The Godling: A Novel of Masalay

by CK Collins

  “What of his family?”

  “He didn’t have any. By then. His dad and his brother got into trouble. With the government, the secret police. They got arrested and he never saw them again. And his mom, she died. So . . .”

  “And your mother?”

  “Her nationality? Is that what you mean?”

  She nods.

  “On her dad’s side, her grandparents were both from Chile. Her mom’s side, I’m not sure about her mom’s side.”

  “You know, the Portuguese were in Masalay for some time.”

  “The Portuguese?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did learn that, yes.”

  “Iberians like the Spanish, the Portuguese.”

  “Sure, right.”

  “The Dutch as well.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “And then Britain.”

  “Right, we have that in common I guess. Masalay and America, I mean. Colonies of England.”

  She bristles, “You’ll be informed that Masalay was a thriving civilization long before Britain existed.”

  “Yes, right, I know.”

  “Quite different from the American Indians.”

  “No scalping here,” says Essio as if it’s a clever joke. Everybody chuckles.

  “Rika always enjoyed films with cowboys, didn’t he?” one of the sisters asks the other.

  “Westerns,” the second one agrees, “that television program.” She tells me, “Rika was sweet. The youngest, you know. He always had habit of bringing in strays.”

  “Strays?”

  “Every time we’re turning around — look, Rika’s brought a new stray.”

  The women folk all laugh at that.

  “A soft heart, Rika,” says his mother and she sets down her tea cup.

  I set down mine too. It’s gone cold.

  The Colonel clears his throat, and Mrs. Murai looks at him. Evidently her turn is over. And what a turn it was — I’m feeling very close to her, we may paint each other’s toenails tonight. He puts on reading glasses and takes a letter from his vest pocket. Rika’s letter, it has to be. He scans it for a long moment like he’s reviewing a bill.

  “Miss Voros, this is a letter that has the signature of Rika.” The Colonel’s Masalayan accent is heavier than the others’, and his voice is a nicked-up knife.

  “Right?”

  Dropping the letter onto the table, this dramatic gesture, he says, “This is not my son.”

  “Okay. He did send it, right?”

  “You have been ill, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was ill. Fevered.”

  “Um . . .”

  “You say that you are with child?”

  “I am. I am with child.”

  “You’ve seen a physician?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “We shall arrange an examination.” He taps the arm of the closest daughter, giving her that assignment.

  “I’m sure I can find my own doctor, it’s okay.”

  He waves off that ridiculous idea. “You’ll find yourself with a quota monkey. No, my daughter will attend to it and ensure you’re examined properly.”

  “Examined?”

  “The customary tests. At no cost, you needn’t worry.”

  “Like paternity?”

  “Of course. And whatever else is customary.”

  “I’ll find my own doctor, thanks.”

  “Have you means?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Young lady, you’ve made an extraordinary claim. Why object to verification?”

  “Actually, getting pregnant — not that extraordinary. Don’t really need verification considering I was there.”

  “But you see, I was not.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve been creepy.”

  “Young lady, if you desire to sleep in my son’s home, you will first furnish evidence that you deserve the privilege.”

  “Ah.”

  “Maybe these affairs are handled differently in the States, or in Hungary. But this is how affairs are handled here.”

  “I thought the letter said I was supposed to live in his house and that you were supposed to treat me like family. Is that not what it says?”

  “But you see it is not Rika’s house. It belongs to me. I should be happy to show you the papers if you’d like. So it is not his to give.”

  Enjoying his little triumph, the prick grins and tucks away the letter. “You see, miss, there is much you fail to comprehend about our family and our nation. Tomorrow my daughter will arrange your examination. And my son will ring the airlines to arrange your return flight to the United States. Upon your departure, we will make you a modest gift out of sympathy for your situation.”

  “Right, well I’m not leaving. And I don’t want your money.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “See, because I’m not a whore. That’s what you’re saying, right, that I’m a whore? Well I’m not and I’ll get the tests that I feel like getting.”

  “You are refusing me.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then we are at an impasse.”

  “No, actually, not an impasse. That house is yours? Fine, I don’t want to live in it. But we all agree that Rika said I should live in his house. So I’ll do that. Which, now you’re thinking I’m stupid and I don’t listen. But actually I do listen. That house on the coast — the Nova Coast, right? — Rika bought that house. With his own money, for Disiri’s birthday, he told me exactly how he did it. So when Rika comes back, tell him to look for me there. I’ll be waiting.”

