Debris & Detritus

by Robin D. Owens

  All the same, he could have done without Jesus. Detritus liked him, of course—you couldn’t help but like Jesus—but he did seem to bring out the worst in some people: Detritus’s twin brother, Debris, for instance. As far as Detritus could tell, Debris was incapable of restraining himself when it came to poking at Jesus in hopes Jesus’d have one of his rare but impressive tantrums. Compared to other gods, Jesus was the very model of self-control, which was why the prospect of driving him into a violent rage appealed to Debris so much.

  “Christmas? Christmas? Don’t talk to me about Christmas!” Jesus said, shaking his woolly head. Maybe it was because he’d been human once, a long time ago, but Jesus stubbornly clung to the looks he’d been born with: short, curly black hair, brown skin, and on the far side of short; a painfully average lower class Judean of the time. Detritus chalked it up to some sort of reverse vanity.

  “What’s wrong with Christmas?” Detritus couldn’t help but chime in with his brother on this one. Christmas was a personal favorite, for obvious reasons.

  “It’s not even on my birthday, for one thing,” Jesus said, glaring and reaching for his wine glass for the first time all night and turning it straight to water.

  “So?” Debris insisted. “If I had a holiday, if we—” he jerked his thumb in Detritus’s general direction “—had a holiday in our honor, I’d count myself lucky no matter what day it was on.”

  “It’s not what I told them to do. It’s like my followers weren’t even listening to a word I said.” It looked as though Debris’ prodding had backfired, and Jesus was getting morose instead of stirred up.

  “Come on,” Detritus said, feeling bad for Jesus as he so often did. “Christmas is a wonderful holiday; think of all the wrapping paper.”

  “And the packaging,” Debris said brightly.

  “Gifts broken and discarded the next day,” Detritus went on, perhaps getting a bit carried away in the moment.

  Jesus looked at them over the top of his wine glass. Try as Detritus and his brother might, they could not get Jesus to appreciate the spirit of his own holiday. It was an uncomfortable fact that the fortunes of gods were no more stable than those of mortal men. Poor Jesus always found actual followers to be rather thin on the ground. Most of what purported to be his temples were, the way Detritus heard it, fronts for Mammon. Not that anyone called him Mammon anymore. Most gods changed their names the same way they changed their looks, to keep step with the times. Detritus and Debris were exceptions to the name thing, probably because trash was eternal.

  Detritus held up three fingers, trying to think of any gods other than Debris and himself who had kept their original names. He was concentrating on that when a large hand slapped him hard on the back and spilled wine cooler all over his shirt.

  Speak of the Devil and he appears, Detritus thought. Well, not literally. Detritus had never met Lucifer or Satan or whatever, and he didn’t know anyone who had. Personally, Detritus had written him off as one of those imaginary gods, since as far as Detritus knew. Satan didn’t have any real worshipers, not the kind who believed enough to breathe life into a god.

  No, this was Mammon, or as Detritus knew him in the old days, Plutus, or, as he preferred to be known these days, Buck.

  Detritus liked Buck, he was more or less required to. Buck had been largely responsible for the way Detritus’s and Debris’ fortunes had risen over the last hundred years. Buck and Kindle together. Kindle, who used to be— who? Vulcan? At least Detritus supposed he used to be Vulcan. Looks changed, names changed, and Detritus had never spent enough time with Vulcan in the old days to be completely sure. But Buck and Kindle, who had been fueling a mad technological frenzy in modern mortals, along with Ephemera, the goddess of trends, had plucked Detritus and Debris out of relative obscurity and elevated them to the top of the trash heap of divinities. He and his brother used to be happy with a simple midden. Now they had whole swirling continents of trash floating in the middle of the ocean; they had rubbish piles on land bigger than the grandest ancient cities with a full complement of inhabitants who were born, lived, and died in service to Detritus and Debris. They had worshippers who transformed their own homes into altars to refuse. Back in the old days, the best they could hope for was a baby thrown on a rubbish heap to take into their ragged retinue, but now they were important gods, living the high life.

  Ephemera! That was the third god he’d been trying to think of! It was a bit ironic for a goddess of passing trends, but Ephemera’d kept the name she’d always had. Detritus, Debris, and Ephemera, he counted on his fingers—that was right.

