The Maddening of Killian Hattrick
There was something about the darkness of his studio apartment that reminded Killian Hattrick that he wasn’t alone. He might’ve felt lonely, as most humans do, but in reality, there were billions of organisms swimming around his room with him as he clacked away on his computer. He knew about these tiny bugs, not intimately, but enough to know about them and not care. There was more on his mind.
Claudia left him two months and sixteen days ago. Not that anyone was counting. A week after she told him about the divorce, Killian moved into a small studio apartment and hadn’t left since. He hadn’t left because he didn’t want to and so he didn’t.
He had everything he needed there: a dusty brown couch that came from a dead person’s home—a bed. One corner with a fridge and a counter—a kitchen. The other corner containing a three-screen barrier between the rest of the room and the toilet—the bathroom. There was a mountain of boxes containing his old life, which he didn’t dare gothrough, and so they waited longing for Killian to muster the courage to unbox them.
He refused.
In the late August heat, the room steamed with the hot fumes of Killian’s pent-up frustrations. Claudia would call his current life pathetic. She would comment on how skinny he’s gotten and how unattractive he was. He typed away on an old computer model that Claudia would make fun of him for still having. Killian tried to ignore the imaginary woman, focus on his work. You see, he was writing a novel. Just a story. It had been a habit of his to write, not that he was very good. It was just what he did. He could do anything in his stories; live and adventure without the emotional burden of growth and change, enable his bad habits with no limitations. He could create anything, be anywhere, be anyone. Would you want to go out in such a bleak reality after tasting such power?
Neither did Killian.
The week after Claudia told him of the divorce, Killian got fired from his job. He had tried to go into the carpentry business like his father, but he was much too clumsy and scatterbrained for the job. Instead, for the past 20 years or so, he sat in a rusty industrial building, lofty and damp, and watched a machine bring a cardboard roll up to him, and spin with toilet paper. When the roll was completed with fleshy white, a conveyor belt would take it away and a new cardboard cylinder would begin to spin. After the divorce was announced, Killian hadn’t been sleeping too well, nightmares and endless tossing left him fatigued and he fell asleep at his position. The tissue kept spinning and spinning and soon there was a huge knot of long white paper clogging up the whole production. It wasn’t until he smelled the bitter smoke of a burning conveyor belt that Killian knew he had messed up. He was fired right then and there and was asked not to help clean up. A liability.
So, he locked himself in his room, refusing to be a part of the outside world.
Deep-down Killian knew this was no way to live, knew he needed to muster the willpower to stop, to leave his house, to go out for a warm meal, to ask another woman out and keep on going.
But, on the surface, which was the only part he paid real attention to, Killian was fine with his little bubble of a life. He was safe from the harmful touch of outside opinions, especially now with Claudia gone. It was just him, his computer, and the cat, Oscar, who he kept forgetting existed. He and Claudia bought Oscar together, because she thought it’d be their first step to having kids. It wasn’t. And she turned out to never like the cat, anyway, because he stunk and scratched them when they tried to interact. He was old and fat with burnt orange fur and a scrunched-up face that looked like he smelled something sour all the time. Killian didn’t love Oscar, but took care of it just the same. He did, however, like having something to depend on him, a small nugget of power.
Killian read over the last paragraph he’d written. Without the clacking of his keyboard, the room was silent besides the muffled rumble of the train in the distance. Rumble. His breath was sync with his eyes as they flit across the screen. Sigh. Killian sat in the darkness, waiting for his story to get better when a something shifted in the right corner of the room. Swish. Killian’s breath stopped. He waited. Rustle. His heart began to pound and he stood frozen with his eyes fixed on the dark.
Oscar jumped on the table and meowed for attention. Exhale.
Stupid cat. Was it hungry? Bored?
Killian, steadying his breath, stared at the cat who cocked its head like it was going to calmly explain what was wrong. Its pupils were long slits that made the creature look wise yet mischievous. The more Killian stared, the more Oscar seemed to be planning to kill him and eat his carcass.
“What do you want?” Killian asked him.
Oscar blinked slowly, teasing.
“C’mon, Oscar, what’s going on?”
Oscar said nothing, only looked at him. But its gaze was deep, knowing. It stared into him, its pupils reducing to small slits. Killian had never seen anything like it before. And then, it smiled. Its cat mouth stretched wide and wrinkled into an unnerving grin, bearing sharp fangs, and it brought its face inches from Killian’s.
You ask so many questions.
A deep throaty voice spoke out. The cat’s mouth didn’t move, stiff in its smile. Killian stared back in awe, his body frozen and stiff. He looked around him for a possible explanation, but no, there was no one else in the room, no radio on, no loud neighbors to rationalize what was happening.
“W-What” He stuttered, “What do you want?” Killian asked the cat, his voice low and soft.
For you to get a life, you stupid human.
The isolation and hunger must’ve been getting to him. This must be his body giving out and his mind going sour. Maybe he was rotting from the inside out. Soon, he would be dead and Oscar could feast on him as he pleased. Killian flinched, waiting a few moments for death, and when it didn’t come, he opened his eyes to face his cat.
You always were spineless. Can’t even look a cat in the eyes let alone another person. The insult washed over him like a wave he was unfortunately used to.
“I’m not spineless” He responded weakly.
Oscar blinked again, its smile stiff and motionless.
“Uh.” He stammered, unaware of what to do, “Are you hungry?”
Oscar tilted his head, his smile loosening, but his eyes still sharp.
Although Killian only had half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of pickles, and one package of processed mini donuts for himself, he had more than enough cat food for Oscar. He poured a cup of the brown pellets in the shape of fish into a dish on the floor. Oscar hopped down from the table to investigate. He stuck his nose into the bowl and crumpled its face even more.
“What? It says ‘Cat Food’.” Killian pointed to the bag. “And you, my friend, are a cat.”
Oscar grumbled and nibbled at its cardboard meal, satisfied and alive. Killian’s stomach churned as he watched the cat eat. Eric’s smug face flashed in his mind and a wave of nausea flowed through him. Though his stomach growled, though his empty body ached for sustenance, there was no part of him that wanted or could eat. Something held him back from consuming, something that wanted him to suffer and die.
Oscar lapped its mouth clean of fake fish and glared back at Killian.
Loser.
Killian took a deep breath and pretended this was regular. If he pretended Oscar wasn’t speaking to him, then he’d stop altogether. So, he turned to his current novel, read over the last sentence and then exited of the document. He was done with writing for the day, didn’t have anything left in him to squeeze out. But he couldn’t possibly escape his perfect world because that would mean existing in the real world. Existing was his mortal enemy.
He turned on the tv to the local news site that went to long lengths to prove it was unbiased that all its news was water downed and barely anything noteworthy. A painfully neutral headline advertised the near future launch of a new space station. It was to be some historic event because it was the farthest station outside of Mar’s orbit. And it was important because it was American so it was both good and bad and honorable and dishonorable. It was subjective, but supposedly a big deal.
Killian quickly left turned it off, because space was too far for him to care about.
