A bitter epiphany

Prophet is not God.

Even the thought tastes wrong, the bitter bite of heresy. Ania wants to spit it from her mind, but she pushes it down, instead. Lets it grow roots. With trembling fingers, she pushes a pink ribbon through the loops around her waist and smooths the starched pleats of her skirt. She gathers her brown curls in a pile on the back of her head, covering them with a bonnet the same blush color as the ribbon.

Her weak constitution is her undoing, the stumbling block in her fall from grace. The swelling waves of nausea knocked into her during the Sabbath Hour earlier that day, gathering as saliva in the corners of her mouth. The bed she lay upon had navigated the seas as best it could, but the sudden heat in her face informed her she soon would be capsized. She’d flung off her sheet and stumbled to the door, ignoring the glares of Michalia and Orephel. Theoretically, the Sabbath Hour could be broken for illness. Ania had seen people lying in their own piles of sick rather than do so, but the exception existed.

Outside, the planet heaved beneath her. Her fingers had anchored her, nerves alight against the rough grain of the cabin’s wood, then the striated bark of the trees, until she was far away enough from the cabin for her sisters to not hear her retching. There, aglow in a shaft of light filtering between the trees, was God, His back to her. She’d exhaled, brimming with relief. Prophet had sensed her illness, and had come to heal her. She’d seen what He’d done for others.

Then God dropped His pants, His bare behind shining like the moon amid the thicket. A stream of urine fell between the space of His legs, soaking the leaves in front of Him.

Ania’s stomach had given out. She’d doubled over, sick pouring out of her onto the ground. God startled at the sound and glanced over His shoulder. The stream of His urine migrated from the leaves to the top of His leather boot.

“Argh,” He croaked, the least divine Ania had ever heard Him. The urine stream ceased. He pulled up His pants, and shook the yellow droplets from His shoe. “Ania – you are here.”

God never asked questions, for God knew all. Rage flickered in the depths of Prophet’s eyes, before the hard lines of His mouth softened. “You are not well.”

God is merciful, Ania thought, though it was cannabilized by: God has…peed on himself.

Ania didn’t dare move, though the twigs dug into her palms and the acidic scent of her bile threatened to turn her stomach again. “Yes, Lord. I apologize.”

“And you have broken your Sabbath Hour, my child.”

“Yes, Lord. I am ashamed.” The cold mountain air bit at Ania’s cheeks. She shivered, the heat of heaving gone.

God was silent so long Ania began to wonder if she’d missed His dismissal. At last, He said, “Demons attacked you in your time of reflection, but you have expelled their evil.” He gestured toward the pile of vomit. “Be blessed,” He held out His hand, the sun emblazoned on his palm aimed at her, “and go.” When He’d done this to Her before, Ania had felt the prickling touch of the sun on her skin, as if the star itself was contained within His hand, but the warmth flickered this time—a faulty lightbulb of faith.

Ania had jerked her head in a quick nod and scurried off, her nausea dissipated, to spend the rest of the Sabbath Hour in her bed.

As she prepares for the ceremony, questions bombard her—ones she’d weeded from the garden of her mind before, but her defenses have been destroyed by the sight of God peeing on himself. A breached Jericho.

If Prophet was all knowing, had He known He was going to pee on Himself? And if so, why hadn’t He stopped it? Was there a purpose to urinating on Himself? Shouldn’t He have known she was behind Him? Was His surprise faked? To what end?

To these questions, there is only one answer Ania can offer which makes sense: Prophet is not all knowing and since he is not all knowing, he is not God. But if Prophet is not God, why say he is? What is she doing among his followers? Why had her forebearers brought her here?

“Are you ready, sister?” Orepehel’s voice breaks Ania from her deconstruction. Michalia and Orephel are clad in the same uniform as Ania, with their pink bonnets and long, white dresses.

Ania, who thinks she’s done well concealing her emerging beliefs from her sisters, squeaks an affirmative response, then grimaces. Michalia raises an eyebrow, but is otherwise silent. There is some leeway granted to the sick, and Ania hopes it is enough to get her through the rest of the evening. Later, when everyone is supposed to be asleep, she can roll these questions and their consequences across the contours of her mind, smoothing them until she understands how she has gotten here.