  “Don’t strain anything!” Buck laughed, his free hand tight around Gaia’s arm.

  Oh no. Gaia. Nothing could move a party from uninspiring to uncomfortable faster than having your mom show up.

  “Gaia!” Jesus jumped to his feet and offered The Mother, the world, the goddess of Earth incarnate, his chair. She didn’t appear impressed, but then she never did. All Jesus got for his trouble was a beautiful sneer.

  Detritus worked hard not to stare; her silk dress was torn at the shoulder and her pink bra showed through like a dirty Band-Aid. Despite it all, she was eternally the most beautiful of all goddesses, which made it worse. He had no idea how anyone could look so exquisite with a black eye and a purple bruise turning yellow on the edges of her cheek.

  Detritus liked Buck. He didn’t have a choice. Even if he was a demanding jackass with no taste and less compassion, Buck was generous, funny, always and inevitably a good time. Detritus needed Buck. Without Buck he was nothing.

  Detritus couldn’t look at either Buck or Gaia, so he stared hard at the ice in his plastic cup.

  “Your children have no idea,” Jesus said, earnestly.

  Detritus could practically hear Gaia’s blank stare.

  “I think Gaia would be happy if the kids left her alone for a minute, maybe went outside and played,” Debris said. Detritus noticed his brother had forced his mouth into a hopeful smile.

  “Yeah, preferably on a busy street,” Gaia said and snorted at her own joke. She’d always been a bitch, but now it seemed as if she was saving up for something really horrible. Detritus wondered why she came to these things. He tried not to notice the crescent moons Buck’s nails were digging into Gaia’s arm. Maybe Buck didn’t give her a choice.

  Detritus was an instant away from darting his eyes desperately around the room, searching for an out, when he realized Debris had beaten him to it.

  “Ephemera!” Debris called out dramatically, camping it up. All it took was creasing the face into a smile, knocking over his bowl of peanuts, and he was off in pursuit of Ephemera.

  When Detritus and his twin caught up with Ephemera, her hair was pink and her paper dress was emblazoned with the face of Kim Kardashian, FIVE times larger than life.

  “Heyy eyyyy eyyy!” Ephemera called, all smiles, waving both hands at eye level. “Are you guys having fun? If you aren’t, get busy! Eat, drink, and be—you know—fun! Because it’s all gonna be over some day!”

  Debris rolled his eyes. “Don’t even get started,” he said. “I am not in the mood for all this, whatever kinda apocalypso dance all these squares are up to.”

  “I wish square dancing would come back!” Ephemera said. She linked arms with Detritus and his brother and began spinning them both in opposite directions.

  “Yeeha!” Debris called, and used his free arm to not-very-accidentally knock over a table full of drinks onto a couch full of guests before he circled back around to hug Ephemera’s waist.

  “Ride ’em cowpokes!” Detritus called, laughing at the sound of breaking glass as he came to embrace her from the other side.

  “So far out that it’s in again! So even cooler than bowling!” Ephemera said. “I love you boys,” she said dreamily and leaned her head on Debris’ shoulder. “Even more than I love Kindle, ’cause, you know, you and me, we’re peanut butter and jelly, ham and eggs, sick and tired! If you liked girls, I’d marry both of y
ou! But don’t tell Kindle, ’cause it would break his heart, especially after, well, you know who.”

  “And we love you, too” Detritus said. His eyes drifted to where the goddess once known as Aphrodite stood wringing red wine out of her blouse with a look on her face that would curdle cream. No matter what name she went by, she had one principal attribute: she was a bitch.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Ephemera said, slipping off her shoes, “Kindle wants to talk to you. Asked me to mention it when I saw you. I’m seeing you now! So—”

  “Which one of us?” Debris asked.

  “You. Or you. Or both of you, I guess.” Ephemera flexed her left foot, showing off golden nail polish.

  “Err?” Detritus said. “Could you be a little more vague, sweetie?”

  “I don’t know! If you both go, then he’ll see the right one either way, right?” Ephemera flexed her foot again. “Like my toes?”

  “When did he want to see us?” Debris asked.

