Beneath the Eye of Man-Made Gods

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Papa kept the door locked, never letting her inside except during morning prayer.

Isana knelt beside her father, her hands laced tightly together and hovering inches from her nose. The circular pane of cracked glass was suspended high above in the concrete wall, while a three-foot narrow platform situated at the base of the cracked glass ensured they say little else beside the radiant light gleaming down. Pure and unfiltered, it bathed them in the reverent glow of the Beholder's gaze.

Isana tried to stay focused, to repeat the words along with her Papa. "Blessed Light, illuminate my steps."

Peeking one eye open, Isana checked to see if Papa still bowed his head. His eyes were closed, his hands hovering in front of his face just as hers did.

"Blessed Fire, burn away my impurities."

Her hands dropped slightly, giving her a better view to study the window. From her vantage on the floor, she saw nothing but greyish-blue sky beyond the brilliance of white light streaming through into the darkened room, leaving her imagination to ponder the missing pieces of the world without.

"Blessed Eye, see me walk the proper Path. Guide my steps, my thoughts, my..."

Isana let her hands sink lower and craned her neck higher, stretching as best she could to see out the window without drawing Papa's ire. Mama spoke of rolling hills that stretched lazily to the foot of distant gray mountains, with forests of ash and pine blanketing the earth in lush and verdant life. And poking from the sea of green, the great, iron skeletons pierced the sky with rebellious tenacity; the last vestiges of the Man-Made Gods slowly consumed back into the natural order of things.

Did they still stand? Had the world really swallowed it whole in protest against the Ancient Ones' hubris? Isana wondered, her mind easily returning to those worn trails of thought as she slowly rose on her knees and stretched her neck further. Bluer sky greeted her out the window, along with a dark, blurred shadow poking up from the lower, left side. Could it be?

Papa cleared his throat, startling Isana back down to her place on the floor. She glanced at him momentarily, cheeks inflamed, then closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her nose.

"Light my way and keep me pure. In shadow we serve, in darkness we toil, beholden to thee until your return. Amen."

Papa sighed, a wheezing, rasping sound now that sounded like rocks grating in his red, blotched throat. Isana peeked again, this time careful just to watch from the periphery. Papa's laced fingers dropped down into his lap, his shoulders sagged, and he turned his face up towards the light, illuminating the red, scaled patches that dotted his forearms, his neck, his cheeks.

Isana swallowed down the pang of grief and disgust that threatened to swamp her. The Red Fever set in slow at first. She remembered both Mama and Frederick scratching at the scaled patches of red skin before the real fever set in, setting them ablaze from the inside out until the flesh sloughed off their bones. Both had passed nearly seven sevens now, the marks of time etched into the walls of their living space. Papa wouldn't be too far behind them.

What would happen to Isana when she buried him, too?

"Isana," he wheezed, eyes still closed against the brush of light.

She looked up from checking her own pale skin and shrank beneath the tone of his voice. "Yes, Papa?"

"While in here, your thoughts should be on the Beholder, not what lies beyond the glass."

"But Papa, I-"

Papa snapped his eyes open and narrowed his ugly stare in her direction. Flaking patches of raw skin dotted his cheeks, nose, and forehead now, consuming his features until all she could see was the blotchy rash. His eyes had yellowed where they once were white, glassy and rimmed with red. Isana quickly averted her gaze, focusing instead on the dusty floor as she wrung the hem of her dress.

Papa sighed again, then gently patted her shoulder. "I know it's hard, but part of strengthening your faith is resisting that temptation to let your mind wander. Try and focus next time, understand?"

Isana tried not to recoil beneath his touch and rubbed her sweaty palms across the off-white fabric of her too-big dress. She nodded. "Yes, Papa."

"Good." He rose slowly, his movements rigid and cautious, then opened the door to the sacred room and ushered her back into the hall leading down into the dark. "Now let's get to work."

***

Isana stared at the hallway leading up towards Papa's prayer room as she leaned heavily on the broom. Alone once more, she did her best to focus on her chores while Papa descended into the lower levels to search for more mushrooms and fungus for supper. Rations were low, pickings slimmer by the day, and the likelihood of Isana soon having to join him down in the stagnant depths of the concrete caverns they called home loomed over her like a nightmare.