Still needing an escape, he mindlessly clicked on a document, thinking he could reread something old. The novel happened to be the first one entitled, Zorblek. It was written right at the cusp of when Killian began to overthink and ruin any chance for him to be a successful writer. Back when he wanted to be a successful writer. He was still a child back then, still head strong and outspoken. But, like the novel, he was also on the cusp of adulthood. He yearned to experience anything and everything. This desire fueled most of his short stories and journal scribbles, adventures that would never come. And that eagerness, that raw excitement, was an element that was tragically missing from any of his current pieces. Zorblek wasn’t about escaping, it was about accepting and creating.
Killian had forgotten about the novel, because he hid it from himself intentionally, slipped it in a fold of his brain so he could never stumble upon it. It was the only finished book he had ever created, the only thing organically expelled from his mind as an act of artistic expression. It fit beyond the dichotomies of good and bad, and without any kind of unit to measure his success, Killian was never confident enough to support his work. It terrified him.
The book was about the god, Zorblek, who was worshiped as the savior of the world by an ancient civilization in New Mexico. During the time of the novel’s creation, Kilian had just liberated himself from Christianity, so the world of religion was wide open for him to explore. Zorblek came from an alien species, omniscient and immortal. It stole fire from the gods and blamed it on Prometheus. It stood beside Napoleon in order to shift the tides of war. It was on Oppenheimer’s staff in 1945 and helped bomb those poor Japanese people because it was meant to happen. It developed color TV and rock n’ roll along with it. Zorblek gave no reason for its interference in human affairs, but the worshippers claimed it knew everything that will or would or could happen and it helped direct us to what should be. They loved Zorblek, but no one else did. The other humans couldn’t accept they had no power. So, all the world’s leaders got together and they planned to kill it, as if that would make any difference to their existential crises.
Zorblek, being immortal, only reflected any of the human attacks onto the Earth, destroying everything.
Right after he finished the book, Killian felt that burning self-hatred deep in his stomach for the first time. This feeling would become more common as he continued to create and he accepted it as the years progressed as something normal. He destroyed any physical copies of the book, and tried to erase the memory of the digital version. He quickly started a new piece, one that was mindless and engulfing, one that would never end and fill his void.
Kilian currently glared at the first page and scoffed at his own audacity as imagined his seventeen-year-old self, writing like he thought he was goddam Truman Capote. There was an unusual confidence in his voice, a composure that was strong yet flexible. It slowly disintegrated with every year, every relationship, until it left him hollow.
He closed his computer, the darkness swallowing him in his drab room. It was comforting, the nothingness that expected nothing from him. Empty, yet comforting.
Then a streaming noise filled the void. Tssssssssssssss.
Killian froze for two long moments before remembering the monster that shared his apartment. Oscar had finished eating and found another way to be a nuisance, the perfect spot to relieve itself. It stared into Killian’s eyes, deep into his soul, as it pissed all over his mail.
“Really?” Killian sighed, scrambling around to find something to sop it up. Oscar bared its fangs and ran off into the shadows of his apartment’s clutter. Killian pulled a t-shirt out from a half-zipped suitcase and a bottle of lime green cleaning solution, and went to work.
Oscar only licked its paw in the darkness with spiteful satisfaction.
Although intentional, at the end of the day it wasn’t the cat’s fault. Killian had been keeping his mail in a scattered pile, hoping it would disappear into the wooden floor. He might’ve as well put a neon light advertising the best toilet in the room. And now, thanks to Oscar, he was forced to confront the outside world of responsibility.
All the letters were bureaucratic reminders to Killian of his duties as a citizen of a society he didn’t belong to. He hated how he never got a choice, was just forced into this cult of tax-paying Americans. Though it had been years since he accepted his role, it stung just the same every time he opened an overdue bill, or a call to jury duty, just the reminder that in the grand scheme, he had no control over his life.
As he sorted through the rancid envelopes, one caught Killian’s eye because the address was hand written and no one wrote by hand anymore, not to him at least. It was addressed to himself, Killian Hattrick, at his new depressing dwelling. The only thing written in the return address was, The Temple of Zuu. Killian gripped the envelope, staring at the phrase, his body failing to open the letter. He didn’t know what to expect from the contents, and he couldn’t figure out why he was so scared. This was probably a prank of some sort, probably Claudia and Eric trying to mock him. Who else would write to him from the fictional civilization from Zorblek?
Killian eased his breath as he ripped open the letter.
To the Killian Hattrick,
We, as the temple of Zorblek, humbly extend this invitation to our home, Zuu, in order to be the special guest in our Omnivarca ceremony to honor Zorblek, the almighty God. We would be entirely grateful if you, the Prophet, were to grace us with your presence. If you would like to, we respectfully ask you to speak in the name of god.
Your presence would be much appreciated.
Yours humbly,
Shaman Alrih
It didn’t take long for him to finish the letter, drop it, and hurl over the sink. Though he hadn’t eaten all day, he squeezed whatever was left of him down the drain. As Killian vomited, Oscar slithered out from the darkness and read what it had to say. Cocking its head, interested, it meowed at Killian
“What, you’re a cat now?” He grumbled as he waddled from the sink, glanced at the ground, picked up the note and gagged again.
Oscar hissed at him and spoke into Killian’s soul. This is good. Seems like some people read you book and actually liked it.
But Killian wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t stop shaking his head. “It’s fake. It has to be.”
Why does it have to be?
“There’s no way—no one.” He ignored Oscar and paced around the small room. “I made it all up. I was a kid writing about dumb aliens from my head! No one ever read it!” After five laps, he sat down at the table, shaking his leg wildly and tapping his fingers. He glanced at the letter. Glanced to the empty table space right in front of him. Glanced back.
Oscar’s mouth wrinkled into that creepy smile that made his skin tingle. So, you’re going?
“What?” Killian couldn’t believe his cat would suggest something so preposterous.
You have to.
“No, I promise you it will be very easy to ignore this.” He began to wad the note in a ball, ready for a small flame to destroy it forever.
You can’t.
“And pretend nothing’s wrong.” Killian picked up his coat, fumbling in the pockets for a lighter.
And you’ll live the rest of your life in this small box, slowly starving to death in fear of a woman you never loved and a man who is superior to you.
Killian unfolded the papyrus ball, “I loved her once.” He said softly. “I just…faded away. But I can’t just—"
Take this opportunity to visit a place that’ll change this terrible existence of yours? Oscar’s pupils turned to slits again, his tail waving behind him like a playful invitation.
Killian looked at the letter, then to Oscar, and then to the reflection of himself in the window. It was too dark to see what was beyond the room, just Killian. His sunken eyes looked much older than he remembered. They told him what he already knew.
Oscar meowed and pawed at Killian’s hand. You have to go, it is so.
“But—”
Too many excuses.
Killian couldn’t help but shake his head. He averted his eyes to the ground, tried to steady his stomach so he didn’t vomit again. His cat was telling him to go across the country to a made-up town in order to honor a made-up god. He couldn’t feel his arms, and yet he could feel his head pounding and swaying, heavy and hot. He wasn’t the type of man to accept an invitation like this or to even accept that it was real. That itching fear that someone was pranking him kept worming its way in his brain. Someone was playing with him, exposing his weaknesses, because he was passive and afraid and worthless. He wasn’t brave enough to think otherwise; it was written all over his face. And it was pathetic. Oscar jumped on the table to be on eye-level with Killian.