  Ephemera shrugged. “You know, I don’t think I like this polish either.”

  Debris looked at Detritus and Detritus looked at Debris.

  “Who around here has interesting shoes?” Ephemera asked, scanning the room.

  Detritus wondered if he ought to stop her when Debris reached over and tugged his shirt sleeve. At the far end of the room, Kindle stood in a doorway. He jerked his head, a clear sign to follow.

  Without looking at his brother, Detritus relaxed his hold on Ephemera and watched her skip away. Then he wove through the crowd toward Kindle in the other room.

  He could never figure out how Debris made it to Kindle before he did, but there his brother was, with his hair playfully tousled and an artful stain on his cuff.

  Kindle leaned against the fireplace mantle just as artfully in his black turtleneck and his high-tech computer spectacles. Detritus could never remember what they were called, and he likely wouldn’t, either, until they were tossed on the trash heap of abandoned technology.

  Kindle smiled a smile so smooth Detritus could have spread it on a slice of toast. “Good to see you guys. It’s been so long since we had a talk, you know, a real heart-to-heart.”

  Detritus tried to recall if he’d ever had a heart-to-heart with Kindle. Even the orgy that led to dear little Planned Obsolescence had been arranged by Ephemera and Buck. Detritus would say that Kindle was practically a stranger, except that no one was really a stranger after you’d fondled their genitals, even if it was just the once. Still, they weren’t on the same level as Kindle, and they knew it. As the god of Modern Technology, Kindle was big. He was what mortals slaved for, what they lusted after and dreamed of, what they schooled their children in, and what they sacrificed their lives to. Without him, there would be no swirling islands of trash in the seas. Other gods virtually touched their foreheads to the ground when he entered the room, and even Buck had to acknowledge his superiority.

  Debris looked as confused as Detritus felt as Kindle plowed on.

  “I’ve done right by you guys, haven’t I?” Kindle asked brightly. So brightly, in fact, that Detritus had the fleeting urge to hold onto his wallet. He didn’t even carry a wallet. “I mean, we’re all friends here, right?”

  It would be sheer hubris to call Kindle a friend. Treasured acquaintance, then.

  Kindle’s eyes sparkled emerald green and sapphire blue and amethyst, and in their black heart was the most beautiful fire.

  Detritus jerked himself away from the mesmerizing flame and answered the best he could. “Um, sure,” he said and glanced at his brother. Debris’ mouth was hanging ever so slightly open, and his head tilted slowly, as if listening to music only he could hear. For his brother’s own good, Detritus brought his heel down hard on Debris’ foot.

  “Did someone say something?’ Debris asked, shaking his head. “Why does my foot hurt?”

  “I need the two of you—” Kindle began.

  But Detritus cut him off right away. “No, no, no, no, no, sorry, not possible,” he said. He knew the only way to do this was to not be looking into those eyes, so he turned to face the opposite wall. He didn’t really know where this whole business was heading, but he knew, he could feel, that Kindle was nervous and needy, and if someone as big and powerful as Kindle was worried, then Detritus and his brother Debris wanted no part of it. Unfortunately Detritus hadn’t thought any further than that, and he was now floundering.

  Debris came to the rescue. “We have plans. We’re heading to Japan. They have the most amazing packaging. Have you ever seen the way a soda comes out of a vending machine in Japan? An ordinary soda in an ordinary vending machine?”

  “It’s a thing of beauty,” Detritus agreed, in no small part because it was truly amazing.

  “First a bottle, then that’s shrink wrapped, and that’s inside a protective bubble,” Debris waxed eloquent, sculpting the layers in the air with his elegant hands.

  “And it’s all plastic!” Detritus couldn’t help but interject. In his enthusiasm, he turned around. That was his big mistake. Those eyes, they got him again.

  “First, boys, what I need you to do is sit down and stop being so anxious,” Kindle said, and Detritus knew, just knew, Debris, too, had fallen under Kindle’s spell. “There’s all the time in the world for your little excursion, but first I need you to do something for me. One. Tiny. Favor.”

  Detritus sat down in one of two peacock tail chairs he hadn’t even noticed were there before.

