Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
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.
âHope youâre a harvest god,â Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. âItâd be nice, you know.â He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. âI know itâs not much,â he said, his straw hat in his hands. âBut - Iâll do what I can. Itâd be nice to think thereâs a god looking after me.â
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.
âYou should go to a temple in the city,â the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. âA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iâm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?â It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. âI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itâs cozy enough. The worshipâs been nice. But you canât honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.â
âThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,â Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. âTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?â
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said. âThe 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. Iâm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itâs gone.â
The god heaved another sigh. âThereâs 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. Youâre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.â
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. âI like this sort of worship fine,â he said. âSo if you donât mind, I think Iâll continue.â
âDo what you will,â said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. âBut donât say I never warned you otherwise.â
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningâs 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 Arepoâs 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.
âUseless work,â the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. âThere wasnât a thing I could do to spare you this.â
âWeâll be fine,â Arepo said. âThe stormâs blown over. Weâll rebuild. Donât have much of an offering for today,â he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, âbut I think Iâll shore up this thingâs foundations tomorrow, how about that?âÂ
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. Arepoâs 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 Arepoâs 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, Arepoâs ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.Â
âThere is nothing here for you,â said the god, hudding in the dark. âThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.â It shivered, and spat out its words. âWhat is this temple but another burden to you?â
âWe -â Arepo said, and his voice wavered. âSo itâs a lean year,â he said. âWeâve gone through this before, weâll get through this again. So weâre hungry,â he said. âWeâve still got each other, donât we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnât protect them from this. No,â he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. âNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.â
âThere will come worse,â said the god, from the hollows of the stone. âAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.â
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.
âI could not save them,â said the god, its voice a low wail. âI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.â The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. âI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!â
âShush,â Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. âTell me,â he mumbled. âTell me again. What sort of god are you?â
âI -â said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoâs head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said, and conjured up the image of them. âThe 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.â Arepoâs lips parted in a smile.
âI am the god of a dozen different nothings,â it said. âThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -â Its voice broke, and it wept. âBefore itâs gone.â
âBeautiful,â Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. âAll of them. They were all so beautiful.â
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.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
âOh, poor god,â she said, âWith no-one to bury your last priest.â Then she paused, because she was from far away. âOr is this how the dead are honored here?â The god roused from its contemplation.
âHis name was Arepo,â it said, âHe was a sower.â
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. âHow can I honor him?â She asked.
âBury him,â the god said, âBeneath my altar.â
âAll right,â Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
âWait,â the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. âWait,â the god said, âI cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.â
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
âWhen the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,â the god said, âWhen the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,â the godâs voice faltered. âWhen War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.â Sora looked down again at the bones.
âI think you are the god of something very useful,â she said.
âWhat?â the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. âYou are the god of Arepo.â
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragediesâhomes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the godâs work on his dying breath.
âHello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,â called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the godâs eyes wept down onto curled lips. âArepo,â he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
âI am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,â Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
âThatâs wonderful, Arepo,â he responded between tears, âIâm so happy for youâsuch a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? Youâll be adored by all.â
âNo,â Arepo smiled.
âFarther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.â
âNo, I will not go there, either,â Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
âFarther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,â the elder god continued.
âActually,â interrupted Arepo, âIâd like to stay here, if youâll have me.â
The other god was struck speechless. ââŠ. Why would you want to live here?â
âI am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.â
The farms turned to towns. The fields turned to cobblestone and yet the hill stayed untouched.
The temple of two gods forever standing through time.
Except this time, it was not silent. As the gods chattered it was as if a musical hum had been placed on the temple. The temple that was unbreakable.
Yet no one came to the temple for so long. The gods of a dozen different nothings and unbreakable bonds kept to themselves, giving to the world what little they could. They never realized how much they had given until the day two small children had wandered up the hill.
Solis and Luna.
They would chase the just fallen leaves in the wind. Study the worms turning the earth. Bite into the crisp apples Luna always carried in her pocket. Let the cold air nip st their noses before the first snowflake fall upon their lips like a kiss goodbye. Until that goodbye kiss was a the kiss of a beginning between the two children who were no longer children.
It was within those children that the two gods supposedly abandoned had found their true usefulness.