Look at me.
And Killian did.
You are going to New Mexico.
“No, Oscar—”
Killian couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t rationalize how anyone knew about the civilization in New Mexico he created when he was just a kid. He couldn’t understand how his cat was urging him to go. And he couldn’t even think about the letter and what it referred to him as.
His stomach gurgled and rippled a numb pain throughout his body. He shrugged it away.
What if there was a distant god that spoke through him 30 years ago? People all over the world believe in someone who claims they talk to god. They couldn’t all be making it up. Abraham, Siddhartha, Mohammad. Hell, Jesus was just a carpenter, some random guy like him. So, why couldn’t Killian be a prophet? He had his obvious and logical responses, but this was such a sickly-sweet fantasy, a small part of him actually wanted to and started to believe it.
“Fine.” Killian told his cat, “I’ll go to New Mexico.” Oscar leaped on the chair and gracefully climbed on top the table. It was satisfied. “But not for you, and not because I’m some Prophet.” He cringed in dismay saying it allowed, but he had to remind himself. “But because—.” He trailed off and Oscar could see him fading away.
What about Claudia? It decided to go at it from a different angle, one less constructive but ever so effective. Spite.
Killian snapped out of his mind, “What about her?”
Well, Oscar’s non-cat voice slinked out of its unmoving mouth, imagine how disappointed, regretful even, she’ll be when she realizes you’re a big deal. A prophet.
“What if it’s fake?”
What if it isn’t?
“Yeah, but—.” And just as he couldn’t think of a proper reason to go, he couldn’t conjure a proper excuse to not go. Sure, there was the fear that the whole situation could be an elaborate prank on him, but that was a feeling deep inside him, not tangible out in the world. That fear came from an ancient power within Killian’s psyche, but spite was young and hot and gave him an energy he wasn’t used to. It made him feel alive.
“Do you think she’d be mad?” Killian wondered out loud.
Mad? Oscar scoffed, did you hear what they called you?
“Prophet.”
She’ll realize she made the worst mistake of her life.
A soft smile bloomed and Killian tasted a sweet taste of satisfaction as he imagined the whole thing. He’d show up to the house they bought together but was now hers. He’d have his priests and worshippers and maybe some children to really put on a show. She’d open the door and her new lover would be there, shirtless with long hair flowing in the wind like a jackass. Killian would command his people to begin and they’d ransack the house, build an effigy of Killian in the front lawn, and set it on fire. They’d leave and Killian would watch the house burn to the ground.
“Huh.” Despite his reservations, the idea that his fantasy might actually happen this time was too intoxicating. He was already drunk on the plan and spite burned in his gut to actually make it happen. Killian let out through his grin. “It wouldn’t hurt to visit.”
The gremlin-like smile creeped onto Oscar’s cat face. It knew Killian would come around eventually. He was meant to. However, like most weak and insecure humans, he just needed a little nudge.
When the great matchstick in the sky was struck and lit, the sun rose out of the horizon and set the world ablaze, traveling millions of miles just to shine through a small window carved into the rock and cast onto Killian Hattrick’s sleeping eyes. He rustled, disoriented in between sleep and sentience, before remembering where he was and what it meant. The dry humidity, the red stone cave, he was in Zuu. He forgot how he got here, possibly the trainTime eluded him. He peered out the window to see a city hidden in the rocks, carved pillars, torches along the street. Now prank from the universe trying to teach him a lesson. It was all real. He was a prophet.
So, how do you talk to God? You’d think it’d be easy for him, just turn on your phone and send a text to the big guy upstairs. Maybe he’d flag down an angel to send a message. Or put a note in a bottle and shoot it into space. Maybe those astronauts in the soon-to-be Mars colony might be closer to God’s ear. No, Killian knew it was deep within him, deep inside his psyche that was unfortunately easier to access when he was a child. He was too clouded now, too convoluted and polluted by adulthood to talk to God as easily as he did back then. Killian flipped open his computer and stared at a blank document. His fingers twitched on the keys, and he waited for some cosmic language to flow through his body and give him grand insight about the world.
When the absence of God’s voice became too much silence for Killian to bare, he decided to type things he knew were true.
Zorblek has spoken to me, Killian Hattrick, the Prophet. He paused, staring at the words.
He has trusted me with his children.
He has trusted me with his truth.
Being the mouthpiece of an omniscient God must’ve meant something about Killian’s own power on earth and over humanity. Maybe his destiny was to rule over all. First it was Zuu, then the world, and then he’d keep going, his domain ever growing. He’d go to space and rule over a galactic civilization that would be the most powerful in the solar system. Then, it’d expand to the whole galaxy, an interstellar kingdom, with Killian at the top of the food chain. He imagined himself, a king of kings, on top of many worlds, with innumerable citizens to bow down to him.
What a beautiful dream.
Then a knock came from outside the cave he was sleeping in. Killian shut his computer, careful not to let any prying eyes see his inner workings. A young woman entered his room carrying a tray of chopped fruit, eggs, and freshly baked toast. She was more beautiful than Killian could imagine, with supple tan skin, long brown hair, and a demeaner that seemed observant and fragile. She set his breakfast on the stone table in the room, and bowed, her big cow eyes situated on the ground before him.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” Her voice was low and hoarse, sultry.
“No, I’m okay.” He responded in a rushed excited voice, exposing himself too much. He stared at her intently, but she averted her gaze. Then, as Killian tried to find the words to ask her name, the girl shuffled out of the room. Gone.
He stared at the space she used to occupy, waiting for her to come back and ask about his favorite interests and hobbies, show interest in him, flirt a little. Then an idea came to him. He opened his computer again and typed something he wished was true.
A beautiful woman will enter my room.
And he waited for that servant girl to come back to him, and when the doorknob jiggled and Killian’s heart leapt because he thought it was really happening and he had caused it. But an older woman, staff in hand, dressed in white robes and a white head scarf, stepped through the door, and Killian couldn’t hide his disappointment.
She introduced herself as Shaman Alrih, the religious and societal leader of Zuu. With a bow, she asked to take him on a tour of her beloved home. Naturally, he agreed, though his mind was elsewhere.
He remembered writing the creation. Zorblek came down in the form of a small unassuming desert lizard. It travelled, looking for the perfect spot that would be distanced enough from the civilization that would come so that its children remained pure. After finding the spot, the lizard licked the ground and the Earth opened up, sunk to make space for the city. With a few more speedy kisses, the ground rumbled and stretched, protruding boulders that hollowed themselves, buildings that carved as they grew, soon to be homes to protect the people to come. The last part built was the tower, which the lizard scaled quickly and at the top, Zorblek left the lizard, its pure form blinding the poor creature. After a prayer of thanks, the god sacrificed the animal, and its blood was transformed into the first inhabitants of Zuu. It took three days for them to grow and gain consciousness, and by the time they were ready to live on their own, Zorblek had disappeared into legend, watching over humanity from afar.
Killian was shown the fields where they grew corn and squash, the storehouse where they kept the grain, the bathhouse that cleansed the children of Zuu, the school house that taught the ancient knowledge of their ancestors, the small museum filled with artifacts from the past. He went around all of Zuu, blessing the weavers, the farmers, the teachers, and the hunters. He met all the actual children, who sang for him the songs of their ancestors. He met the elders, who gifted him with a necklace with a pendent that looked like a lizard with a bird’s beak. They were wrinkled, skin melting off their bodies, but looked unto him with wise eyes of adoration.
