The Prophet of the Buried God

Something lives beneath the island. Deep down, below the insects and the worms. If you press your feet to the dirt, you might feel the distant pulse of its heartbeat, a rumble of it shifting around.

And there is a village, nestled in a valley between forested hills. The ground is soft and fertile, ready to be tilled, and there’s a sparkling river fed by a spring. It is a good village. But the people who live there are hungry. Not for meat or fruit, the island provides enough of that. It still doesn’t satisfy them. Because even when their bellies are full, humans are always starving. For answers. For meaning. For somewhere to reach. And Something is there, lurking beneath them. So, they reach their fingers into the dirt and dig.

They search for different things. Not all palates are the same. Some crave logic, so to them, Something is natural and easy to explain. The feeling beneath them is not a heartbeat, but a gurgle of magma. An underground volcano waiting to bloom.

To others, it can be nothing else but a monster, hibernating. The rumbling of an empty stomach, and when it wakes, it will rise from the dirt and swallow the island whole.

And, of course, there is also a small group with an appetite for the divine. To them, Something is a buried god sent to punish or to praise. They dig prayer graves to bring themselves closer when in need of guidance. And the longer they go without answer, the deeper they dig, pocking the outskirts of the village more and more. Some are lost along the way in desperation for their god to hear them, a slip from their ladder and a long fall. No need to retrieve the body. Their grave has already been dug.

For a time, there are arguments among them. Each tries to convince the other that their version of Something is the right one, and all of them are too stubborn to budge. But, eventually, there’s a truce. For the village to survive, they have to work together. They agree to respect each other’s beliefs and stay out of each other's way as long as no harm is done. And, for the most part, the truce holds and all in the village is well.

And then, one early morning in a small cabin, a fatherless girl is born to a dead mother. Too much blood. No way to stop it. For both of them. The father is gored by a boar on a hunt. The mother hemorrhages. They start cutting as soon as her heart stops. A corpse is useless to the village, but every girl is necessary. The baby is torn away from her warm cocoon, takes her first breath of cold winter air, and starts screaming. She doesn’t stop. Not for days. Until something in her voice breaks and the sound stops for good.

Another woman, one who survived their labor and had milk to spare, is tasked with feeding her and comforting her, but the girl knows this woman is not her mother and doesn’t love her the same as the baby on the other teat, and so her milk tastes sour. But the woman keeps her, not out of care, but out of obligation. She grows from infant, to toddler, to child in this home, larger and sturdier than the cabin she was born in.

The woman is cruel, in quiet ways. Never with violence. Never with anything that could be overheard. She is the pastor of the church and would never risk losing that power, so often hard to come by for a woman in the village.

So, mostly, her cruelty comes from apathy and a disregard. The girl overhears the woman teaching her son the dangers of the forest, and weeps the day he ignores her warnings and gets himself lost for a few hours. When he is found and returned, they cry together, clinging tight to each other's arms. She scolds him, and he cries harder, but the girl can hear there is no anger beneath her words. Only love and fear.

The girl is never told to stay away from the forest. There are no tears or search parties when she wanders off, as she often does. When she returns, she is only scolded for being late for dinner and tracking in mud. Anger is all the girl ever hears in the woman’s words, never love, not for her.

The son is crueler. Easily jealous with a bad temper. He knows, just as well as the girl does, that everything split between them should be his entirely. So he hides toys away and cries if she finds them. Bites her if she tries to play with them. He breaks things and tells his mother it was her, and the girl can’t argue her innocence, knows even if she could, the woman would still believe him.

During school days, he sits behind her just to pull her hair. He convinces the other kids that orphans like her are cursed, and if they get too close, it will rub off on them, so they all start carrying sticks to poke and bat her away.

All of this hurts the girl, but she can stand it. But then one day in school, they begin to learn how to write and are given slates and chalk to practice. After years of her thoughts being stuck in her head, misunderstood or misinterpreted when she tries to find a way to express them, she finally feels like she can have a voice. She carries it around with her all day, practicing the words she’s learned so far. She falls asleep in bed with it wrapped in her arms.

When she wakes, it’s gone. And she knows by the smug smile and mischievous sheen in the son’s eyes that he’s taken it. She cries, yanking on the woman’s skirt, pointing to him, desperate to make her understand. But she doesn’t or doesn’t care to try, and the son feigns confusion.

