHO. Most significantly, I knew I could hold my own when going toe-to-toe with at least some of them. My chances were definitely slim but not none. Score two points for Team Ryan.

  Then I flashed on the grumpy guy from DDD. He didn't say who the hell are you, mortal. No. He confronted me as to why I was bothering him, prank-calling him. He assumed I was some god or almost-god he simply didn't know. Out of the misty clouds swirling in the back of my generally empty head coalesced a plan. Sure, it was unthinkably stupid. Of course it was impossible that it would work. Naturally it would end swiftly in my horrendous death. Come on, it was a Jon Plan. But I was so proud of myself. It was a muhahaha Jon Plan if nothing else.

  SEVENTEEN

  In a tiny dank room high in one of the spiral towers of the Upper Chamber sat two crones. The space was dark and reeked of long-forgotten death. The women were equally grotesque. With gnarly hands, twisted limbs, and convoluted bodies they hovered over a dim flame. In the anemic light their withered faces belied the cruelty that lay beneath their parched facades. There was in their shark eyes a promise of no morality or decency within. They were, in short, the identical-twin personifications of evil. They were older than time and they were sisters. They were Fest and Deca. They were soothsayer gods. The maleficia arts themselves originated directly from these corrupted, sorry excuses for living beings.

  “Sister dearest, can you see the course fate has chosen?” Fest chortled in a dry raspy voice.

  “No, sister dearest. I see only that fate chooses to alter her course, not that she has chosen one in particular,” replied Deca sternly.

  “Sister dearest, your eyes grow too old to see and your mind too porous to hold the thought that she has chosen. She moves much in our favor.”

  “Sister dearest, wicked sister, I tell you she chooses only to confound and confuse us. I think it's personal. She's toying with us. There's bad blood betwixt us three,” speculated Deca.

  “Personal? Between two mostly dead gods and the mother of natural forces? Such vanity, old fool. Your brain rots though you still walk among the living,” cackled Fest.

  “Sister dearest, wickedest of demon spawn, I am the elder sister and I claim the rights and power that distinction entitles me to possess. You are wrong and I am right. You are ignorant and I am wise. Fate twists but has not declared her intentions as of yet. We must wait, we Cleinoid gods.”

  “The elder, sister dearest? You? Did we not gnaw our ways out of Mother's belly at the same time? Did not we draw first breaths as one? Did we not tumble as one onto her entrails that kindly cushioned our fall to the floor?”

  “That is not how I, sister dearest, recall the facts. I was the more aggressive. I went first. You followed, trembling and whimpering,” mocked Deca.

  “Bickering will not help us formulate our answer to Vorc when he asks what the status of fate is.” Fest was tired and wished for the divining to be at an end. She also hungered for the infant Gorgantors she had stashed in her larder. Left too long, they might become less juicy.

  “True, sister dearest. It does not,” Deca reluctantly admitted.

  “Let us tell the eternal boil on the backside of life that is Vorc that fate has altered her course and might well be advancing in our favor.” Fest bobbed her head idiotically as she asked her sister to agree with her summary.

  “No.” Deca slammed a palm on the tabletop. It splintered under her assault. “We will tell the twit that fate has altered her course and might potentially be advancing in our favor. To encourage him more, if the deed fails to cement itself, would result in us suffering consequences we might avoid if we were more cautious in our summary.”

  “What use is a soothsayer who spins what she sees to optimize her personal benefits, and not to most inform those who ask guidance from her?”

  “She is of great use to herself, sister dearest. Though it pains me to have to live in accordance with the rules of self-preservation, I do li
ve in the real world, woman.”

  Fest lifted her head from the light of knowledge. She scanned the chamber dubiously, then spat on the floor. “This is what you believe to be the real world, sister dearest? Fate help us all.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Over nearly infinite time, there have been a few great introductory lines spoken. “Bond. James Bond.”, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”, and “I'm Batman.” To that seminal list I pondered my entry, my homage. “Jon Ryan, god.” Nah. Too short. “I'm Jon Ryan, and yes, you may worship me.” Way nah. Pompous even for me. And too long. How about a stage name instead? “I'm Spartacus.” Nice, but it'd been done. Arnold Eastwood? No, that was just weird. Hey, keep it simple. Jonyan? Ryjon? No, wait. Ryanmax. Yeah. I could go for that. It contained both Ryan and max, as in maximum. A real two-punch name. Ryan—max. Pow—kapow.