Killian watched them observantly. The people’s expressions were full and gleaming with love. His own mother never even looked at him like that, though she was never caring to anyone. She never hugged him or kissed him, or told him he was special and good. He had just hoped, in his adolescent ignorance, that mothers were supposed to love their sons. And she said she did in her own way, but it was never convincing, never what he needed. That’s when Killian, who was quite young, learned that no one is supposed to do anything. There was no cosmic law in the universe keeping order. There was no necessity to be a good person. Life was a selfish free for all that would eat you up if you’re not careful and he didn’t want to eat at all.
He also learned his mother was a bitch.
And with those early wisdoms, Killian never expected anything from anyone. Even Claudia, the only woman he ever fell in love with, felt too distanced for expectations and desires to bring them together. But the people of Zuu were different. It wasn’t the love of companionship or nurture or desire. It was the love of devotion and it was too sweet to ignore.
“This is Una” Alrih pushed forward a squat woman with sunned skin and thin lips, eyes that squinted and wrinkled her face, but were hawk-like and piercing. “She is the oldest in Zuu.
“I saw the ceremony when I was just a baby.” She said in a withered voice. “It is an honor to see it again soon.”
“Mmhm.” Killian muttered. He seemed to be distracted.
“As you know, our home is the intersection of energy flow here on earth.” Shaman Alrih continued nonetheless.
“Leylines” Killian spoke instinctually. He remembered his research, from long ago.
She pointed to the sky with her staff, “Every one hundred years, Zorblek uses Zuu as a portal to come and fulfill the destiny it knows must occur. This Omnivarca will be incredibly special thanks to you, Prophet Hattrick.”
“Thanks.” He muttered.
“All those years ago, the high God brought on a plague. Who knows what will happen now.” The old woman croaked with a shrug. “What is must be.”
“What is must be.” Alrih echoed.
At night there was to be a feast in the long rectangular building, carved arches, windows, intricate statues of past leaders from the stone. The Great Hall was where communal celebrations took place, Killian remembered in from the book. In the novel, the city has a party to rejoice in the aftermath of a ritual. But that is when the squat cars pull up and infinite black armored bodies surround the dancers. It was only with their faith in Zorblek and acceptance of their lack of power, did God reveal itself and protect its people. However, that was just a story. Killian was sure the FBI wouldn’t be attending this time.
When everyone found their seats, Shaman Alrih stood, her arms raised above her head, reaching for something only she could see. Then she brought her energized hands towards the crowd, and wriggled her fingers to release the current throughout the entire room.
“Tonight, my brothers and sisters, we celebrate the arrival of our great Prophet!” The roomed erupted in applause, and Alrih motioned her eyes for Killian to stand up. He did. “He has travelled far to take place in our Omnivarca ritual at the end of this week. Then, we will honor the great god, but tonight we honor Killian Hattrick!”
Killian could feel the applause hot in his chest. Was this what love felt like? Was it love or blind faith? He couldn’t tell and didn’t care. His head went light, and an oozing warmth trickled down his body like heroin, what he imagined heroin to feel like. He checked his arms for track marks, traces that would lead him down a logical explanation. But Killian was too high for logic. He was too high to explain it all away, because he didn’t want it to go. So, he stood and accepted the cheers from his people, his believers. No one had ever believed in him before. He liked it.
Who wouldn’t?
Alrih raised her hand, conjuring a wave of silence. “We pray.” Everyone bowed and so Killian bowed too, the warm feeling instantly fleeing. Though he knew they still loved him, he was cold. The Shaman continued, “Oh, mighty Zorblek, you are alive in this moment and in the food we’re about to consume. You are the light and the darkness on our paths and we honor you. What is must be!”
“What is must be!” Answered the crowd.
And then, as a whole, they all sat down, and watched a team of servers barge into the hall with plates of food rested on their shoulders with glasses of berry wine. They served Shaman Alrih and Killian first, honoring them with the first graces of dinner, and he watched his plate. It stared back. Roasted cactus, a salted succotash, and for the special occasion, a slab of coyote meat. He knew how important food was to Zuu. It was a blessing from Zorblek, and its followers were very careful to accept whatever gifts they could from their fickle god. The farmers must’ve been preparing for this meal for months, balancing the water used for the beans and the squash, weeding everyday so that they grew large and supple. The city must’ve used half its supply of foraged cactus, just for this moment. For honor. Killian stared, unmoving, as the rest of the room was being served and had started to eat. His stomach turned over and he felt eyes on him. Pressure.
“You are unsatisfied?” Alrih asked, chewing on a piece of cactus.
“No.” He lied. “I’m only waiting for the others to be served, so we can all eat together.”
“How gracious!” She cried. “Though your generosity is being wasted. We wait and pray together, but eating is a solitary task. Go on, enjoy yourself.”
Kilian spooned a bit of succotash, and with Alrih eyeing every subtle movement, shoved it in his mouth. It sat, unchewed, resting on his tongue as he tasted the subtle differences between the beans. His flavored spit dripped down his throat. He felt his body spasm, rejecting the fluid, and he gagged. But Alrih was still staring, and he knew how offensive it would be to reject their offering. So, he chewed as fast as he could, and washed it down with the sickly-sweet wine. He waited, either for Alrih to look away or him to projectile vomit, but there was just the clacking of forks to plates, friendly chattering, the rummaging of many bodies in one room. Alrih seemed satisfied by his display and returned to her meal. Killian did the same.
But his plate was empty.
At his point, Killian was tipsy from affection and the fear of losing it loomed over him. He wasn’t concerned about his safety, he had the knowing power of Zorblek at his side. However, he was concerned about his food. Would the Shaman be offended? Would Zorblek be dishonored? No, it was probably aware of what was happening. Killian looked around him, under the table, behind the chair, for his missing meal.
“Killian, are you ready for dinner?” A low voice called out to him.
He looked up to find a broad man standing in the center of the hall with a bushy mustache and stained button down. Killian hadn’t seen him in years, not like this anyway. Nowadays, he was a lumpy bowl of oatmeal sitting in a hospice bed waiting for his turn. But standing before him, Killian’s father looked just like he did before—.
“I’m coming.” Killian said because he had done so then. He got up from his chair and approached Karl in the center of the hall. They were the same age now, yet this father was much bigger, a head taller, a body wider. He had everything Killian strived for, got to some degree, and still managed to mess up. How did Karl do it for all those years and not go crazy?
“Your mom’s making spaghetti.” His father said to him. His voice sounded like a nice whisky being poured into a crystal glass, one ice cube. Killian missed it.
“Spaghetti’s my favorite.” Killian remembered the way his mother made it, with cinnamon in the meatballs. It made all the difference. It was her own secret ingredient that she shared with him when he was just a child and linked the two together for the rest of time.