  Afternoon

  Liashe, Masalay

  Tchori crosses her legs, determined not to appear over-eager, and leans against the jagged periodicals stack.

  “We raced about the island,” Carodai recalls, “tracking those clues in the Governor’s letter. A treasure hunt, as you said. Now, we know from the historical record, yes, that the first generation of Godling worshipers produced a lengthy scroll recounting the life and death of Khaadum?”

  Impatient at being quizzed on something so elementary: “The Riyain Valley Scroll.”

  “A kind of Gospel of Mark, but composed nearer to the events — and then lost.”

  “Yes, but the Gospel of Mark records holy truths. The Riyain Valley Scroll was an exercise in myth-making.”

  “Yes, the Church has thus decreed.”

  She persists, irked at his equivocal tone, “Khaadum may have existed, likely did exist, but he was not what the cultists say. Ashma cannot be ‘born of human womb.’”

  “Yes, yes — to believe otherwise is heresy.”

  “Exactly that.”

  “And be assured that Viv and I pursued the search with that exact view. Aarum, of course — I believe you know his opinion of Church doctrine. It has become more pronounced, shall we say, but it was always there.”

  She brushes lint from her skirt, avoiding eye contact at the mention of Sidaarik’s name. “There was reference, then, to the Riyain Valley Scroll in the Governor’s letter?”

  “The actual thing.”

  “That would be extraordinary.”

  “We didn’t dare believe it. And the obstacles were many. We reached dead end more than once — were packed to leave, in fact, when Viv had one last idea. Long odds. And some peril as well.”

  She leans forward, impatient. “Do you have it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What, was it ruined?”

  “Yes, by their cherishing. The priests who prepared the record of Khaadum wanted to preserve it for all time. They didn’t use leather or vellum, which might decay. They didn’t use stone, which might break. They chose — it makes perfect sense — the most durable element in their world. Copper. Lovingly prepared sheets of copper. What could be more permanent than metal?”

  “Until it oxidises.”

  “Indeed. Tragic, no? Over the long stretch of time, those lovely sheets fused together.”

  “Is the
re no way to separate them?”

  “One would think. Viv tells me I’ve excessive faith in technology. It’s not something I’m frequently accused of. These forty years, I’ve pestered her — she claims monthly — to see if there’s yet a technique. About six or seven years ago, she told me of a new machine that may be up to the task. But that the technology is evolving. She says I must be patient.”

  “Does she have it?”

  “Yes, tucked somewhere safe. Now, dove, there’s a better part to the story. The Scroll was stored those many centuries in an urn, a clay urn, that had become broken. More on that in a moment. Inside the urn, along with the Scroll, was a second document. Sixteen leather sheets. Very poor condition. But not hopeless.”

  “What is it?”

  “A commentary. On the Scroll. We’ve recovered approximately 40% of the original text. Imagine the pages of a book removed from their binding and stacked askew. And then imagine allowing water and mould to eat away at the edges, working inward. So what began as a rectangle becomes a circle. You see? Only the centre remaining.

  “In dealing with ancient texts, it’s so often that we lose sections and passages. With this Commentary, however, we’ve the middle of one sentence, followed by the end of a different sentence, followed the beginning of another. And so on. We can see almost all of the thoughts, but very few of them are complete. An exercise in filling in the blanks with plausible words. Maddening — so much room for error and ambiguity.

  “Now, keep in mind that the Scroll dates from the first century after Khaadum’s death. But the Commentary was composed some four hundred years later. We can only guess how many times the Scroll might have changed hands. Recall, there were hundreds of Godling sects, with vastly different beliefs. We know that the Mikidaites possessed the Scroll for several centuries. Sectarian war. Conquest. It was lost. And somehow it came into the hands of a tiny group called the Ifidians.

  “By then, the Scroll would already have begun to oxidise. It would have been brittle. Read very seldom in sacred ceremony. The Commentary was their attempt — they were under persecution, recall, and small and marginal — it was their attempt to establish the eternal truth of Khaadum.

  “I’ve mentioned the urn. It was painted, and we were able to reconstruct it. Narrative, moving from right to left. In the first panel, one sees red hills. And there is the image of a field. We’re meant to understand that it was barren — and then in bloom with flowers. There is then the image of a child. He is shown sinking into the field. And then rising from it. We see a pregnant woman who is depicted as set apart and under siege. There are four sequences — we can call them panels — and in the third panel the boy is attacking from the left while a beast of some sort comes from above. In the final panel, which is in worst repair, we have the birth of Khaadum in the midst of turmoil.