Freddy always talked about how miserable the lower levels were, how much he hated having to go down with Mama and Papa while Isana got the easy chores back at home. She'd always argued back how she hated being left alone, sticking her tongue at him defiantly when he called her a baby and reminded her that soon her time would come. Now, standing alone in the silence and gloom, she imagined Freddy returning, covered in muck and reeking of sweat and mold and utter foulness, and missed him terribly.

Sniffling, Isana wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, then resumed sweeping. Her gaze drifted from one end of the concrete tomb to the other, an oblong rectangle bisected by a singular hallway; one way spiraling up towards Papa's prayer room, the other leading down towards the crumbling steps that descended into the dark. Rusted sconces faintly glowed in various corners, banishing the darkness while inviting the gloom. Isana could hear a faint whirring whenever they were lit. Papa never explained what powered them. He didn't like questions, especially ones she suspected he didn't really have the answers to.

Meager furnishings adorned the rectangular room while strategically draped curtains served to separate the space as needed. A cooking stove sat in the far left corner, a rusted and cracked washing basin beside it. A table with four chairs squatted across from it. Behind the curtains, only two sleeping palettes remained; one for her, one for Papa. Isana remembered how Papa wept when he rolled up Freddy's, though she suspected he didn't know she was watching.

And painted on the cracked, concrete wall that dominated the space, the Beholder's Eye blazed with faded divinity, part of His light aided by the flickering sconces that framed it. Isana hated that painting; it only ever reminded her how often she failed at what her parents wished of her: quiet faith and silent service.

She'd never been very good at keeping quiet. Her mouth ran away with her nearly as often as her mind did, ejecting the questions that plagued her out into reality before she had the sense to stop her tongue from wagging. But Papa always gave her the same scathing look, then shook his head and scolded her for dwelling on such nonsense.

Isana didn't think her questions lacked sense; in fact, she believed them to be quite clever, but no one ever seemed to agree. They all hushed her and patted her head, telling her to think instead of the Beholder and her chores. For the good of the family, they'd say. We serve until the Beholder returns and sets us free from the dark to join Him in the light.

Isana rolled her eyes at the thought. It wasn't to say that she didn't believe her parents' faith had merit--she didn't know anything else to say it didn't. She simply thought to question it, examine it, and probe whether such toiling in the dark really strengthened faith or dimmed it.

Heavy thoughts for one so small, Freddy once said with a tired laugh. But he believed her, or at least Isana thought he did.

Isana paused at the end of the hall leading upwards, studying the door that locked away her only glimpse of the outside world, of the truth waiting beyond the glass. Her curiosity gnawed at her, whispered in her ear to take a peek. What harm could it really do to look out a window you knelt beneath every day?

The Beholder's Eye burned its gaze on the back of her neck, condemning her for such impure thoughts. With a disgruntled sigh, she swept the broom harder across the floor, then slammed it down entirely, a swath of dust rising around her ankles. Turning towards the Eye, Isana stuck out her tongue, then stormed behind her curtain and buried herself beneath her sleeping blankets to hide from the implacable stare of her god.

***

They ate in silence; the nightly routine that Isana vainly wished would change, even for one night. Papa munched thoughtlessly on his cooked mushrooms, staring off into the far corner of the room and absently itching at his forearm. Isana stared down at her plate, moving a mushroom from one side to the other, then back again with her rusted fork. She glanced back at the Eye, then at Papa, and slowly set her fork down.

"I missed you today, Papa."

Papa grunted and nodded his head with a weary smile, but continued chewing.

"How were the mines?" she probed further. "Did you find anything good?"

Papa paused, regarding her closely, then shrugged and shook his head. "Not much more than usual," he said behind the mushroom in his mouth.

Isana smiled, glad to at least hear him respond with more than the usual grunt or sigh. It emboldened her. "Papa, I have a question."

He looked down at her warily. "You usually do."

"What's really beyond the window? Have you ever looked? Have you ever seen what's out there?"

Papa shook his head and sighed. "No, Isana. I don't need to. I see what the Beholder wants me to see and keep my focus there, as you should also. The outside world is a damned place. Here, we are safe and will be until the Beholder returns for us."

"But Mama and Freddy-"

Papa slammed his fist down on the table, shaking her plate and startling her back into obedient silence. Her eyes fell to her hands tightly laced together in her lap and she bit her lip to trap the frightened yelp stinging her throat.