As Killian spoke to his father, the Great Hall transformed into the staircase of his childhood home. The wood was creaky and old, the pale flowery wallpaper peeled, but the design was still dainty and beautiful. He remembered how he’d pick at it, and how angry his mother would get. He remembered running up and down the stairs and being yelled at for ruining the house, when he was just living in it. His mother would’ve preferred him to sit and stay still like a good little boy, but Killian wasn’t. He was curious.
“Go help your mom in the kitchen.” Karl ordered with a gentle smile.
“No problem.” And he made his way towards the pale-yellow kitchen. It was a quaint room, his mother’s happy place, which was saying something seeing how she was almost never happy. She only smiled when she talked about someone she hated, or when something bad happened to someone she was jealous of. But when she was in the kitchen, Killian could glimpse her grinning, at peace in a world of her own creation.
He walked into the kitchen, ready to be on call for anything his mother needed when he stopped dead.
There, hanging from the flimsy light fixture, was his mother, dangling from the straps of her apron, her body still warm from 40 years of existence.
“Mom!” Killian called, rushing over to try and help in some way. His father ra n into the room and watched his wife sway, his son trying to get her down even though it was too late, “Dad, what do we do?” Killian wanted to know. He needed answers, some way to fix this and make everything better.
But his father didn’t respond, and he would never respond again. After his wife’s suicide, Karl Hattrick fell silent. He didn’t speak to Killian, or friends, or coworkers, or even his own mother. He invested himself in his work, ignored his son, and spent his entire life distracting himself. He began to drink and was a sad drunk, never having fun or getting into crazy antics.
“Say something!” Killian cried with his mother in his arm.
Again, his father said nothing. But this time it was because he wasn’t there. Killian was back in the hall, sitting in the middle of it crying in front of his new worshippers. Oscar cuddled into his stomach, a weak attempt at comfort, but its presence brought some semblance of reassurance.
The shaman rushed over to him.
“Prophet Hattrick, are you okay?” She asked, perfectly aware that he was not.
“Y-yes.” Killian responded, looking around himself at the carved walls that was once his childhood home. His parents were gone, but the image of his mother lingered. He felt it in his gut, his father’s stoic response, his own frantic reaction. Killian was going to be sick. “It’s been a long journey today. I need to rest.”
Of course, of course, anything the Prophet desired. So, Shaman Alrih called over a young woman, tan and supple, her long dark hair reaching the butt her peers eyed as she walked to the front of the hall. Killian wasn’t able to see her butt from his angle, yet what he saw of her grimacing face, he could tell she the beautiful woman he would ever see in his life. There was something about her gaze, how it watched the world around, that was magnifying, beckoning Killian to her. She was the apprentice from before, the one that lingered in his mind until she stood before him now.
“Oma.” Alrih told the girl, “take our Prophet to his bed chambers.”
And the girl stood, because it was an order, and she made her way to Kilian without meeting his gaze. She gave a curt bow, signaling him to follow her, which he did without complaint.
He wondered where in Zorblek Oma had been hiding. He didn’t remember giving the shaman apprentices, but he also didn’t remember Shaman Alrih. Maybe Shaman Terro, the leader from the novel, had died, and this was his replacement. Maybe his replacement needed help and acquired apprentices from the new generation of the children of Zuu. Maybe, even though the book told the same story no matter how many times it was read, Zuu kept going on. Maybe it was more real than he could imagine.
They walked in silence past the looming tower, past memorials for fallen warriors and a fountain, which cherubs playing with a lizard dedicated to Zorblek.
“So.” Killian tried to break the silence. “What do you do around here?”
Oma kept walking, so he couldn’t see her frown, “I’m one of the Shaman’s apprentices.”
“That must be very special.”
“Only if she likes you.” She shrugged, “and she doesn’t like me.”
“And why is that?”
Oma then stopped and grinned, ever so slightly but a grin nonetheless, “Because I’m a bad apprentice.”
Killian smiled too. “And why are you a bad apprentice?” He asked.
Then she turned and looked at him for the first time, her eyes warm and bright. She brought her face a bit closer, as if to tell him a secret. He closed in too, hoping the secret involved some sort of sexual act or confession of devotion. He was ready for her to bow down, and pray to him in the name Zorblek. She was a bad apprentice because she believed too hard, love him too much. She worshipped him more than the high God, and thus she was cast down. Killian waited in anticipation.
“Because I don’t think you know anything.”
Her smile widened, and Killian’s cracked. “What?”
She puffed out her chest triumphantly, “I think you’re a fake.”
“A fake!” He cried. “I am the word of God!”
“A phony.”
A sudden fire erupted in his chest. “And you’re ungrateful!” He erupted louder than he.
Both of them were shocked when Shaman Alrih appeared. She would’ve explained that she was worried about the Prophet, but she didn’t have a chance after witnessing such an act of blasphemy.
“Ignorant child!” She spat, grabbing Oma by the hair and dragging her out of the room. The apprentice yielded to her master completely but grinned peacefully as the Shaman slapped her across the face and dragged her into a building carved into a boulder.
Killian watched, surprised that his voice had such power. Interesting.
He hid an erection from the women as the Shaman apologized profusely and promised Oma would be taken care of. He wanted to take care of her, have her bow down to him on her own volition, have her love him as her Prophet. But, all he could do was hide his hard cock like an adolescent in grade school and watch as the Shaman left in a huff.
When he returned to his cave room, he finished himself off with the image of Oma getting slapped played over and over again in his mind.
Killian existed in the high of his orgasm, reliving the moment when Oma’s defiance got her what she deserved. Her calm eyes when she was slapped. Her smile when Alrih dragged her out of the room by her hair. How she dared to stare Killian down and reject him. It was haunting, yet mesmerizing. He didn’t see her the entire day, but she was there, constantly staring him down, constantly smiling, constantly not believing.
How could he get her to believe he was the Prophet? How do you talk to god?
Maybe he’d start a new novel, a sequel to Zorblek, where he’d force Oma to love him, to want to love him. If he wrote it, then it would come to fruition, and she’d have no choice but to be his. To hell with free will when you have the power of god by your side to create anything you want.
The next day passed without Killian. He was stuck in time, floating in his own head, trying to tether himself to his power over Zuu. He faded from existence during dinner, blaming a mind full of god’s words for an upset stomach, and excused himself to his room. But this time, Killian had trouble sleeping. He tried, he really did, for hours even, and usually it worked and he’d float into a liminal world of dreams, but tonight was different. Tonight, there were no dreams, just the memory of Oma’s smile. It burned into him like a searing rash.
He rose without thinking about it. His intentions were clouded by himself, as they usually were, and he thought for a second that he was sleeping. No, he wouldn’t be so aware. Killian was awake. He was in charge. And he was on the move.
Wandering down the street, he wondered where his feet were taking him. He passed the Great hall, went right around the tower and found a lump of small rooms carved into a large boulder. The building was like a honey comb, with its bees being the young women who lived in Zuu. Most weavers, some gatherers, and a selected few were apprentices of the Shaman.
Oma had a room at the top of the carved stone. Killian knew this because he wrote it earlier. Floating through the building, he climbed immediately to the upper part. The rooms had no doors, so he peered into each one, looking for her, craving her. Then a figure bumped into him, apologized profusely and begged for forgiveness.
Enough. Where was Oma?
Last room on the left.
