by Aaron French
Thomas had felt and found the way of things, and the Witherworld continued along its course, growing ever farther, by imperceptible but undeniable degrees, from the light and warmth of its star, and withering just a little bit more.
Ah, but the ancient laws are in force, and things barely dreamed of in mere factual philosophy are afoot, and Thomas, exhausted, dreams of new paths to be found.
About the author: Joshua Ramey-Renk is a freelance writer currently splitting his time between Dublin, Ireland, and California. He has stories in the Cup of Joe: Coffee House Flash Fiction and Ransom anthologies from Wicked East Press. When not holed up in a pub with a notebook and a pen, you can find him on the web at: writereadrant.wordpress.com.
The Birth of God
Jeffrey Sorensen
Once initiated, there can be no recall.
-The Second Book of God
How long must I suffer the heathen?
The thought echoed through Zeke’s mind as he sat, waiting for the sun to rise completely. At the moment there was only the wash of orange flooding over the ridge, bathing the rushes and shrubs around him in a warm glow.
How long?
The thought pulled at him, but he knew the time had been set. Everything had been set. He and the boy, the one who had been sleeping at his feet, would need to travel back to the City of the Plain.
He rubbed his calloused hands together and felt the morning’s warmth grow stronger on his cheeks, remembering when he was once a boy, the sun caressing his own cheeks as he looked up at his master. On that day, long dead now but still reoccurring over and over in his mind, a stranger had walked out of the desert and had given Zeke’s master The Second Book of God.
Now, as Zeke looked down at his dust-covered feet, he felt old and tired. He was dirty, but there would be no ritual cleaning today or even tomorrow. He and the boy must prepare for the pilgrimage by befouling themselves, by becoming undesirable and dirty.
It would be easy to let it pass from my hands, to let it fall on another, thought Zeke. He was tired of leading and making decisions. He wanted his master back to tell him right from wrong. If only the world had not killed God by burning the books. If only they had listened.
But now Zeke, taking on the heavy weight of responsibility, needed to instruct the boy, knowing it would end with a sacrifice.
Zeke looked at the younger one resting on the ground by his feet. The youth, still without a name, had grown into a young man. Zeke wished he could let him sleep, like the pulsing in the tomb far off on the other side of the City of the Plain, but time was short. The humming in the tomb, the last breath capable of bringing back God, would soon cease, never to return.
The time had come.
Zeke watched the younger one sigh gently, his head cradled by a clump of wild grass and his white tunic, the sign of the initiate, wrapped about him. Zeke wondered if the boy’s dreams were the same as his.
The sun broke the ridge. Its heat and brightness cut through the morning, through Zeke’s hesitation.
He used his dusty foot to nudge the younger one’s shoulder, rocking him slightly. “Boy,” he said. “Time to wake.”
The younger one, opening his eyes immediately and peering up at his master, didn’t resist. His eyes, large wet pools of blue, took in everything. He said nothing, nor did he smile or frown, but simply rose. His quietness always confounded Zeke, as if the boy had been hiding something malevolent and feral, a wildness that stayed just below his consciousness. Zeke wanted more time—needed it—to instruct him, to make sure the boy was ready. But time was the only thing he didn’t have.
“We must begin,” said Zeke. “The sun is up.”
The younger one, still without muttering a word, obeyed his master, always without question. He stood fully erect, his bottomless eyes meeting his master’s, as if saying he already knew. He was tall for his age—although Zeke was not sure what that was exactly. Maybe fourteen or fifteen, maybe even sixteen.
The younger one turned and began walking towards the river, letting his tunic slide off his shoulders and down to the ground. Zeke noticed the change in the boy, changes that had taken years to come to fruition. When he first took the boy to the mountain he was frail, thin, and—in Zeke’s mind—formless. Now, he saw how his waist had thinned and his shoulders widened. The boy’s muscles became defined, and they rippled under his bronzed skin, accentuating his long golden hair. There was a beauty about the boy that caused Zeke to wonder if he felt admiration or attraction. In this world of heathens, Zeke knew how easily temptation reared its head.
“Boy,” Zeke called, waiting for him to turn back to face him. “There will be no cleansing today. Come, pray and receive your name.”
The younger one approached and knelt down in front of Zeke, lowering his eyes to stare at the ground where the grasses thinned to expose the dried red clay. He waited for his master to start the words.
Zeke, however, stayed quiet, lowering himself without coming to rest on his knees. He’s too young, he thought. He’s not ready. But the rite had begun. There was no turning back and no time to finish his instruction. Zeke’s hands grabbed one of the boulders that lay about them. It was heavy, masculine, and brutal. The muscles in his chest strained, pulling taut to the point of ripping. But he continued, knuckles turning white from the effort, fingertips shuddering and threatening to give out.
Zeke rolled on the balls of his feet, gaining balance, and stood. His thighs began to spasm and quiver. He shifted the boulder and pushed it up, high into the air above him, its shadow falling on the head of the younger one still staring obediently at the ground.
Isaac, thought Zeke. It would be fitting. But the name could not be carelessly chosen. Names were important and powerful things. The boy could not be Isaac.