  My latest lame plan was to impersonate a god, to try and blend in and befriend my enemy. I could learn a lot, and I'd be super well-positioned to take them down from the inside. All I had to do was to convince people who'd lived together for an eternity that they just hadn't met me yet. I'd also have to come up with a superpower and be able to demonstrate it if the need arose. Oh, and I could never run into Tefnuf. She was the one god who could out me in a flash. So, what could go wrong? How could this not work like a charm?

  I only had a few more days before Gorpedder woke up, so I had to begin my charade pretty quickly. What was the best way to bring my neighbors up to speed that someone was using Gorpedder's place but didn't care if anyone knew? Hey, a party. There was positively no one I could invite, but I could make it seem like there was one. Loud music. Great idea. All casual visitors had a wild party that upset the locals. It was basically required of any transient. Clearly my involuntary host had neither a stereo nor a system to play music on. No, he was a big boring boulder. I had to rely on my external speakers and the catalogue of totally rad music I always carried with me. I could do this.

  I ramped up the volume on some Springsteen, Iron Maiden, and Rahowa. I moved around the house so it might appear there were multiple people inside. I also turned lights on and off randomly for the same reason. My party of one lasted until dawn the next day. Yeah, it was an all-nighter. I then made a show of taking out a lot of trash. Parties produced lots of trash, so I had to complete the image. I basically threw out everything Gorpedder owned. That, of course, was an additional reason I had to be gone before he returned. He would not be pleased I'd literally trashed his house.

  Part of my scheme worked in that a few people took note of my activity. The excellent aspect there was they didn't recognize I wasn't one of them and kill me on sight. Nice. Emboldened by that initial success, I pushed my luck ever harder. I went to the house closest by and apologized for the noisy party. Maybe it was that gods didn't apologize or maybe they just didn't like the looks of me, but I got some pretty unwelcoming reactions.

  “Hi,” I said as the first door swung open, “I'm Ryanmax.” I pointed to Gorpedder's place. “I'm staying at a buddy of mine's and had a little get-together last night that kind of got out of hand. Sorry if I …” That's when the door slammed.

  The second house I knocked at someone looked through a thick window at me, squinted, then never opened up. Jerk.

  The last place I hit was only marginally more civil. After my sorry spiel, the resident looked me up and down. “Ah, thanks, I guess,” she said. “I hadn't noticed, but then again I mostly wander the bogs at night.”

  They had bogs in Godville? Who has bogs? “Really. Say, that sounds interesting. I always wanted to do that.”

  “Why in creation would you want to wander bogs all night long?” she asked incredulously.

  “Uh, I don't know … you know, the same reasons you love to a'wander them.”

  “I don't love to wander them,” she said sternly. “I'm bound to. I am, after all, the god of forlorn souls and unrequited passion.”

  “Ah,” I said like a bumpkin. “FS&UR,” I said like a complete idiot. “Gotcha.”

  “I've never heard it called that. I've lived since just after the first sorry creatures became sentient. The minute they were I was needed. To have never heard that in such a long period suggests it is idiotic to say or even think but never give breath to.”

  Well she got the idiot part pretty spot on. “Really. Yeah, that's one of my gifts, you know. I create aphorisms, metaphors, but mostly acronyms.” Lord, I sounded retarded. “Analogies when I can't avoid them. But,” I pointed up to indicate significance would follow, “no similes, so don't ask. Those I hate.”

  She seemed to go limp with incredulity. “You're the god of acronyms but never similes. Creation’s blessing, what is this realm coming to? A god for such inconsequential trivialities? I shall never cease to be gobsmacked.”

  I think I'd just been insulted. “No, no. You misunderstand. Acronyms are just a gift, not my, you know, my,” I slashed parentheses in the air, “power.”

  “It seems more a curse than a gift. I'd return it if I were you.”

  “Hah,” I bent my knees and pointed at her face, “good one. You're funny.”

  “Do you recall the immense time period I referenced just now?” she asked, slipping back into sterness again.

