☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
Ishak turns his head to look at me. His expression is one that I find familiar – I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it is the type that I always want to probe at, pick at like a scab (although I am a doctor) and see what bleeds out from beneath. I never can, of course. It is as much a curiosity as it is a promise. I know he will never let me do it; that look is as good as an iron wall. (He is full of stories that he refuses to tell.) If I ask, he’ll simply deflect the question.
(It didn’t always bother me. It bothers me more than it should, lately.)
In those places where they live by the sea, when the tides pull out… do you think the tsunami cares if they’ve prayed? I incline my head at him, wondering about the comparison - water, rather than desert sands. They keep living there. The tides will keep cycling long after they’re gone. They’re unnecessary. The tides don’t need anything from them.
Prayer won’t avert disaster. I don’t disagree. The tides persist, regardless of the mortals who inhabit the beach; I don’t disagree with that, either. (But don't those mortals need the tides?)
The ocean has no mind. The ocean cannot be petty; it cannot be cruel. I half-open my mouth, but, before I can speak, a rolling throb of thunder swallows up the space where I’d meant to speak. My back is to the entrance, but I can see the forked tongue of white-violet lightning reflected on the wall, bringing with it a fresh swirl of cold wind and snow. I shut my mouth, and I look at the fire instead of Ishak. A pale swirl of smoke rises from the lick of it, coiling towards the ceiling of the cave.
Finally, I say: “What do the tides matter?”
It is not the kind of question that begs an answer.
“They have no mind, Ishak,” comes my response to the (largely rhetorical) question, “but the gods do.” And the moment that you can think of cruel things – you can become something cruel. I do not know why the gods abandoned us. I do not know why they came back, or why they left. I cannot say that I understand them at all. (I cannot say that I understand anyone. Not like I should. For as long as I can remember, I have stood in a glass room, in front of a glass door, staring out at all other people. I can see them. That is all. I cannot feel them. I cannot touch them; my understanding is hindered by that awful door. It’s locked. I cannot break it, and I am through with asking gods to shatter it for me. How could I possibly understand the divine? I cannot even understand my own kind.) Still. I think it is for the best to be as inoffensive as possible.
“I don’t expect salvation,” I say, flatly. I know better. If I prayed to Solis to save me, or my family, or Ishak, or anyone else – I suppose he might, if he felt like it, but it is much more likely that he would do nothing at all. “I don’t expect kindness. I don't even expect mercy. But Ishak: if you met a sandwyrm in the desert, would you provoke it if you knew that you couldn’t win? Solis needs nothing from us. That does not mean I want to risk his anger.” And I am from a family of priests. Who knows what he might find offensive, from an Ieshan? Of course - that assumes that any part of us is entangled with the divine, that any part of it as blessed as we try to seem. I have always been skeptical. Would we be like this, if we were?
(But I am no priestess. I drip mortal blood and bone and sinew, not ichor and incense and gold. How much can Solis expect of me? How much has anyone ever expected of me?)
I shake my head, exhaling softly. We will be back in the spring, regardless of anything I say, or anything Ishak tries to convince me of. I know this already; I knew this already. “It may be best to try to rest.” There is still, I think, some distance to the summit, and I am not sure how often we will stop.
(I do not think that I will be able to sleep.)
@Ishak || some possibly incoherent philosophizing coming right up || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
(It didn’t always bother me. It bothers me more than it should, lately.)
In those places where they live by the sea, when the tides pull out… do you think the tsunami cares if they’ve prayed? I incline my head at him, wondering about the comparison - water, rather than desert sands. They keep living there. The tides will keep cycling long after they’re gone. They’re unnecessary. The tides don’t need anything from them.
Prayer won’t avert disaster. I don’t disagree. The tides persist, regardless of the mortals who inhabit the beach; I don’t disagree with that, either. (But don't those mortals need the tides?)
The ocean has no mind. The ocean cannot be petty; it cannot be cruel. I half-open my mouth, but, before I can speak, a rolling throb of thunder swallows up the space where I’d meant to speak. My back is to the entrance, but I can see the forked tongue of white-violet lightning reflected on the wall, bringing with it a fresh swirl of cold wind and snow. I shut my mouth, and I look at the fire instead of Ishak. A pale swirl of smoke rises from the lick of it, coiling towards the ceiling of the cave.
Finally, I say: “What do the tides matter?”
It is not the kind of question that begs an answer.
“They have no mind, Ishak,” comes my response to the (largely rhetorical) question, “but the gods do.” And the moment that you can think of cruel things – you can become something cruel. I do not know why the gods abandoned us. I do not know why they came back, or why they left. I cannot say that I understand them at all. (I cannot say that I understand anyone. Not like I should. For as long as I can remember, I have stood in a glass room, in front of a glass door, staring out at all other people. I can see them. That is all. I cannot feel them. I cannot touch them; my understanding is hindered by that awful door. It’s locked. I cannot break it, and I am through with asking gods to shatter it for me. How could I possibly understand the divine? I cannot even understand my own kind.) Still. I think it is for the best to be as inoffensive as possible.
“I don’t expect salvation,” I say, flatly. I know better. If I prayed to Solis to save me, or my family, or Ishak, or anyone else – I suppose he might, if he felt like it, but it is much more likely that he would do nothing at all. “I don’t expect kindness. I don't even expect mercy. But Ishak: if you met a sandwyrm in the desert, would you provoke it if you knew that you couldn’t win? Solis needs nothing from us. That does not mean I want to risk his anger.” And I am from a family of priests. Who knows what he might find offensive, from an Ieshan? Of course - that assumes that any part of us is entangled with the divine, that any part of it as blessed as we try to seem. I have always been skeptical. Would we be like this, if we were?
(But I am no priestess. I drip mortal blood and bone and sinew, not ichor and incense and gold. How much can Solis expect of me? How much has anyone ever expected of me?)
I shake my head, exhaling softly. We will be back in the spring, regardless of anything I say, or anything Ishak tries to convince me of. I know this already; I knew this already. “It may be best to try to rest.” There is still, I think, some distance to the summit, and I am not sure how often we will stop.
(I do not think that I will be able to sleep.)
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