Of Gods and Men - Volume II

CHAPTER 6

Head Them Off!

               “Take my hand,” Shepherd said, offering his own without looking back at the young maiden behind him.  His gaze was focused ahead now; to the thick forest growing all around them. 

            The tallest Yew trees he had ever seen surrounded them; their boles thick and their bark cracked.  They were old, Shepherd sensed, and while there were several younger and more slender saplings springing up out of the earth, the tall Yews yielded no ground.  The old was choking down the young.

            He felt Carys’s hand fall into his, and he was instantly recalled to the present.  There was work to do.  Shepherd closed his eyes and focused inwardly.  He had never seen Rama before, and knew very little of him.  As a mortal, Shepherd’s great love of divine lore did not extend to Rama.  The mysterious deity appeared briefly and infrequently; always as a herald, foretelling the doom of heroes, villains…even other gods.

            “Is he the god of prophecy, then?” Shepherd thought.

            “I never read, nor heard it said that he was a god of anything,” the voice of Cecily added.

            “Is it possible to be a god of nothing?” Finnian continued the thread of thought.

            “I suppose it is,” Shepherd grasped; it was as though he was pulling up tufts of grass looking for carrots and had suddenly found one.  “The power has never defined the gods.  They have always named their own dominions.  Some dominions were kingdoms, like Malthanon.  Others, ideas that a god took a particular fancy to, the way Adulatio lorded over no realm but claimed to be the god of light.”

            “Rama is different than Adulatio,” Cecily’s voice emerged in the din of thought.  “He has dedicated followers.  They call themselves his Messengers.”

            “They’re the ones who took Carys’s eyes,” Finnian added.

            “They appear in the stories as well,” Shepherd went on.  “They’re nomads, speaking mostly on behalf of their god.  Though there are versions of the tales that say Rama is always among them and whispers his prophecies to a chosen mouthpiece.”

            “It seems our only course then,” Finnian concluded, “is to follow the Messengers.”

            “Carys!” Shepherd said in a panic, just on the heels of remembering that she was there and he’d been holding her hand the whole time.  He let go reflexively and raised his hands with his palms out to show he’d had no ill intentions. 

            The cold, vacant holes where Carys’s eyes used to be were what he met when he raised his bashful gaze.  Carys was not smiling, or reddening, or even laughing: she was still and stoic.  The severity of the situation suddenly struck Shepherd, and his face felt even more flush than it had a moment ago.  This woman had been irreparably, unjustly brutalized in the name of a faceless god.  She deserved justice…now, with no delays, and no distractions.

            Shepherd took her hand back and held it steady.  “Carys, do you know where Rama’s messengers are headed now?

            “Yes lord,” she answered with a small bow of the head.  “To Tessir.  It’s a village through the forest to the north.”

            “And can you tell me what message Rama is delivering to Tessir?”

            “None lord,” Carys answered flatly.

            “None?”

            “Rama and his followers visited Tessir a year ago and predicted the village’s doom.  They claimed that Rhaia, GodQueen of this realm and mistress of Tessir, had grown displeased with the village’s lack of worship and was planning to scorch Tessir, killing everyone.  Then, when the land was clean, she would give it to those more deserving.  Yet Rama’s messengers offered the villagers hope.  They said that Rama would intervene on their behalf, and so long as Tessir redoubled its efforts of worship from that day on they would be spared,” Carys recounted.

            “I don’t understand,” Shepherd posited, “if Rama was not asking for Tessir to worship him in place of Rhaia, then what was he after?”

            “I do not pretend to know the mind of a god, my lord.”

            “Good for you,” Shepherd smirked, “they can be very…fractured.”

            “I do know that the Messengers always return to the places where they made predictions of doom.  They say it is to check on the people they have helped,” Carys related.

            “Do they?”

            “They do,” she affirmed.  “But they also seek compensation.  ‘For all the lives we’ve saved,’ as they would put it.  They claim this is a command from Rama.”

            “To what purpose?” Shepherd was mystified.  “What good is mortal money to a god?”

            “I do not know lord.  I was only an initiate…and an unwilling one by the end.”

            Shepherd’s brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle out this riddle.  The gods valued many things in the mortal world: a mortal’s faith, service, labor, art.  But he had never read of gods who wanted their followers’ money; not directly, anyway.  Collections were taken and taxes levied upon a god’s chosen people, but mortals were the ones who found ways of buying and selling faith.  “We have to go to Tessir,” he concluded.  “Head off his Messengers.  And maybe find Rama among them.”

            Shepherd turned from Carys to the north.  He summoned the power from the pit of his stomach and, suddenly, his sight pushed past the suffocating Yew trees before them to the smooth, dirt road that led out of the wood to the village of Tessir.

            He let his gaze wander over the whole of the village.  It was small, but the wealth of it was apparent everywhere Shepherd looked.  First, the clean dirt road that led to Tessir transformed into smooth, cobblestone streets once inside.  The homes were sturdy wooden frames with expertly woven roofs made of straw and animal hides.  Small, open storefronts dotted the whole of the place and they sold everything from food and clothing to toys and books; distractions that poorer villages couldn’t afford.

            But it all paled in comparison to the grand church at the center of Tessir.  In the vein of the village itself, Rhaia’s house of worship was not over large, but it was made of a shining stone that gleamed like a pearl in the sunlight.  Colored glass filled the large windows and they featured intricate tableaus of Rhaia and her shaping of the land around them.  At the top of church, a grand statue of Rhaia stood with her arms outspread downward, while her head was bowed to look down on the village: Tessir was always under her watch.

            In an instant, Shepherd and Carys stood before the church.  Shepherd looked up, into the stone face of the goddess whose realm he was trespassing on, and fleetingly hoped that she would allow him to pursue Rama here without interference. 