  “Good. Now, I need you to take a little break and collect a handful of mortals for me. Three hundred should suffice. There may be more than that, but by my calculations, three hundred is the minimum. Use your own discretion on bringing more. The important part is you can’t let anyone know, not Buck, not War, and certainly not your mother,” Kindle said. “And on the off chance you do get caught, I had nothing to do with it. Not a thing. Hear me?”

  Detritus puzzled at that. It was odd of Kindle, not claiming Gaia as his parent, and she had to be, hadn’t she? Still, he couldn’t look away from the flame.

  “But what for?” Debris’ whine sounded like that of a frightened child, BUT Detritus was impressed that he could speak at all.

  “For my gratitude, of course,” Kindle replied. He lowered his head and whipped off his glasses, making a great show of cleaning the lenses on the edge of his turtleneck as he released the brothers from his gaze. For the tiniest split second, a measure of time no larger than a dust mote, Kindle seemed ancient even beyond Detritus’s ability to reckon.

  An hour later, Detritus stood on the balcony with his brother, sharing grain alcohol straight from the bottle.

  “Do we want to know what we’ll get if we don’t earn Kindle’s gratitude?” Detritus wiped his lips and passed the bottle.

  “No,” said Debris, “we do not.”

  Detritus could not bring himself to disagree.

  Debris was surprised to discover Kindle’s little favor was actually easier in practice than it had been in theory. It was almost, as Kindle put it in the midst of his highly detailed instructions, “A little nothing errand.” Add to that the pleasant scenery exploding into something even more pleasant all around them, and it was almost the sort of thing they would have done on their own for fun. Almost.

  The only part they wouldn’t have thought of on their own was loading the transport trucks full of mortals and delivering them to Birmingham.

  War zones had always been funny places. Lots of mess, lots of meddling gods and monkeyshines. It had always been possible for anyone, god or mortal, to get away with close to anything there. The entire business was yawningly uneventful. So dull, in fact, that Debris found himself bored enough to speak to one of the mortals.

  The old man had been elected by the others to sit in the front of the transport truck when the back was full. He had a weathered, craggy face and a two piece suit to match; the tatty label read Sans-a-belt. Debris liked him right away.

  “So,” Debris asked, “why do you carry around that fire with
you?” He remembered when all the mortals used to do that, with their sacred torches of emerald, and sapphire, and amethyst, back in the days before disposable lighters.

  “Because it is a gift,” the old man said in his language. “A gift from God,”

  “Which god?” Debris asked, forgetting, for a moment, to keep his eyes on the road.

  “In the beginning of creation, the blind Creator God brought forth a special angel more brilliant and beautiful than all the rest, the Peacock Angel. But this Most Beautiful Angel was jealous, and when the creator brought forth mankind, the Peacock Angel flew into a rage and railed against his Maker and his Maker’s newest creation.

  “The Creator God cast the rebel into the fiery beyond for sixty thousand years. And in that time, the Creator grew tired and sickened of his creation. They were a miserable, stupid people. When it rained, they were wet, and when it was hot, they baked. They ate animals raw who were hardly less dignified than themselves. These beings had no order and knew no progress.

  “All the while the Peacock Angel cried out from the void at his punishment. He cried and he wept until it seemed his tears would extinguish the flames that burned in the chasm of fire.”

  “Is that so?” Debris asked, surprised. He’d never heard this story before, and he thought he knew them all.

  “In his almighty pity, the Creator recalled the Peacock Angel from his punishment and set his fallen angel over this world as ruler. When he did this, the Peacock Angel gifted to mankind the last flame of the fiery depth, that they might better themselves. The fire kept them warm in the winter and cooked their meats and breads. It brought the sun indoors in the darkest nighttime. The fire civilized them, yes, but it also had the power to burn and destroy.” The old man whistled through broken teeth.

  “Kinda like the god himself,” Debris blurted.

  “You know him,” the old man said.

  Debris nodded, lost in his own thoughts. “We’re acquainted.”

  Given everything his brother had told him, Detritus felt it was perfectly reasonable to be anxious about handing off the mortals to Kindle under the statue of Vulcan in the middle of Birmingham. Still, there he was, alongside his brother, smiling his happiest smile at Kindle. He was no fool.