Zeke allowed the weight of the stone to pull his hands forward, letting the momentum take hold of his actions. He followed through, thrusting with all the strength his aged arms and back could muster, and slammed the boulder down.
It hit the ground, missing the head of the younger one by the breadth of a hair. A cloud of dust, red and vibrant, erupted and billowed about the boy. Particles caught the light of the morning sun and drifted about the boy like a halo, before settling on his chest.
Zeke felt spent.
“You will be called Adam,” he said finally, “and you will hold the secrets for the birth of God. And here at this rock you will return to witness.”
The initiation was complete, and, although Zeke wished it were different, he could not take back the Order bestowed.
***
Strict adherence to the proper sequence must be observed.
-The Second Book of God
For nearly twenty days, Zeke and Adam foraged along the plain, pulling wild onions and blackberries or catching crickets and a few crabs from the shallows. The days rolled into a seamless cycle of footfalls and groping hands, broken only by Zeke’s stories from The First Book or lectures on what he expected from Adam when it ended.
So much more to teach him, thought Zeke. But Adam remained just as quiet as before, silently obedient to the point of making Zeke worry. So much more to learn. But God cannot wait.
They continued; the smell of sweat and dust thickened.
When they neared the outer villages, Zeke found himself fingering the loose coins in his robe pocket, letting his fingers plow through them while his other hand pressed on the thin book hidden under the folds over his chest.
Give unto Caesar, he thought.
He wanted to smile, to laugh, or to cry out All is vain. He found himself wondering why he couldn’t just turn back and live quietly at the head of the rivers, far from the heathens. But God had called.
The next morning they arrived at the City of the Plain. It was larger than Zeke remembered, but not by much, only a hundred or so mud buildings huddled together. A wall, no more than three feet high in any one place, encircled the whole city. Zeke assumed it was built only as a marker, a sign as to where the ci
ty began and ended, since it provided no defense. Not that it needed to; the only ones to fear on the plain were the citizens of the city themselves.
Zeke and Adam continued, moving across the plain and skirting the low wall. All of the fears Zeke harbored about Adam fell away as his apprehension of the city seeped into his blood. He let his hand fall heavily on the coins in his pocket, muffling them. Zeke knew he would be safe for the most part—the city usually provided safe passage for traders—but there was always a chance someone would get greedy. What else could be expected of heathens? Best, he decided, to keep the coins quiet.
The two came to the West Gate, where a boy, assuming an authority beyond his years, stood guard. His hair trailed onto his shoulders in two braids and he was shirtless, wearing only calfskin pants and fur-lined boots. His face, painted like a woman’s, remained calm and unconcerned as they approached. Even his eyes, thick with black-painted lines, never opened more than halfway. Nothing about him suggested anything fearful, but his lack of worry at the approach of two strangers suggested he was well guarded.
Zeke, looking past the boy and into the city, saw a herd of larger, older boys who, although less ornate than the guard, possessed an aura of brutality. Zeke knew they were the ones to be feared, the boy being nothing more than a pretense of a city government that had given way to bands of ruffians ruling the streets.
Zeke and Adam stepped forward.
“Buy and sell; no nuisance,” mumbled the boy, his eyes hidden under painted lids.
“Nuisance?”
“Don’t tell me you’re stupid,” said the boy, finally fluttering his eyes opened. He sized up Zeke, made an exaggerated sniff in the air, and then spat on the ground to show his displeasure. “Damn, old man! You stink.”
“Son, damnation is always at hand.” Zeke was pleased that the youth found him unappealing. The city was dangerous if anyone found you desirable. Man or woman, the heathens were not particular.
“I said no nuisance. Buy or sell, but no preaching.”
Zeke let a smile escape. “Then, I’m here to buy.”
“Supplies? Food?” The boy gave a grimace. “Maybe a bit of flesh for you and your friend? A little something new?”
“I’m here to redeem children for the Lord.”
“Of course you are,” said the boy, smiling impishly. “You should have an escort.” The boy turned to the herd of brutes and waved one over. “Course, the City can’t make you. We don’t support gangs.”
Zeke knew it was a lie; everyone did. The City maintained the markets but couldn’t keep the gangs out. Instead, they suggested travelers buy protection, personal guards to move them through the streets. If one didn’t, then the travelers could find themselves at the mercy of the men they should have hired to protect them. Kickbacks and the desire to collect coins left over from the old world was all that mattered to the heathens.
“Two pens,” said the larger boy, meaning pennies. His stone face remained emotionless. “That’ll get you to the market.”
“And how much to get out?” Zeke knew the game, a ritual these escorts played. Let you spend all your coins and leave you without enough to travel out safely. Then other escorts would take everything you had bought.
The larger boy let out a smile, barely visible but enough to show amusement. “I don’t know till I see what you get. If it’s a lot, you’ll need more protection.”
“My child, then how do I know how much I can spend?”
“Okay, old man,” still smiling and amused, “two to get you there; two to get out.”
“Give you a nick if there are no troubles.”