He slithered towards the doorframe, and stood there, staring at the bed. His body floated over, and standing above Oma’s quiet body, he watched her, her body heaving up and down with each breath. He was suspended by invisible strings, powered by something greater than himself. Not lust, though it was definitely there. It was something deeper, something about Oma, even now as she slept defenselessly before him, that intimidated him.
Then she turned onto her back, her golden eyes opening for a moment, but just enough to catch his gaze through the darkness. Her stare felt like a lifetime, birth adolescence, adulthood, death; Killian was frozen where he was at her mercy. Oma blinked, expressionless and unafraid, observing then tossing him away. And she turned over as if he were some mindless dream.
Killian ran out of the room and back to his own chamber, where he watched his wall all night in a stunned limbo.
Another apprentice brought him his breakfast that morning. She went on and on about the upcoming ritual, and how hard the farmers were working for the feast afterwards. She was easy to ignore. Killian, in his mind, wasn’t concerned about her excitement. He said nothing as he grabbed his plate from her hands abruptly, causing her to stop talking and straighten her posture, bow, and leave
And she did, thanking him for the opportunity to be scolded. Killian was alone with his sunny-side-up eggs. They smiled back at him, two embryos who never had the chance. He scooped a bit with his fork and took a bite from the rubbery whites. Tasted like nothing, which was exactly what he could handle. He needed the nutrients. So, unbuckling his jaw, he flung the rest of the eggs down his throat, not pausing to think about what he was eating. His stomach churned. It wasn’t used to what it was given and worked hard to adjust. Must digest. Killian urged his body to work.
But then he thought of Oma, and her bright brown eyes that cut through the darkness to pierce him. Not afraid, not subordinate, she stared back at him like the sun, and now he had to deal with his blindness. The eggs burned going down his throat, and he suddenly grew sick.
How could she just brush him off like that? Would she tell the others what she thought? Or was their love stronger than her denial?
He felt it in his gut, a cement brick hanging from his heart, clogging him all up so he stewed in his own anger. What right did she have disrespecting him? He was the Prophet, the speaker to god. Hell, he created Zuu. He created Zorblek itself. Killian was the creator of all of it, so who did Oma think she was, parading herself around like she was more important than him? Nothing. She was nothing. And Killian, he had more power than she could ever imagine. He had the power to create, the ability to destroy Zuu and everything in it. Then he’d go to space and rule over everything, not just this little speck of ungrateful dust.
Killian marched out of his room, not overanalyzing his actions, simply doing. He tromped through the street to the outskirts of the city where the golden fields of corn waited patiently for him. He would show her what he was capable of.
The first stock crushed felt like he was kicking someone’s face in. The second stock like someone’s neck. The third felt natural like this was supposed to happen. He imagined himself, the size of a building, crushing a small version of Zuu below him. He stomped on civilian husks, murdered the stocks leaving kernels everywhere. The carnage was gruesome, corn communities destroyed. Killian screamed as he flattened the field. He cursed the corn, damned it to hell where it belonged. Indigestible, used in everything, great big stocks that took months to grow, it was good for nothing crop that just reminded him of Oma and her uncaring stare and disbelief.
Killian was on a tirade, and no corn was safe. The farmers simply watched, accepting this to be an act of god. They waited for Killian to give some great wisdom so as to explain his destruction. But, for now they simply observed their Prophet and mourned their harvest.
By the time all the corn was cut and demolished, Killian was still irate. He panted, not able to get more air because his body was busy being angry, and screamed as much as he could muster.
“Children of Zuu! See me!” But they were already looking, all of them. A crowd formed around him, and Killian hoped Oma was there somewhere in earshot. “Zorblek has told me to destroy your yield to teach you a lesson. Be vigilant in your faith and relinquish your control. You have no power in this world, and I’m here to remind you! You must trust in me, and trust in Zorblek! So, do not weep for your corn, but for your sins!”
They bowed almost immediately, and Killian turned to see if Oma was standing in defiance somewhere, or maybe perhaps she believed him and was bowing with the rest. But he couldn’t find her, and he feared that all of this would be in vain.
But it wasn’t. Fortunately, Oma stood by the school house, watching the crowd swarm around Killian’s feet. They locked eyes from afar, and Killian closed the distance between the two. They stood in purgatory, two unmovable forces staring each other down until the weaker one broke.
It was Killian who spoke first.
“I destroyed the harvest.” He said in a matter-of-fact tone as if it explained all of it.
“Okay.” She said, not moving her eyes.
“Because I can.”
“Okay.”
“Because I’m the Prophet.”
“Okay.”
“Because—,” And Killian paused, unsure of himself for a moment, overthinking for just a second. Then he remembered his anger, and why it bothered him so much. “I love you.”
Oma broke her gaze to scoff. Her laughter was a weight tied to Killian’s feet, pulling him into the depths of his own pool of resentment.
“I said I love you.” He repeated, forcefully now.
“You don’t love me.” Oma said calmly, “You love my independence. You love that I choose not to follow you, and that makes you mad.”
Killian furrowed his brow furiously, “I’m not mad.” He clenched his fist.
“Please, Oh Great Prophet, look at you, you’re trembling. I’m just a regular girl like any other. Not special.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
Oma grinned, “Mm, I think I do. It’s written all over your face.” She laughed, “Look how angry you are now, thinking that you love me when all you want is me to bow down. That’s what you want, right?” She climbed out of the bed and stood before him. Still smiling, she got to her knees. Her head was the same height as Killian’s groin. Oma peered up to him, taunting. “Is this what you want?”
He wanted to say yes but stopped himself from giving her the satisfaction. Killian simply stood where he was, watching Oma below him, his mouth unintentionally opened out of hunger for the girl. His fists clenched.
She giggled again and got to her feet, making her way to the bed and picking up the book she was not reading.
“This,” She said, picking up the holy text and presenting it to Killian so he could see the cover, “Is a bunch of lies you just made up, and everyone here believes it because we’re taught to believe it. And I’m punished for disobedience, when actually I’m just thinking for myself.”
“You can’t think for yourself. I created you. I created all of this, and yet you defy me? Have I not shown you what I can do, my powers, my ability to speak to god?” Killian’s voice grew, his urges hot and too molten to control. He didn’t want control. It was chaos he wanted. “I can do anything and everything, and yet you still reject me?” Killian let go and punched the mirror on the wall, its glass shattering on the floor. Shards decorated the room and waited their turn.
“All you have shown me is that you can destroy some corn and break a mirror. I can do that too, you know.”
“And god?”
“Zorblek, in its omniscience would never entrust a fool like you with the secrets of time and space. Why would it? You’re just human.”
“I am the Prophet!” Killian roared. “I created this world from nothing, and now it is real! I created Zorblek itself. I AM GOD!”
“You’re just pathetic.” She sneered, which was enough to push him over the edge.
Killian lunged forwards, his hands finding their way to her neck where they locked and tightened. “FEEL MY POWER!” He screamed as his hands twitched and tightened in their place. Oma could not speak, nor did she have anything to say. She didn’t fight or flail, even when her breath left her and she collapsed on the ground with Killian towering over. She simply smiled, watching the anger within Killian as he choked her. With her last strained breath, Killian could feel her body loosen and her gaze faded away. He thought at first that she was dead, but when he released his hands, Oma’s body twitched. Maybe she had more in her left to give.