The girl’s anger bubbles up after a life of holding back, and she lunges at him, knocking him from his chair. She bites him back, finally, clawing at any skin she can reach before the woman lifts her off of him.

The son wails, small beads of blood beginning to form, and a dark indent in the shape of the girl’s teeth already bruising a spot on his cheek. The woman strikes her for the first time, the force knocking her to the floor. A sharp sting and then a bloom of heat. She is dragged to her room and locked inside without breakfast, without any food at all, for days.

Then one morning, the door is opened, and the woman hands her a new slate, the son having finally grumbled his confession. She does not apologize for not understanding the girl. Only tells her that if she loses her temper again, she’ll be finding a new home. As if anyone would take her.

Perhaps all would have been well if the girl’s mother had survived. Or if her father had stayed home from the hunt that day. Or even if the woman had been able to look at her, at least once, with the same devotion as she did her son. But none of these things are true. And so, more than anyone else in the village, the girl’s appetite is insatiable.

On church days, the woman and the son leave without her. She has never been allowed to attend. But the girl is quiet and small, so it's easy for her to follow and listen in. She hears the woman’s sermons and doesn’t find them that inspiring, but the hymns are enjoyable, often soft and sad. She learns the words and rhythms to them all, even though she could never sing along. But most of it, the girl finds boring. All except for The Dance.

Every few months, the rippling in the ground will get stronger. Something moving right beneath the village. That's when they know it’s time.

In the morning, the whole congregation, young and old, bathe in the river. Fresh soil from the deepest prayer grave is brought up, and each takes a handful and paints themselves in thick lines and swirls. By the time the sun begins to dip below the tree line and the bonfire is built, the mud has dried onto their skin, and it’s pale and flaking.

Then, when night has finally fallen, they gather around the flames, and their dance begins. They stomp their feet onto the earth, jumping and twisting, singing their hymns, and calling down to their god, asking those same questions that underline it all. Do you feel us? Are you listening? Do we matter?

The girl hides in the shadows, watching. She knows their faith is only a balm to ease the ache of unknowing, but their devotion is intoxicating to watch. There is a gnawing need beneath it that she thinks might also live somewhere deep inside her. And maybe she can ease the pain for them all.

There is a cave that she goes to, has for years, deep in the forest. The small mouth of it is hidden behind a tangle of vines. Inside, there is a narrow hallway that opens to a wide cavern, and in the center is a deep, dark pit. She’s thrown rocks down it and waited for the soft echo of them hitting the bottom. It’s a long way down. And it’s exactly what she needs.

When the dance is coming to an end, and they return to the river to wash themselves clean, she sneaks ahead of them. Hurries back home and pretends to be asleep while she waits for the woman and son arrive and eventually settle themselves into bed.

. She lies awake until early morning when she sees the first glow of light filtering through the trees, and makes herself cry. Thinks of the arms that never held her. The sight of mothers cradling their babies.

Then, she grabs her writing slate and runs to the woman’s bedroom, shakes her awake. The woman gasps, eyes wide and blinking. Then she sees the girl, and her eyes darken again. She huffs and opens her mouth, but before she can speak, the girl turns her slate around, words already written in shaky chalked letters. I heard Him. He showed me something.

The woman is confused and annoyed at first, but then the girl tells her about the cave. Vaguely. The way it would be in a dream. She draws the pit as well as she can. She thinks that the woman might believe her, and if the Buried God chose her to send his message, maybe she wasn’t cursed afterall. Maybe she could go with them to church, become a part of something.

It doesn’t take long for the girl to realize she’s made a mistake. She catches the woman sneaking off into the woods later that morning and knows what she’s searching for. That she plans to find the cave on her own and claim the dream as hers.

But the girl is more familiar with the forest. So, she follows. Everyday. Far enough back to keep herself hidden. After the first week, the girl thinks that maybe the woman will never find the cave. The paths she takes are aimless, sometimes getting herself turned around and passing the same trees again and again. But then, after three weeks, the woman stumbles on the correct path, and then she uncovers it, squeezing into the mouth of the cave.

