To Face A God Of A Pantheon

“Little mortal, little mortal, tell me what this is.”

“It is a journal, Sire. Have you never used one before?”

“A god of the Pantheon has no need for such things. Pages cannot hold my thoughts.”

Nasara smiles, resting her chin in her hand as she gazes up at the bronzed immortal seated on the fifteen-foot-tall throne across from where she is kneeling on the floor. He holds the fate to her family’s future, yet she is not afraid as she boldly asks, “How can you be so sure if you have never put pen to paper?”

He casts her a skewed look, but his amber eyes glint with a hint of amusement. “Fair.” He lifts the small black book in one enormous hand. Sunlight streams through the open-roofed marble hall, coruscating off the gold rings that grace his long fingers as he turns the journal over. “But I am the demiurge of Fulfillment. You cannot possibly think giving me this will be enough to grant you the wealth needed to aid you in the difficult times soon to come.”

Nasara reaches for the pleats of her long sheath dress, splaying the hem out like white petals unfurling. A breeze wafts through the space, cooling, vastly different from the scorching desert heat she is accustomed to.

She draws in a long breath, brow furrowing in thought. “May I make an argument for my case, Sire?”

The looming figure inclines his head.

“Human life is fleeting, but when our flesh eventually decays, the rest of us lives on. Within our mind—the essence that is us—lies our capacity for creation, for reasoning, for pursuing interests and research and expanding knowledge we have already acquired. How incredible is it that the small motes of dust we are can even form whole worlds, albeit on a smaller scale than the Pantheon?”

The god’s cavernous chuckle reverberates through the hall. “It is about as incredible as learning that ants can do it. Which is to say, not at all.”

Nasara tsks, crossing her arms. “Humans would be fascinated if we learned that ants are nearly as intellectually and creatively capable as us!”

He leans forward, one arm resting on a muscled thigh, nostrils flaring. “Little mortal, are you insinuating that you are nearly as intellectually and creatively capable as my kin and I?”

“We were made in your image, were we not?”

He studies her for a long moment, then crooks the finger of his free hand. “Come closer.”

She swallows and rises, putting one sandaled foot in front of the other until she is before him. Here, he seems even larger. The sharp rise of his cheekbones and the glass-cut shape of his jaw are impossibly perfect. His stern eyes are ancient and eternal but not threatening; Nasara takes comfort in that. The faint scent of eucalyptus flows off him, putting her further at ease.

“It is true,” he begins, “that we created you in our image. But do not make the mistake of thinking that we are the same. You do not have eons of wisdom at your back, nor the might of a powerful, unified council working together.”

Nasara dips her chin in acknowledgement but presses on, wading into dangerous territory. “Still, we were fashioned in a way that reflects the entire Pantheon. We may have just one or two aspects of the gods within us, but in the end aren’t we the amalgamation of all of you? Doesn’t that mean we have profound capabilities of our own? If we didn’t harbor some of the innate powers you do, I’d say we are poor expressions of the Pantheon.”

The demiurge examines her, and Nasara feels terribly naked under the cutting gaze that nearly shucks her skin from its musculature, and the musculature from her bones, and even further still, peeling the layers of her very soul and studying every inch with painstaking scrutiny.

After what seems like a millennium, he leans back and returns his attention to the small black book. “Sometimes, I forget,” he murmurs, lip curling in displeasure.

Nasara blinks. “Sire?”

He doesn’t lift his eyes from the journal. “Relative to the Pantheon, your species has not walked this planet long, but you have become enough of a fixture that the wonder that once stirred within us upon your creation has faded. Your novelty ceased, and thus humans have become little more than the animals we created before you. That was a terrible mistake on our part.”

“I-I am sorry if I have upset you. That was not my—”

“Little mortal, you have done no such thing. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Hope blossoms in Nasara’s chest. She lowers herself back to the ground and folds her hands in her lap. “Does this mean you see value in my offering?” she asks cautiously.

The deity at last opens the well-loved journal in full. The pages flutter past; Nasara knows he has read it all within seconds. He closes the book, staring at it a moment longer, then returns it to her.

“No,” he says. “It is not enough.”

Her hope evaporates like a fire doused. Hot tears raze her vision, blurring everything. She scrubs at her eyes, horribly smudging the kohl lining them, and shoves herself to her feet.

“What would have granted security for my family, Sire?” she whispers quaveringly. “We have no riches to give, and my father toils all day long in the fields. My mother is terribly ill yet she still cares for the women who flee their abusive husbands. I was their only hope to bring them some wealth before the Scarce Season sets in. In those pages are human experiences the Pantheon could never live through. The struggles, the triumphs, the love, the loss, the act of living knowing that one day we will cease to be. My journal contains just one story out of millions. It is as much me as my own beating heart. I proffered you my very essence this way so you may see through the eyes of your creation for but a moment and glimpse the life of something as fragile as I. What more could I have given?”

