Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
āHope youāre a harvest god,ā Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. āItād be nice, you know.ā He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. āI know itās not much,ā he said, his straw hat in his hands. āBut - Iāll do what I can. Itād be nice to think thereās a god looking after me.ā
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
āYou should go to a temple in the city,ā the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. āA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iām no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?ā It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. āI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itās cozy enough. The worshipās been nice. But you canāt honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.ā
āThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,ā Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. āTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?ā
āIām of the fallen leaves,ā it said. āThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. Iām a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itās gone.ā
The god heaved another sigh. āThereās no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. Youāre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.ā
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. āI like this sort of worship fine,ā he said. āSo if you donāt mind, I think Iāll continue.ā
āDo what you will,ā said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. āBut donāt say I never warned you otherwise.ā
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningās work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepoās fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
āUseless work,ā the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. āThere wasnāt a thing I could do to spare you this.ā
āWeāll be fine,ā Arepo said. āThe stormās blown over. Weāll rebuild. Donāt have much of an offering for today,ā he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, ābut I think Iāll shore up this thingās foundations tomorrow, how about that?āĀ
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepoās neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepoās field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepoās ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.Ā
āThere is nothing here for you,ā said the god, hudding in the dark. āThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.ā It shivered, and spat out its words. āWhat is this temple but another burden to you?ā
āWe -ā Arepo said, and his voice wavered. āSo itās a lean year,ā he said. āWeāve gone through this before, weāll get through this again. So weāre hungry,ā he said. āWeāve still got each other, donāt we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnāt protect them from this. No,ā he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. āNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.ā
āThere will come worse,ā said the god, from the hollows of the stone. āAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.ā
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
āI could not save them,ā said the god, its voice a low wail. āI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.ā The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. āI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!ā
āShush,ā Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. āTell me,ā he mumbled. āTell me again. What sort of god are you?ā
āI -ā said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoās head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
āIām of the fallen leaves,ā it said, and conjured up the image of them. āThe worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.ā Arepoās lips parted in a smile.
āI am the god of a dozen different nothings,ā it said. āThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -ā Its voice broke, and it wept. āBefore itās gone.ā
āBeautiful,ā Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. āAll of them. They were all so beautiful.ā
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
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2087