The girl follows behind, stepping lightly on the echoing stone, afraid the rapid thump of her heartbeat will give her away. And there’s the pit. The woman standing at its edge, arms outstretched in triumph and reverence.

Despite the chill of the cave, the girl feels a heat rising up her spine and stinging her eyes. Too much has already been taken from her, kept from her. She won’t let it happen again. The woman doesn’t hear her footsteps at all, doesn’t have time to react. One push is all it takes. And then a long descending scream, too far from the village for anyone to hear.

There are questions about the woman, of course. Searches are done. But sometimes people disappear in the woods. And, soon, most of them move on.

The girl waits a while, pretends to mourn the only mother she ever had. The son is distraught, an orphan himself now. He is taken in by an uncle who lives in a smaller cabin. He doesn’t take in the girl, but she doesn’t mind. She is used to being alone.

When enough time has passed, she walks into the church and tells them all the story of her dream so none of them can claim it as theirs, having learned her lesson. Most don’t believe her; children are known to make up stories. But, without their pastor, a few crave direction enough to follow her.

They stand around the pit, deeper than they could ever dig, and drop to their knees, beginning to pray. She does the same. When they’re done, they stand and praise her, some shaking her hand and others, so overcome with emotion, they wrap her in their arms and weep. They call her a prophet, and the girl likes the sound of it.

She knows to start small. There are still some in the church who are sceptical, suspicious. So, she keeps to easy predictions to try and win them over. And waits.

Then, there is a summer with an unending heat and no rain to break it. The crops dry out. Meat is harder to come by, the animals in the forest dying or hiding from the sun. And the people in the village start to panic.

Then, the first of them dies. The heat too much for an old man. A member of the church. The girl mourns with them, and they cry, asking what they can give their god for the gift of rain. She writes the words slowly, nervous to finally take the first step, to see how they react. She turns the slate. A sacrifice. And they are hot and hungry enough to agree.

They gather around the pit and kill a chicken, one of the few left. They let the blood drip down so their god has something to drink before letting the small, shrunken corpse drop. But the heat persists.

They come to her again. More than before, the church growing as people, in their desperation, will cling to anything to survive. Bigger she tells them, he wants something valuable.

The hunters search for days and finally bring back a boar. The girl knows it isn’t the same one that killed her father; that one had been killed and eaten long ago. But she does feel some satisfaction in seeing this one squeal and squirm as the knife slips in and blood begins to pour.

But a pig isn’t what she’s after, and luckily, the heat holds a bit longer. More die. The river begins to dry out. People are fighting over what little food there is to go around.

So, when the whole village gathers, begging to know what their god needs, what more they can give, the girl can tell by the frenzy in their hollowing, hungry eyes that she has waited long enough.

She looks up with tears streaming down her cheeks, settling in a pool at her collarbone. And she points her finger. The crowd turns and looks down at the son, who has always been so cruel to her, so greedy, who tried to steal her voice away, and who no longer has a mother to protect him.

She expects more protest, but it's surprising how quickly people become animals again when they’re afraid of dying. It is his own uncle who grabs him and lifts him over his shoulder. The son pounds his small fists into the man's back. Kicks his feet. Tries anything to free himself, but the man is strong and determined.

They follow her through the forest, through the narrow passage of the cave, and circle the pit. The son screams the entire way, until his voice grows hoarse.

His uncle puts him down, but keeps a firm grip on his shoulder. The son searches the crowd until he finds her and opens his mouth to beg, but no sound comes. She stares back at him, and the girl feigns confusion.

They do not bleed him the way they did the boar and the chicken. The village would not pray to a god that thirsts for the blood of children. The death is quick, barely enough time for him to feel it. And then they let the pit take him. Many leave before he reaches the bottom, but the girl stays, leans over the edge to hear the thud a little better. The son is finally reunited with his mother.

She leaves with the rest of them, and just when they’ve made it back down to the village, there is a crack of thunder and then pouring rain.

She takes off her shoes and slips her toes into already forming mud, feeling the rumble of Something far beneath her. And everyone in the village falls at her feet, gazing up at their prophet. Their eyes shimmer with hope and awe, and something quiets in her belly for the first time. She thinks that maybe this is what she’s been craving all her life. To a starving girl, worship tastes the same as love.