With that, the three of them began moving deeper into the city along its hardened clay avenues. Zeke was relieved to be away from the guard; he had found something disturbing about him. At times he thought the guard would have been a beautiful girl, but such thoughts upset him. It was a temptation he felt incapable of resisting. Instead he focused on the back of the older boy as he led them through the streets. Like the guard, he was shirtless, but, unlike the other, he was bulky, strong, and massive. With each step his back muscles rippled, powerful and inspiring.
Zeke took a moment to glance back at Adam who had silently fallen to the rear. He was as quiet as ever, lost in his own furtive thoughts. Again, Zeke wondered about him, wondered what he thought, and whether or not he would survive.
But Zeke needed to put such thoughts aside and focus on the city. He needed to keep quiet and alert if he wanted to survive.
Most of the citizens were likely in the fields, the shops, or working at the distillery, however plenty of children of various ages and a few adults filled the avenues. Some were watching him and Adam and sizing up their escort. Others, though, were too absorbed in their own doings to pay any attention to them.
Around the first bend, weaving between two hovels, a group of boys, no more than seven or eight years old, had encircled a young girl. She was older than the boys by a few years, and taller, yet she was no match for their numbers. The boys twisted in their circle, lashing out at her as she whipped about, trying to keep her eyes on all of them at once. Her long blond hair, light as the air and the color of fields in the fall, flared with each turn. Her slender hand shot out, and she smacked the cheek of one of the boys who had grabbed the folds of her shirt, tugging it violently.
She screamed.
Two of the boys jumped forward, latching onto her arm, twisting her around. Another boy stooped and grabbed her by the ankle and swung it up until she fell back into the arms of the first two.
Then they were all upon her.
They began pulling on her arms and legs, thrusting her down to the ground and then pulling her back up. She was crying and screaming, lashing out at them with her slender hands, trying to catch a bit of flesh. But it was useless.
The boys, outnumbering her and bent on their devilish ways, got hold of her. Two boys subdued her by the shoulders while three others took care of her legs. One boy, yelling a string of obscenities, reeled his hand back and let it fly, striking her hard across the check, splitting her skin. A rivulet of blood smeared across her face as she went silent with fear and surrender.
The boys began dragging her down an alley between the homes, ripping her shirt to expose her torso. Zeke saw how young and undeveloped she was, no more than a child, yet already being forced into the pains of the city.
A man, dust-covered and hunched at the shoulders, glanced over, gave a smirk, and ducked into one of the homes.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Zeke cried out to his escort. But he already knew the answer.
The escort stopped, turned, and watched as the girl disappeared into the alley, the boys’ hands and fists flying about her. “She has no coin.” The escort’s words faded into the din of the assault. “She knows better than to be out alone.”
He started moving again, a steady pace to the market.
Zeke looked back at Adam, wanting to gauge his reaction, and saw what he believed to be the sides of Adam’s mouth twitching up into a subtle smile. But, if it were truly a smile, some hint of perversion, it disappeared just as quickly as it came.
***
If an Order has been given, it must be obeyed.
-The Second Book of God
The walls of the inner sanctum hummed, vibrating into a low moan. Zeke found it both unsettling and relieving. How long? he wondered. How many years have passed for this?
He allowed his weight to pull his body into one of the chairs facing the panel of glass and plastic. Misery and relief flooded him, pulling his shoulders down. He wanted to sleep, to let the hum carry him away forever.
Holy numbers, he thought.
For years, Zeke had recited them to his master, who, in turn, had learned them first from the Stranger. Days of recitation and nights of memorization plagued him as a youth. The months of the year must be known. The passage in the desert and the first letter of God’s name must be written on his heart. And, with forgiveness, he would ga
in entry to the tomb.
Earlier in the evening, Zeke had faced the outer door of the tomb, punched 1240J77 into the number pad, and then pressed ENTER.
God reduced to numbers.
It had given him passage to the outer chamber of the tomb, a cinder block room with metal doors. Then he took the relic, a simple key that had hung about his neck for the last thirty years, and inserted it into the locked door. He pulled the door, the scratching of its hinges echoing. Once opened, the door had exposed a ladder dropping into darkness.
But now, hours later, he sat at the console of the silo that had been abandoned by the Stranger, a soldier in the old government’s army. The humming, the lulling sound of sleep, continued for the time being, but Zeke knew the generator that had kept it going would end within the year.
The time had been set.
He thought of Adam, the boy he had raised to follow in the words of God. What did you see in her? he thought. Why did you choose her?
Back at the market, Zeke and Adam had bought a boy whose eyes showed strength and obedience. It was important. Adam would need to be able to teach the boy to fear and respect God. It was the reason Zeke and Adam had traveled to the city. For it is not good for man to be alone. Zeke had paid five nicks for him, but it was worth the price. Still being young enough to accept the teachings, the boy would grow strong and loyal.
But then the girls had to be chosen, each costing twice as much. Again, Zeke had looked for the right qualities. They needed to be young and strong. They needed to be humble and willing to serve God.
The first, as far as Zeke could tell, was about the same age as the boy. Her hair was dark and fell back over her shoulders, and she looked up at them with large soft brown eyes. Her mouth with small pouty lips on a heart-shaped face portrayed a quiet and humble life, one untouched by the cynicism and cruelty of the city. She would grow to be obedient.