Yet it wasn’t her body that moved, but something within it, something beyond it. Some being pulsed within the limp Oma, and it manipulated her body, stretched her skin, changed her from the beautiful supple girl, to the hag that used to be Killian’s wife. He was on top of Claudia. But unlike Oma, who died with that knowing smile, Claudia wasn’t smiling. Her eyes wavered, glistening with pent up tears.
Killian backed off the wounded creature, and watched as she stretched and moaned ever so slowly. She hissed slightly, an animal unsure of its surroundings, but sensing danger. And crawling onto her hands and feet, Claudia faced her ex-husband and sighed.
“Oh Killian.” She said gravely, “What’s happened to you?”
“You.” He spat.
She placed a hand forward, “Blame no one but yourself. I don’t make your decisions.”
“You’re right. My decisions are my own.” He brought his face closer to Claudia and glared ferociously, “You made your choices.”
“I did nothing.”
Killian scoffed. “You cast me away like garbage. But, I’m not the man you broke. I’m stronger, greater than you could imagine.”
“Really?” Claudia asked, her somber disposition cracking into a grin. Her head twitched, a glitch in the simulation that was her presence. Elbows bending into a canine stance, Claudia’s head bent back as her smile widened.
Killian watched as the woman he once loved, then feared, then hated, transform into something completely other. Her skin faded into something dark, slick like oil, hard like metal. Her head, disappearing behind her body, stretched and shrunk, grew hundreds of beady little eyes, glossy and black. Her arms bent and crumpled and stretched into thin black tentacles that wandered on their own, grazing Killian and sending shivers throughout his body.
His heart thudded, and his knees quaked, but Killian was not afraid. Zorblek was simply testing him. And being the creator of Zorblek, Killian knew that this was a challenge offered to himself by himself. He palmed a mirror shard from the ground, clenched it so that it sliced into his hand, blood beginning to ooze.
“You have no power over me!” Killian screamed at the creature as he stabbed its exoskeleton. The shard dug deeper into his skin as he pierced the creature, but his wounds were nothing. The creature was the one to be concerned about. Its blood was a dark green, warm with a slight scent of algae. It showered Killian as he stabbed the beast over and over, ignoring its screeches and cries, ignoring his own wounds as the creature slashed him in its final attempts at life. His arm was bleeding badly, and he could feel a warm trickle flow down the side of his face. It didn’t matter. Killian was alive and Claudia was dead and that’s all that mattered.
When he got through the crowd, he turned back on his believers and declared, “What is must be!”
They repeated, “What is must be!”
No one mourned Oma’s death. It was as if she never existed; they all simply went on with their lives as if a gruesome murder didn’t occur, as if they were used to it. Most people react to death in this way. It startled Killian at first, who thought for a second, they’d turn on him for killing their own. They did not. In fact, they loved Killian even more, for whatever he did was what Zorblek wanted, and what Zorblek wanted was right.
They honored him harder, bowed deeper, reached farther. At night, he said the prayers instead of Shaman Alrih, and two people fainted by the power of God. Many cried out, overwhelmed by the grace of the all-knowing. Many sobbed in the presence of the Prophet. Killian blessed people after the meals, placing a wounded palm on their forehead and muttering nonsense until they started to cry. He was a noble prophet, letting his people kiss his toes, blessing their heads with a language that just came to him from Zorblek, praying for the crops destroyed and those spared. Shaman Alrih didn’t leave his side, in case another godly urge came upon him. Maybe, if he had the feeling again, she would have the honor of being his next victim. But without Oma and her defiance, Killian had no desire for death and destruction. He only wanted adoration, which he got in abundance.
Though he was only there for a week, time traveled differently in Zuu. Killian felt like he had been there since the beginning of time, when the sun first rose on the city. Ever since then, Zorblek had been waiting for this day.
Killian woke before the sun. With the world inky and blended together, he stumbled out of his cave and wandered Zuu towards the tower in the center. He was the first one awake, besides the farmers, whose internal clocks cursed them to rise early, and Shaman Alrih, who had been preparing for this day for years now. But as far as Killian knew, it was only him. He began to ascend the long spiral staircase to the top of the tower. And as the sun began to rise, rays of orange peeked through the windows on the tower walls, casting long shadows down the stairs. Killian heaved himself to the top.
The altar was made from the same red stone as the tower itself, yet unlike all the buildings in Zuu, which were carved with myths from the past, hero’s journeys, monsters’ revenge, the alter was simple and rather dull. There was a stone arch on one end and pit on the other that was charred and blackened from a previous ritual. Shaman Alrih was already there, reading over the ancient text to make sure everything was in order. Killian was startled upon seeing her.
“I didn’t think anyone would be up yet.” He said more to himself than her.
“The ritual will start after sunrise.” She said to the sky. “All the Zorblek’s children should be waking now.” She put up a hand, signaling to Killian to wait and see. Torches, first a couple and then hoards, were lit as each inhabitant of Zuu awoke and made their way to the tower. They moved as a unit, having prepared for this event for generations. The altar would only be able to hold a select few, and the rest would wait on the ground, lucky if they were able to catch a glimpse of what would happen.
Killian watched and waited as they ascended the stairs. Those allowed to see the ritual were the elders, all shriveled, waddling into a circle around the arch. Una was at the head of the group. She shuffled to a good spot where should could experience what she had been waiting one hundred years for. It was time.
Alrih raised her hands to those in the alter, and they bowed their heads, except Idra, who was young and eager enough to hit the floor. Then the shaman turned to those on the ground and one by one, each bowed in honor of the high god.
“Brothers! Sisters!” She boomed, swiveling so all could hear her. “This morn, we join to honor the gift Zorblek offers us, our humble home of Zuu, the wisdom the high God offers us, and the leader it bestows unto us and the world.” There was an applause as Kilian stepped towards the pit in the center. Though most of Zuu couldn’t see what was happening, they clapped all the same, for they were grateful to be there.
Alrih continued, “And on this day, we once again allow Zorblek to do its bidding.” More applause, cries of joy and spiritual exhaustion. “It will use our home, our prayers to do what must be done. What is must be!”
“What is must be!” The children of Zuu exclaimed.
Alrih turned to the semicircle of elders and bowed her head, which they slowly returned in unison. Killian stood still. He had no one to bow to but himself. Zorblek might’ve been enacting its omniscient duties, but Killian created it. What business did a god have bowing to a lesser god?
“Oh Zorblek, you guide us in your infinite wisdom and we honor your knowledge by crafting your ancient portal.”
Killian wondered where it’d go. Alrih never really told him the specifics of the ritual. He hoped it be space, onboard that colony outside Mars. He urged himself to manifest Zorblek taking him there. It’d be easy to gain control, and then he’d have the next wave of humanity at his fingertips. And when life on Earth came to its inevitable end, what with how humans have been running it, Killian would be up in space, a savior of mankind and leader of the next generation of society. He imagined himself in a palace made of steel, with robot servants and human subjects that bowed to his every whim like the children of Zuu, only his galactic empire would span farther than any king’s realm ever had before. As it grew, he and his people would conquer planet after planet, until the whole solar system belonged to Killian and he could do as he pleased. He wouldn’t just be a prophet or a humble earthly god, but an intergalactic titan and no one would be able to stop him.