            “Hail lord,” Shepherd’s head fell to look at the door of the church that was now before him.  A young woman dressed in simple purple robes was sitting on the front steps.  She rose calmly, and whatever she had been feeling at the sudden appearance of two strangers was masked now by the influence of Shepherd’s power. 

            In fact, all the villagers immediately around the church suddenly stopped in what they were doing and turned toward Shepherd and Carys.  Almost as one, the throng fell to their knees and bowed their heads.  “Command us lord,” they said in unison.

            “There is a roaming band of Rama’s Messengers headed for this village,” Shepherd stated regally, “bring them to me when they arrive.”

            “Yes lord,” the group acquiesced. 

            “Until then, you may go about your business.”

            The kneeling villagers stood up at once and went back to what they had been doing before.  The ones who left Shepherd’s immediate vicinity felt his influence fade, yet they knew better than to disobey, or even question, the orders of a god.  Whether enthralled by his power or not, they had committed to obey his command, and they intended to do just that. 

            The woman in the purple robes approached Shepherd and Carys.  She was young, no older than seventeen if Shepherd had to guess, and her features were small and sharp: her nose, mouth, even her ears.  But her eyes were incongruously large: deep pools of hazel that took Shepherd in slowly and with great care.

            All in all, she reminded the young god of a mouse thoughtfully surveying its surroundings.  “Yes, young one?” he asked.

            “Would you like to hear the good news of Rhaia, lord?” the young girl asked.

            “Are you a priestess?” Shepherd asked incredulously.  “You look so young.”

            “No lord,” the girl confirmed.  “I am an acolyte.  But I wish to become a priestess one day.”

            “Do you?” Shepherd pressed, touched by her sincerity.  “Then please, tell me the good news of Rhaia.”  He sat on the cobblestone street and leaned his back against the stone arch that hung over the walkway leading to the church’s door.  Carys sat beside him.

            “Tessir sits on the eastern edge of Rhaia’s realm,” the girl began.  “She has blessed us with a bountiful land which yields the very best harvest of the kingdom.  We are also blessed with many expert craftsmen and artisans.  It is they who have built Tessir into the village that is spoken about as far as the great East Sea.”

            “It’s beautiful, your village,” Shepherd marveled.  “Especially this church. Rhaia must be very pleased with it.”

            “Truth be told, we do not know if she is pleased, lord,” the acolyte admitted.  “She has not spoken to us for many years.  This church is newly built.  Our promise to Rhaia of our dedication to her service since Rama warned us of her anger a year ago.  Now, Rama’s messengers return to tell us how we fare in the eyes of our GodQueen.”

            “And to collect Rama’s fee,” Shepherd added.

            “Yes.”

            “Which is what?”

            “Half of all the gold in the village,” the young acolyte said.

            “That is a steep price for a prediction,” Shepherd brooded.

            “But more than fair for the saving of our home,” the young girl countered.

            “Why hasn’t Rhaia been here to see you herself?  Why has she been absent for so long?” Shepherd moved on.

            “No one knows lord,” she admitted.  “She stopped showing herself to us even before I was born.”

            “But you have seen Rama?” Shepherd pressed eagerly.  “He has been here?”

            “Yes.  He came with his followers on that fateful day a year ago, and we hope that he will return with them.”

            “So do I,” Shepherd muttered as he considered the situation.  A GodQueen who had not appeared to her people in several years was very strange.  Even with a large realm, the gods had the power to visit all of their territories, and did; not only for the worship of their flocks, but also to keep their presence at the forefront of their peoples’ minds.  Mortals needed constant reminders that their gods were watching over them, or they would be more likely to lapse in worship as Tessir had.

            Beyond the lack of her presence, Rhaia using another god to communicate her wishes to her people was truly baffling.  It was clear to Shepherd that these people now regarded Rama just as highly as Rhaia.  He was their savior, after all.  But the gods were a jealous breed.  It almost couldn’t be helped; the power they possessed and the total control it gave them would have naturally shaped them to be that way over the centuries.  They carved out their own kingdoms precisely because they did not want to share followers.  So why was Rhaia now willing to share her worship with Rama?

            “Lord!” a strange voice called.

            The young GodKing turned around to find a group of villagers running toward him on the road.  He stood up, with Carys and the acolyte following after him.

            “Lord, we have them,” a man at the head of the group of villagers said as he ran.  Shepherd could see the free will drain from him, from all of them, as they drew closer.  “The Messengers of Rama.  They’re just behind me and being brought as you commanded,” the man finished in a monotone.

            Shepherd used his power to look beyond the group before him and down the cobblestone street where he found them: the Messengers of Rama.  They walked being flanked by villagers who wore exposed weapons on their belts and backs. 

            The Messengers walked along wearing confused expressions.  They had expected to return to Tessir as heroes, yet now they were being escorted to the Church of Rhaia as prisoners. 

            They were in sight now: mortal sight.  The villagers standing before Shepherd parted down the middle, responding to the god’s unspoken desire to keep eyes on the Messengers.

            As they drew closer, Shepherd could see the free will drain away from both the Messengers and the villagers.  The villagers grew stern in their resolve to obey him, and the Messengers’ confusion faded to acquiescence.  But, just before all sense of their right minds left them, two of the Messengers in the front line looked up and laid eyes on Shepherd.  Then, collectively, their gaze moved to Shepherd’s right, where Carys stood. 

            With the last strand of free will left to them, Shepherd saw the shock that the priestess and Janus felt at seeing the woman who’s eyes they had taken, and the terror at realizing the doom that now lay before them.

            And then their faces went blank: expressionless.  Shepherds power had enveloped them, and they were his now.  Fully. 

            And soon, Rama would be his too.