  “Ah, yes, I do,” I said with inexplicable pride.

  “Well in that span not a single individual, force, or emanation has opined I was funny. Nor, I must add, have I ever felt the god of FS&UR, as you referred to me, should ever be humorous.”

  I became pseudo-serious. Hell, why not? I was taking on water like the Titanic. I wagged a finger and admonished, “Never sell yourself short, honey.”

  Maybe it was my preposterous advice or maybe it was the honey, but I could tell in a heartbeat she was done with me. “Would you excuse me for one second?” she asked almost sweetly.

  “Of course.”

  “Don't move. I'll be right back.”

  And she was. She held at one hip a wooden wash bucket full of sudsy water. At least I hoped and prayed it was a cleaning bucket and not a chamber pot being cleaned. In either case, she hurled the watery contents at me with convincing force and remarkable accuracy given her state of agitation. Then she did what she could have done without all the drama. She slammed the door in my face.

  As I walked the short distance to Gorpedder's digs, I was so stoked. She didn't A) recognize I wasn't a god, B) disintegrate or otherwise negate my sorry ass, or C) sound a general quarters alarm. There might have been a D) in which she enjoined me for all eternity to wander the bogs and moors with her as punishment. I figured she didn't opt for that one because it'd involve her and me hanging out a lot together.

  I chilled my jet until I dried completely while watching stunningly bad TV. When sufficiently presentable I resolved to go for a stroll. I'd seen others take walks, so I knew it wasn't ungodly to recreationally wander. The main dirt road was close by, so I caught it and headed in the direction I was when I ran into my host. That way seemed to lead to a city center, since I could make out a cluster of what I assumed to be taller buildings in the far distance. The walk was pleasant enough. I had noticed already that the temperature was always comfortably the same, the sky was always pleasingly clear, and the forecast was always for more of the same. I imagine that's why dirt roads were the standard. No rain meant no mud to sully the impeccable gods.

  My general goal was to interact with as many gods as possible. I wanted to learn about them and hoped I’d find some to blend in with, you know, a posse. Maybe we could all get matching T-shirts and have a secret handshake. No wait, that wouldn't work. A lot of the locals didn't have hands or even torsos to wear a shirt over. So much for that aspiration. Fairly soon I passed a pair of gods going in the opposite direction. I tried hard to draw their attention without appearing to want to. I must have overdone the not-appearing-to part because they never gave me a glance.

  A sitting-duck opportunity presented itself a little while later. Three figures
moved painfully slowly in the same direction as me. Overtaking them would be unavoidable even if I started log-rolling on the path. The trio's pace was limited by one member. He, she, or it was unable to put any giddy-up in their get-along. Not too surprising given that it was a small rocky island with a massive tree angling just off its highest point. I'd seen a lot of crazy things in this weird life, but I think a walking, talking island pretty much took the cake. It used the tree to point and gesture, which was bizarre in and of itself. Italians talk with their hands. It turned out islands talk with their trees.

  As I gradually closed the gap between us, I eavesdropped. The island was upset about something. It kept whining—in a most ungodly manner, I had to observe—that someone named Plitheroff was infringing on the island's personal space. I couldn't figure out why it felt that way, but it sure was pissed about it. The two companions mostly listened dutifully and gave off a vibe of profound boredom. Either way they were generally quiet. To complete the picture, one traveler was more or less humanoid and the other was a centaur. Yeah, by then I was getting pretty jaded. If all you brought to the table was being a centaur you were hardly worthy of mention.

  I dropped in right behind the three and matched their progress. I nodded whenever the island spoke, trying to insinuate myself into the conversation. I was completely ignored. Then an opening for me to speak occurred. The centaur dropped a huge road-apple right at my feet. Dude didn't even break stride, just boom, he dumped it.

  “Hey,” I protested loudly, “watch out where you relieve yourself there, pal.”

  The centaur and the humanoid continued to ignore me. It was the island that turned to see who had spoken. I guess it didn't so much turn as it rotated, kind of like a vinyl record being played. If the island's walking was slow, you should have seen how exceptionally slowly it spun. It also stopped walking as it turned, forcing its companions to stop as well.