The deity does not respond. His expression is unreadable, face as firm as stone.

With great effort, Nasara bows, grief clinging to her lashes before dripping to the marble at his feet. “Thank you for your time, Sire,” she chokes out before turning and hurrying out of the hall.

* * *

“Anais.”

The bronzed deity doesn’t turn from his position atop the hill overlooking an arid valley with meager plots of farmland among the pale sand and brown earth. “Kalas. What brings the demiurge of Wisdom here?”

The newcomer draws even with him. “I should rather ask you what the demiurge of Fulfillment is doing so far from his territory.”

Anais passes a hand over his coarse black curls. “Discontent brought me here.”

“Oh?”

He turns to her, noting the white hair pulled back into a long tail. Her rust-colored skin glows with inner radiance. “Hm,” he says. “New style?”

“Anais. Speak your mind.”

He sighs and looks back at the city. “I was reminded today of the existence of humans.”

“Were you gone somewhere far enough that you forgot about them?”

“In a sense, I suppose. A place called hubris. Or perhaps it’s called disregard.”

Kalas smiles knowingly. “Was someone brave enough to push back against you recently?” When Anais snorts, she adds, “I think your deduction was correct. Hubris is certainly a place you and some others of our kin reside.”

“We have rules” he growls. “Mortals must earn the graces of my fortune.”

“Remind me, what must your constituents give?”

“Anything that requires precious sacrifice on their part. If it does not hurt them in some way, it cannot be deemed sincere.”

“And what did this one offer you?”

“The human experience in the form of a book she penned.”

A bark of laughter escapes Kalas. “Audacious.”

Anais drags his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze drawn to an old, single-story farmhouse with stained clay walls and a lopsided roof sitting stoutly on the outskirts of the settlement. “She comes from this city.”

Kalas immediately sobers. “This place will see much strife soon. They will barely have enough harvest to sustain them come the start of the Scarce Season. Once the Trading Season begins afterward, they will continue to suffer when the other cities realize they have nothing of worth.”

“I wanted to help her, Kalas. But she wasn’t giving me a sacrifice.”

“Why does it have to be a sacrifice?”

“It’s the way things have always been done.”

Kalas places her hand on his cheek, directing him to look at her. There is a firm set to her jaw. “Anais. It is bad enough when humans, in the short time they have been around, fall into the false security of tradition. Imagine how much more detrimental it is for immortals such as us if we remain rooted the same way, never moving forward even as evolution continues its natural progression among the things we create.”

“We would burden civilization,” he says quietly. “While they move into the future, we would be stuck in the past, in traditions far removed from their current reality.” Disgust suffuses him. “We would be outdated, unwilling to adapt and too haughty to admit we could learn from our creations as they learn from us. We would shackle them when they need to be running forward.”

“What are human beings in their essence, Anais?”

“Parts of us.”

“And what does this mean?”

“By shackling them, we are also shackling ourselves.”

Kalas presses a kiss to his forehead. “Do not let that happen. It would be mutual destruction.”

* * *

After delivering news of her failure to her heartbroken parents, Nasara retires to her room and weeps herself into slumber. Her dreams, full of darkness and fortunes out of reach, do not allow her reprieve. So when a strange sound like the snapping of fingers rouses her, she is grateful to be freed from her unsettled rest.

She searches for the source of the noise. Moonlight shines through the windows, giving rise to the ever-faithful shadow that follows her. She steps outside and to her utter bewilderment finds the demiurge of Fulfillment in her family’s field. Without thinking, she races toward him. He watches her approach with a humored smile. “Nasara.”

She bows. “Sire! I didn’t expect—I wouldn’t have thought—what are you doing here?”

“Discarding traditions that hold all of us back.” Anais crouches on one knee to get to her level. “Open your hands.”

She does. He closes his eyes, presses his index finger to his lips, then touches it to her upturned palms. A heavy burlap sack appears in them and she falls with a gasp. “What—”

“You have given me much to ponder,” he tells her, standing up, “and I look forward to having more discussions. For now, though, I must depart. Good night, Nasara.”

Nasara stares after him as he strides away, agape. She wants to call out but can’t find her voice. The sack lays before her; with one last glance at him, she tugs the twine around it loose and peers in.

She nearly screams at the sight that meets her.

Gold and silver pieces gleam up at her. Trembling, she hoists the bag into her arms and hastens into the house where she begins counting each coin.

An hour later, as the sun commences its ascent, she sets the last piece on the table with dizzied wonder as she tallies the final value.

Twenty thousand. Twenty thousand.

Her family is lucky to receive ten coins a week for their work.

The tears fall. She did it. She took a risk, tried something different, had perhaps failed initially. But she must have done something right, because now her family would be safe from the trials to come.