He shifted his weight in anticipation as the ritual began.
The elders started the chant, a low hum in a language Killian didn’t understand but knew he made up all those years ago. The song grew from the top of the tower to those waiting on the steps to the crowd gathered around on the ground. It was a simple melody, somber and slow, but catchy all the same. Though there wasn’t a direct translation into English, it was roughly understood to be, “Praise to God. Praise to the unknown. Praise to what will be.” And they repeated it, slowly, over and over again as a team of young men carried something, long and thick wrapped in a white sheet, on their shoulders.
They placed the sacrifice in the stone pit in the center of the tower. The elders inched closer, their candles melting on each other without acknowledgement. The chant swelled as Alrih pulled the sheet off. There she was, cold and limp, laying peacefully dead in the cold pit before them. Oma. Her smirk was replaced by a blank expression and distant gaze. Her world was now dark, full of nothingness, and no mortal, no matter how beautiful or headstrong, can smile in the face of the death.
A week ago, Killian’s stomach would’ve dropped at the sight of her. Even if he didn’t know her, the dead body would’ve been enough to make him faint or start whimpering in some pathetic meltdown. But today, Killian was a prophet, a god, and had no need to collapse in fear over something he had conquered. He stood before her, triumphant, with an unyielding disposition that proved to the corpse that he had won.
As the crowd sang louder, Alrih raised her own staff-like candle and cried, “A sacrifice to the high God Zorblek! What is must be!”
And as they repeated the mantra, Alrih thrust her candle into the pit, igniting Oma’s body into a burst of flames, hot and engulfing. The chant continued but was harder to hear from all the cheers that arose as the acrid smell of burning flesh permeated the air. Killian watched the tall flames lick and hiss, and he thought (for a second) of the girl that it once was. Her own fire, so bright, was far superior to this one, But, it didn’t matter anymore. Killian was stronger, brighter, and there was nothing she could do to protect herself from his wrath.
“Oh, mighty Zorblek! Your time has come!” Alrih shouted to the heavens. The singing stopped, the cries halted. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the body. Killian waited; they all waited. But, they didn’t know what they were waiting for. Prophecy had it that the portal would open for Zorblek to continue its business on earth, but no one really knew what that would look like.
Then, the red-hot fire turned a surreal blue, and the arch behind Alrih ignited in a thick pale light. It was deadly silent, not even the sizzle of the fire or a bird’s call in the distance. They waited for some alien being, insect-like and other-worldly, for Zorblek to appear through the gate and perform a magic trick or bless its children, maybe bathe them in light or holy ambrosia.
But there was nothing.
Killian grew impatient after just minutes and stomped over to Alrih. “What’s happening?” He demanded.
“We wait for Zorblek.”
But this was not what he wanted to hear. “No.” He said in the definite tone of someone who has nothing to lose, “Zorblek is nothing. You wait for me.”
Then he stepped through the arch, and disappeared.
In the darkness, Killian knew he was on the space ship, right below the command module in a little nook. The cold metal below him, the tin smell of the walls, the faint cheering from a crowd far away. Where he teleported, Killian could not move. He was all cramped in a crevice with his legs folded in so he was good and secure.
He waited for the ship to take off, for it to take him out of orbit into the vacuum of space, where he’d take over the mission with his God powers. A week ago, this would simply be a plot in one of his stories. But that man was weak, a sliver of a human living a bare existence. Killian was a god now.
You’re still that man. Oscar jumped out from the shadows. Its eyes were completely white, no pupils, and stared through him like an x-ray. It must’ve gone through the portal after him. Killian, like always, had forgotten about the cat, but now he faced it with the ire of a man losing control.
“You don’t know me.” He hissed.
I know everything.
“What do you want from me?” He asked the god-cat, his voice wavering.
An excited professional voice sounded through a radio somewhere and began describing the ultimate launch of the space ship, commenting on the crowd and the weather, and how historic this event was. The newscaster commented on the passengers of the ship, the Adams and Eves of a future life up in space, how noble they were, how courageous. They were heroes of humanity that were putting their lives in danger for progress. It was all about progress.
]I want nothing. Zorblek continued. It is you who is fueled by desire. You who wants all the power except your own.You, who in your arrogance, believed you deserved more than what you have. I only want balance, and that has nothing to do with you.
Then the countdown began, the newscaster’s voice echoing throughout the chamber.
10
“But I invented you.”
Oscar yawned in response.
9
“I invented all of it. The children of Zuu, the city, you. I invented you!” He yelled at the cat furiously.
8
Fantasies are easy to create. Zorblek responded. You invented words to ascribe to forces older and more powerful than you can imagine.
7
“But, I’m a prophet.”
You are a fool.
6
“But I thought I was—”
It was never about you.
5
Killian swallowed nervously, “Are you going to kill me?”
There is no justice, only fate.
4
Then the cat shivered as if having a seizure and dropped to the ground unconscious. Killian lunged as far as he could and cradled the creature in his arms until it woke and its eyes were no longer blank or slits, but normal cat eyes.
3
Oscar meowed to Killian, disoriented, and Killian pet it with his free hand, even more confused. He didn’t know what Zorblek meant, but he knew he was alive.
2
“Please!” He cried to the vessel, to Zorblek, to anyone as he struggled to get free “Help me!”
1
“I’m sorry!” He pleaded. “It’s not my fault, I—.”
Blast off.
Killian’s stomach plummeted to the bottom of the vessel as it climbed higher and higher in the sky. He just had to stick it out and they’ll be in space and then they’ll see.
The crowd cheered as dark orange fire surged out of the rocket, lifting it up into the atmosphere. The ship grew smaller as it rose, a trail of black smoke following it. Right before the ship was about to leave earth’s gravitational force, he blaze at the end of turned blue, and in a span of a few seconds, the whole ship erupted in tragic explosion in the sky. The newscaster, the crowd, all went silent in shock. The camera was still rolling, and everyone at home stared at their tv with their mouths wide open. No one imagined, on such an important day for mankind, that something like this would happen.
In those seconds before his death, Killian didn’t feel bad for those poor pioneers. Sure, they all had families and lives. Sure, they sacrificed their lives for a lesson greater than them. No, Killian thought about himself, about his life down on Earth, and how he feared it, how he refused to live it because it wasn’t perfect, how he tried to make it perfect and failed . In those moments before his death, Killian didn’t repent for his sins, he accepted them.
A week of silence, though restful, concerned Claudia. She became used to the constant barrage of phone calls, texts, and letters—any possible way for her ex-husband to tell her how awful she was. Yet, when they suddenly stopped, the pit in her stomach where Killian resided wrenched and twisted. She knew her curiosity would eat her alive, and going against the advice of her family and friends, went to visit him to see if everything was okay.
As soon as she opened the door, Oscar raced out, emaciated and anxious. He wove through her legs, distracting her from the state of the apartment. When Claudia saw Killian’s body handing from a bedsheet noose from the ceiling, she was neither surprised or horrified. She let out a breath, releasing the pit, the tension she carried with her throughout their relationship, a simple sigh to put him to rest:
What is, must be