"We are safe, Isana. Why must you keep questioning everything?" Scrubbing a hand over his scaly face, Papa set down his fork and sighed. Then he stabbed a hand over to the Eye. "Go and kneel until you find contentment where you should. I'll suffer no further words from you until you do your penance for your errant doubting."

Isana knew better than to press the issue. Wordlessly, she rose from her chair and assumed her place before the Eye. Kneeling on the cold concrete, she laced her fingers together and held them trembling in front of her nose. She glowered hatefully back at the Beholder's Eye as hot tears trickled down her inflamed cheeks.

***

Mama had been kind. She'd at least entertained Isana's questions, answering instead with stories of the Reckoning, when the Man-Made Gods destroyed the world. Elevating themselves above all else, the Man-Made Gods allowed their pride and comfort to come before the needs of the natural order, throwing the world off-balance. But Nature rebelled and went to war against them.

Massive waves flooded the coasts, drowning the lesser gods whose bones paved the steps for those Fate deemed to raise above them. Fire rained down from the sky while great pits opened in the earth, seeking to swallow the Ancient Ones' supposed progress to equal the balance. Even the lowest of creatures carried Nature's banner, evoking plagues and famines across the globe to slow them down.

But no matter how hard the Earth screamed in rebellion, the Man-Made Gods remained deaf to her pleas. They fought back, obliterating mountains in their vain crusade to lay the blame anywhere else aside from their own feet. Until even they fell victim to their own schemes and perished at their own hands.

"But where did they go?" Isana would ask, never truly understanding how even self-made divinities could simply disappear.

Mama hadn't been afraid to admit she didn't know all of the answers, but her tender smile and gentle caress whispered a promise that they'd discover it together.

"Only the Beholder knows," Mama would say as she tucked Isana in, "but one day He'll return for us and all of our questions will be answered."

"Then how did we get here?" Isana would press further.

Mama would smile gently and cup Isana's cheek. "We've always been here, my little love. The Beholder rescued us long ago and bade us wait here for His return. Until then, we serve and pray as He has asked."

Though Isana hated that answer, she at least understood why Mama said it. It was all she truly knew.

Kneeling there before the great Eye, Isana's fury ached for relief in unison with her knees. Though her eyes drooped and sleep nipped at her mind, she focused as best she could not on repentance, but on contempt. For her Papa, for her faith, for her Mama and Freddy for leaving her alone. But most of all, for the window that taunted her, whispering its vile temptations down the hall. She could hear it mocking her, its drafty whistle sneaking down the corridor and echoing in her ear like an ill-kept secret.

Come and see the truth, Isana, it said. What's the harm in simply looking?

Isana shook her head and rubbed her eyes. She glanced towards Papa's curtain, the heavy rasp of his breath rattling behind it. Biting her lip, Isana turned her back on the Eye and gazed down the dimly lit corridor, entranced by the light glowing brilliantly through the crack at the bottom of the door.

Light. Simple, beautiful light.

She glanced over her shoulder at the religious motif glaring at her back and grinned spitefully. The Beholder was light according to Papa. And if the Beholder was good, then so, too, was light, which meant that looking through the window where the light streamed in couldn't possibly be bad. How could it?

A plan pieced itself together in her mind, simple enough but treacherous all the same. Slowly, Isana rose from her knees, pausing to stretch life back into her aching joints, then crept towards Papa's curtain. She swept past the tattered fabric on tiptoes, then slowly knelt beside his sleeping form and fished through his pile of clothes where she knew he kept the key.

Papa snorted and rolled onto his back, freezing her instantly. She stood motionless, palms closed tight around the iron key until she was certain he still slept before tiptoeing away and down the hall towards the door.

Isana's heart pounded harder in her chest with every step closer. Sweat slicked her hands, her forehead, while her mouth and throat suddenly dried. Tremors shook her whole body, equally induced by fear and excitement as one battled the other. Glancing back over her shoulder, Isana checked the room behind her while she fumbled with the key in the lock. The grating click thundered in the silence, the hammer of the lock disengaging deafening to her ears.

She swallowed past the dryness in her throat, then slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside. Light flooded down upon her, blinding in its intensity. Squeezing her eyes shut, she quickly closed the door behind her and blinked until her vision adjusted.

Though she knelt in this room every morning, she couldn't shake the feeling of surveying it for the first time, the light illuminating aspects of it she'd never really noticed before. A torn and faded painting hung high on the wall to the left of the window; only the image of a great, metal bull remained. To the right, strange shapes and lines were scribbled high up across the wall; its message lost on her. Isana studied the cryptic shapes a moment longer before focusing instead on the reason she had come.