  “Now as it happens, the best preserved portion of the Commentary addresses the conception and pregnancy and the threats endured. The view of the Ifidians seems to have been that Ashma ‘issued Her urge’ into countless other men and women through the ages. As an almost random act, the men and women time and again missing one another, failing to connect, failing to conceive. In the rare instances of conception, we’re told, Oblivion has been ever successful in reacting, incarnating as the Skythk, and destroying the mother and child.”

  “Does the Commentary describe Rith Idiiye?”

  “It does. Not by name — the name is centuries, not millennia old — but everything we observed. The same blood-red hills described in the Av Udaan. A barren field at the base of those hills. Flowers suddenly bloomed by the thousands. An uncanny match, if you hadn’t guessed by now, for the specimens you’ve put up in the mending room. And we have, as well, the account of a child drawn into the field.”

  “All caused by what?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I don’t, how can I know?”

  “By the conception, somewhere in Masalay, of a Godling.”

  Tchori stands, compelled by emotion to move, and folds her arms. Exhales sharply. “Go on.”

  “Well, it has ever been so, has it not? Ashma acts and Oblivion reacts — the push of Creation and the pull of Oblivion.”

  “Alright.”

  “Somewhere in Masalay a divine child is conceived, triggering a reaction in the hibernating seed of the Skythk. Flowers sprout, and their scent draws in a child. Who becomes the Skythk made flesh. The name that Thaadi spoke is contained in the Commentary, written without vowels and never to be spoken.”

  “Brother, the fact that you’d confide in me . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m grateful for it. You shouldn’t do, in my opinion — to trust in the discretion and maturity of a novice. But you have done, and I won’t fail you, I won’t.”

  “Miss Vidaayit, I’ve many worries just now, but being failed by you is not among them. However, there is something I would like from you.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Your opinion, please. Tell me what you think.”

  “Brother, why? My opinion is of no value next to yours.”

  “Child, I’ve not been speaking all this time for the pleasure of hearing my voice.”

  “What I think? What I think is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She feels pushed. “I’m not a Que’ist, Brother.”

  “Nor am I.”

  “I believe in the Church and I believe in the Creed. I don’t believe in magic or Dasalism or superstitious nonsense.”

  “Nor should you.”

  “The Creed says that Ashma breathed once into a human womb. Once. Without repeat performance. I believe that.”

  “So you believe that you can predict the will of God?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. The Creed declares against Divine Intentionalism — the image of God as a master puppeteer is to be rejected. That’s something I believe in firmly.”

  “As do I. But do you agree that we cannot foretell the actions of Ashma? That we cannot know Her will?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not trying to trap you.”

  “We can’t know Ashma’s will, true. So it follows that we can’t know what She will or will not do. It’s the principle of the divine shadow.”

  “Indeed. What does the divine shadow tell us?”

  Reluctantly — it seems like a giving in — she retakes her seat. “It tells us that we’re capable of seeing Ashma only indirectly. We understand Her only by inference.”

  Carodai nods for her to continue.

  “The tree itself is invisible, so we study the shadow that it makes. From studying the shadow of the branches, we infer the branches’ true shape, as well as the angle of the sun. But if we say we know the truth of the wood, we’ve forgotten our humility before God.”

  “Exactly so. Continue.”

  “Well, I can’t, can I?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the metaphor has backed me into a corner.”

  “Hardly. Our metaphors must work for us, not the other way round. That is perhaps the central error of Hilm Hivaa. They mistake human constructs for eternal truths and think they’re doing God’s will by transforming old metaphors into permanent laws. Hubris masquerading as humility, we mustn’t make the same mistake.

  “The shadow metaphor is helpful as far as it goes, but the metaphor itself is also a shadow. Tell me: What does it mean that we’re discovering such uncanny echoes of the past?”

  “I don’t know. The Creed declares that nothing is pre-ordained.”

  “You’ve just said, rightly, that Ashma is unknowable.” He sounds entirely the professor, which Tchori finds maddening and endearing in equal measure. “If Ashma is unknowable, how do we ‘know’ that She does not pre-destine.”

  “Well, as you’ve just observed,” she replies, confidence returning, “we mustn’t be slaves to our metaphors. That Ashma is unknowable does not mean that Ashma is wi
thout form or essence. Her essence can be known, and to pre-destine would violate that essence.”

  “In what way?”

  “Because Creation is not a performance. It’s not a play. We’re not acting scenes that have already been written, playing roles instead of living lives. Ashma’s will is to discover, not to control — all was set in motion by Her urge to know and be known. Creation is a conversation trying to be had.