Ania and her sisters weave through the woods, joining the rest of their Family in the nightly pilgrimage to the temple. As usual, the evening air is heavy with reverence. The masses gather inside the holy building, shuffling among each other in a strange dance to find their seats. Prophet waits on the stage, hands clasped in front of him. The anointed oil in his beard and smeared across his forehead glistens in the light of the many candles. His wives sit behind him, demur and dark-haired, their eyes affixed to him.

With the Family seated, Prophet begins his sermon, proclaiming the horrors of the outside world. Ania has heard this speech before, but her doubt colors it anew. Are there really men with the fiery eyes of demons prowling the streets for women to kill? Are there women luring men into their beds to claw out their hearts? Do snarling and snapping dogs roam the fields, sent by the Devil himself to maul God’s followers? Has God rescued his few and faithful from that world of nightmares and brought them here to keep them safe until the end times?

Her gaze, usually set on his face—she isn’t an artist, but she could sketch his visage from memory, she is certain—keeps falling to his shoes. He’s worn the same ones as earlier, when she saw him in the woods.

Has he cleaned the urine off them?

Ania might be imagining it, but Prophet seems to be watching her, too. There is a small crease between his brows. Ania attempts to focus on his mouth, but the shoes remain a magnet for her attention.

After the sermon, Ania and the rest of her Family arrange themselves in a line, each of them bowing to Prophet when they reach the front. Ania manages to avoid his eyes when it is her turn, bending forward until her forehead presses against the wooden planks of the floor. When she straightens, Prophet’s weighted palm is on her shoulder. “Ania, my child, remain here.”

“Yes, Lord,” Ania says. She shuffles to the side, uncertain of where to stand, as the rest of the congregation receives their benedictions. Michalia and Orephel level glares at her before retreating as directed, a green glint in their irises at the individual attention she is sure to receive.

Even the wives leave the temple, their blessings reserved for last, and then Ania is alone with Prophet—twice in one day, when she’s never been alone with him before! She might have pined for this opportunity before the woods, but now there is a fluttering lurch to her heartbeat.

“Ania, I can see the path of your life as sure as I can read the words on that page,” Prophet points to the Testament of God, the handwritten and well-worn book on the lectern, “and it is time you set upon that path.”

Prophet kneels, keeping her hands encapsulated in his own. “Tomorrow, you will fling aside the clothes of your childhood and take up the responsibilities and mantle of womanhood. Tomorrow, you will enter into a position of honor in our Family as my wife.”

Ania fights the urge to rip her hands free. Prophet is staring at her, waiting for a response. He is smiling, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Ania’s surprise and revulsion emboldens her. “My Lord, is this because of earlier? Because of what I—”

Prophet raises his hand. “Fear not, my child. Your utter faith has been rewarded, and you have selected as one of the few to marry God and bear my children.” He ushers her toward the door, his hand firm on the middle of her back. “You may return to your cabin and celebrate with your sisters. Have a blessed evening—the last as my child! Tomorrow, you will become my beloved.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Ania hears herself say, the words breathless. She turns, as measured as a pig on a spit, and scurries from the temple to her cabin.

She is accosted by Michalia and Orephel when she enters, a chorus of: “What did he want to speak to you about?” “What did you say” and “What blessings did he offer you?”

Ania ignores them for as long as she is able, until she snaps, “Nothing. Leave me be.”

Michalia and Orephel recoil. They will report her for the harsh tone in the morning—there are to be no hard feelings among the Family—but for now, they turn their backs on her and prepare for bed. Ania does the same, hiding her expression from her sisters. Even with all her practice in concealing her emotions, she can’t hide her mounting panic.

God is going to marry her.

No, Ania thinks, flashing back to the stream of liquid pooling on the leather of the boot, Prophet is going to add me to his retinue of wives.

Ania clambers into bed. Perhaps Michalia and Orephel would report her in the morning, but Ania wouldn’t be there to suffer the consequences. Once her sisters were asleep, she would layer a few sets of her clothes. She would leave the cabin, taking care not to step on the creaky spots of the floor. And she would run through the forest to a new life. Prophet wouldn’t risk abandoning his flock to follow, and he would not know where she’d gone.

Because Prophet is not God.