Centered in the wall before her, the window loomed overhead on an upraised platform, rising nearly level with her chest while standing. She stretched on her tiptoes, craning her neck to try and see from where she stood, but saw nothing more than the same empty image she received while sitting on her knees. Isana jumped, the added height revealing more of the shadowed shape that had caught her attention earlier that morning.

Her heart skipped. She jumped again, certain now that something stood outside the window. A rectangular tower emerged from the lower, left side of the window, its greyish-brown walls taking shape with every view she snatched. But jumping only revealed a taste of what she knew had to be waiting out there. To get the full picture, Isana had to climb up to the window.

Spurred by excitement and terror alike, she searched the room for anything to climb on and found a pile of old, wooden crates stacked in the left corner. Isana rushed towards them without delay. As she scaled the boxes and clawed her way up onto the window's dais, her foot slipped, knocking down the stacked crates with a thunderous crash. Isana held her breath. Papa had to have heard that; there was no doubt in her mind. She had to look out the window before he caught her. She couldn't let this all be for naught.

Scrambling to her feet, Isana made her way to the window, unaware of how narrow the platform truly was. Just before she reached the glass, the door to the room burst open and Papa barged inside, his scaled face livid even beneath the redness of the rash.

"Isana!" he shouted in both rage and horror, seeing her balancing on the narrow platform to the left of the window. "Get down now!"

Isana shook her head. Wordlessly, she focused on her goal and continued, her pace spurred by the pounding of Papa's footsteps. She reached the glass just as Papa reached the platform, a broad smile on her face as she blinked into the light and started to move closer.

"Isana, no!" Papa's voice was a distant warning, muted by the splendor of light shining through the glass.

Isana stepped again, her foot rising just as Papa snatched his hand towards it, catching on the end of her toes and throwing her off balance. Isana pitched forward, her body spinning so her shoulder pushed first against, then through, the fragile glass as it gave way beneath her weight.

She felt the sting of glass as it sliced through her delicate skin, then the rush of air battering against her, whipping the fabric of her dress chaotically as she fell. Her first thought was one of confusion, then shock, followed by terror. She thought to scream but lost her voice amidst the rush of wind. Tears blurred her eyes; she blinked to clear them, then tried to turn her head in any direction if only to catch a glimpse of the world without her window, the one she now fell perilously down towards.

But the ground came too quickly and all Isana was able to see was black.

***

Jonas hoisted himself onto the ledge and screamed, launching his torso out the broken window after his daughter, uncaring of the jagged glass that bit into his ruined flesh. He clawed at the air Isana once occupied, then watched in horror as she fell. He wanted to scream, to call her name, to beg and plead for the Beholder to save her, but only stunned silence streamed from his agape mouth. Until finally, she hit the ground, her tiny body obliterated on the dead earth that waited at the bottom of the towering structure.

Staring down, Jonas blinked in shock until reality wrapped its sharpened claws around his throat. A strangled sob choked from his throat and his heart seized with lamentation. Blinking back tears, he forced himself to look away and instead gazed outwards at the scene surrounding him that he'd never been brave enough to admit was out there.

Seven, towering structures rose from the barren, ash-strewn earth, arranged in a tight circle. Their concrete walls were bare and weathered, blending in consummately with the deadened landscape surrounding them. At the top of every tower, a large, circular window broke the pattern of bland stone. And above the windows, a sigil was carved on each one.

Jonas held his breath, his lungs aching as his mind tried to wrap itself around the meaning of what he witnessed. Seven towers. Seven sigils. Seven signs of the pantheon of Man-Made Gods carved at the pinnacle of each tower. The air wheezed out of his lungs and through his lips, deflated.

Not seven, he realized with growing terror. Eight.

Horrified, Jonas crawled back through the window and fell from the platform with a heavy thud. He shook his head defiantly, refusing to accept the vision his own eyes had seen. Shoving aside all doubting thoughts, all emotions and unprocessed memories of losing the last of his kin, Jonas retreated into the safety of what he knew. Prostrating himself in the stream of light that flooded the room, he pressed his head to the floor and prayed.

"In shadow we serve, in darkness we toil, beholden to thee until your return. In shadow we serve, in darkness we toil, beholden to thee until your return. Beholden to thee...Beholden to thee."